Indeed, Dana (whose speciality was a kind of cosmoleech blood-letting) understood that such a loss would sap his strength to the point that the Wadks, who just for amusement employed him to formulate untoward changes in the appearance of Femiclones, might revoke his key to the soda- powered 100 Terahertz Scalpelgun. Without that bloodless tool, the galactically renowned Dana would be relegated to fumbling with certain plastic relics he would plunge unexpectedly into any being or even object thing that twitched. Nor were the Wadks unconcerned, however, as Dana provided as much entertainment as they had seen since the great Jester Joyva had implanted hundreds of sadistic brains removed from violent ano-sex perverts into an entire production line of paper shredders, and then set the lot loose in the FrugaHome infrared light districts in Lower Venus.
Unfortunately, the Watch Force had spoiled all the fun by telekining crates of the Pneu New York Times to Venus until the shredders had bent, dulled and rusted themselves from shear boredom, and likewise the Force had turned the hapless Jester Joyva over to the precise surgeon Dana himself. As a result, Joyva now resides in a cage on Boondock, subsisting happily on a daily ration of Simian Saliva Salve.
So now Pflud, in whom the great surgeonís fame was firmly rooted, was no more than an ember in a great cosmological wiener roast.
Dana disabled the Ecstatocaster, entered a mu-message on his Memoryphone to pick up clean shirts at the Interstellar Laundry Station in Trisuita, and sat in his W/Chair to consider the historic events which were taking place all around him. Absentmindedly, he searched under the chair for his old Create-a-Friend game, found it, and dusted it off.
"Weíve certainly come a long way with cloning since then," he mused, snapping together a few eyes and shoulders. "Too bad there are some important yet delicate pieces missing. Maybe...."
His thoughts trailed off as he reached for whatever was scattered about on the floor: a few paper napkins, thread, some lint, a pile of discarded lentils, some toy magnets. Before long, the miracle surgeon was well into the cloning of a surprising new being from his mindís image. It was not much of an image, to be sure, but one that caught his fancy.
"Something to bring us all together," he considered excitedly.
With the addition of a tiny leather-embossed chastity belt, he had a eurekan object at hand: the Magnetic Nun.
He exclaimed aloud, "Just the right balance of fun, fancy, myth, religion, and sex to do the trick! And with a new Pneu Interstellar Lottery going on the Kinevue, why, in a matter of weeks the Magnetic Nun can draw us all back together! Feel the magic! Engage the traditions!"
The Wadks, who had been rubberly observing his activities in the Ecstatocaster -- the only way in which the Wadk Clergy could morally draw their multisexual release -- now completely forgot the imminent delivery of Mad Luigiís remains, leaving the brainless Terran (figuratively speaking) to fumble mindlessly about the powerful collective megathought to Dana: "Clone the Wadk!"
And in moments, the great cosmoleech blood-letter had accomplished the task, sending millions of Magnetic Nuns into Sol System to complete what the Wadks had started centuries past: Supper.
In a transfer of energy so massive that even time excused itself, only the shells of the Wadks were left as powerful jellomoids completely engulfed the last pocket of resistance (resistance? could it be?) in the galaxy. The Great Historic Onslaught was over, but as tempers and cinders mutually cooled across the Known Universe, Magnetic Nuns unhesitatingly carried out the inevitable, the future, all-world reality.