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“Armageddon Dream — The Comedy Version” is a compact yet layered piece of comic fiction that blends cinematic absurdity with domestic realism. Beneath its humor, the story functions as both a parody of apocalyptic heroism and a gentle meditation on the ordinary dramas of middle-aged life. Through rapid tonal shifts, sharp imagery, and deft dialogue, narrator turns a nightmare of cosmic proportions into a morning routine filled with coffee, companionship, and self-deprecating wisdom.

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Armageddon Dream — The Comedy Version

By Harry Arabian

It began with the kind of dream that would make Hollywood call for a rewrite.

I was a fighter pilot—though not merely any pilot, but rather humanity’s final hope. The sky was pure chaos: clouds were on fire, satellites fell like furious snowflakes, and I shouted at my squadron through a radio that appeared to have taken a vow of silence.

Our target was a super-plane so polished it resembled a sentient billionaire’s espresso machine. Every missile we launched ricocheted harmlessly from its gleaming surface, like popcorn kernels striking a pan.

“Stay on it, team!” I commanded heroically.
Yet my team was gone—either vaporized or, more plausibly, they had decided to mute me, which would have been understandable.

Moments later, the satellites began to retaliate. Entire neighborhoods below erupted into smoke. I could see my old street—or perhaps it was merely another suburb that resembled it, complete with a solitary Dunkin’ Donuts miraculously intact, as always.

It soon became apparent that the entire internet had been nothing more than camouflage for the planet’s defense grid. Typical.

As the chaos reached its apex, my aircraft began to spiral uncontrollably. I screamed as alarms blared, and amid the cacophony, a faint buzzing sound emerged.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

At first, I suspected an alien transmission. Then it grew louder.

BZZZZZZ.

“Not now!” I shouted. “I am saving civilization!”

The cockpit dissolved. The sky vanished. And suddenly—

SLAP.

“Herald,” a soft voice said. “You are missing the morning news.”

I opened one eye. The battlefield had transformed into my bedroom. My flight suit had become pajamas decorated with small airplanes.

“Did World War Three begin?” I mumbled.

Marie stood in the doorway, smiling in the way only a wife can after witnessing years of one’s absurdities.
 

“Not unless it involves coffee,” she replied. “Your mission is to load a Keurig pod and press the button.”

Still half-entangled in my dream, I staggered to the kitchen. The coffee machine blinked at me like a miniature command console. I pressed the button, and it hissed to life with the gravitas of a launch sequence.

Steam ascended, carrying the scent of salvation. I took my first sip.

Just as I began to relax, my smartwatch vibrated again.

Bzzzz.

For an instant, my heart leapt—the satellites had returned!

Then Marie’s voice drifted in from the other room:
“Relax, Commander. That is merely your step counter reminding you to walk off the doughnuts.”

Moral:
Some men save the world. Others complete their mission by surviving their first cup of coffee.