My doom machine crumples in on itself.
Doesn't matter what it is -
it might be a nuclear-powered colossus
straddling the Seine
while swiping at biplanes,
a hypno-cannon pointing at the Sun,
dozens of children trapped in sepia
and screaming at the seaside,
a virus that turns conversation sour,
some huge memory,
pushing its way backwards through time,
displacing grandparents, award ceremonies,
Tremors and City Slickers,
working its way towards the French Revolution
and a glowing prize locked in the Bastille.
Sparks dance across the console
as monitors cut one by one to snow.
I pull a remote control from my coat pocket,
and activate my backup plan.