Why the Dinosaurs Became Extinct

Badgers

Sferkoron, head of the Bureau of Hidden Guidance (BHG), sat alone in the darkened room, pulling photographs down from the clotheslines that hung like vines from the walls, examining them closely. Occasionally, he would shift slightly in the hovering office seat, as if the chair were extremely uncomfortable. Damn, he thought , gritting his teeth slightly as he shifted. Ever since the Pikorof Massacre I haven't been able to sit down comfortably. I wonder if that lava-dwelling asshole Osgeu ever regrets his actions. 

He glanced down at the photograph in his hands, which depicted Adolf Hitler blasting fire out of his every orifice. Heh, Hitler. Now there's a guy I get tired of seeing. Seriously, I must have gone into that particular timeflow 500 times by now. Seems the universe can't get enough of the fucker. But what're you gonna do? You can't permanently fix anything, even if you ARE able to screw with the threads in the fabric of reality. But that's all it is, just screwing with threads. You can't change the fact that someone's gonna put a knife through it eventually. Just kinda shows our place. We have complete control over everything, and yet we have complete control over nothing. But most sentient creatures would envy our position, which just shows our complete insignificance--

A hiss interrupted his activities, followed by a beam of light which illuminated him from behind. Sferkoron grunted and raised a paw to shield his eyes before swiveling in his seat, blinking away the spots left in his vision. He saw that the door leading into the room had been opened. In the doorway stood a member of the bureau, a technician perhaps, holding a sheet of glass with long strings of binary flashing across the screen at blinding speeds.

"Damn!" Sferkoron growled. "I thought I had sealed that door to all but authorized personnel! What are you doing here?"

"Erm-- I AM authorized personnel, sir. We're going to need you in sector 59fT42#G as soon as possible. Sorry if I was interrupting anything." Said the technician.

"You get right to the point, don't you? What's your name, son?" Sferkoron asked the younger badger, using both arms to propel himself off the seat as he did so. He winced a bit as he hit the ground but quickly erased all signs of pain from his facial expression.

"My name is Duntra, sir. Anyway, if you'll just follow me-" Duntra was cut off by a slight chuckle from Sferkoron.

"You don't honestly think that I'm that old, do you? I founded this place, Duntra! If anything, you should be following me!" Sferkoron chortled as he strode confidently out of the room, a marginally embarrassed Duntra in tow.

The trek to sector 59fT42#G was a long one, and because of this I will not burden you with the details. There was a lot of walking, a lot of badgers of all shapes, sizes, and subspecies, and a lot of absolute silence.

At last, Sferkoron and Duntra got to sector 59fT42#G, a sector in which "clusterfuck" was obviously in none of the architect's vocabularies. Tubes, wires, portals, and gateways twisted and coiled on every conceivable surface, as well as a few inconceivable ones. The floors, walls, ceiling, and even the space in the middle of the room were infected with the (apparently highly contagious) disease of highly necessary laboratory equipment.

"So, what's the problem?" Sferkoron asked as an unfortunate badger stepped out of a door in the ceiling and (apparently forgetting that he, as a badger able to screw with reality, was able to alter his own personal gravity) fell 50 feet to the ground.

"Well, there's a case of altered reality that we feel only you and your team can deal with, given your experience." Duntra told him, sliding his claw along the sheet of glass as one would a tablet, pulling up a menu screen of sorts.

Sferkoron sighed before answering. "Did Fred Phelps become Divine Lord of the Universe again? To be quite frank, Mr. Duntra, if I have to see his stupid, Stetson-clad face again, I'm going to shove some fireworks up my asshole and shit myself to death."