Star Writefags: Return of the Clop (silly one-shot)

>”Master, I have returned,” a gritted voice mutters, kneeling before a hooded figure standing before a large, circular window
>Around the hooded man, three more robed individuals sat kneeling before him
>”Very good,” the man grins under his hood. “You have served me well, Wuten. The Jimmies of a thousand worlds have felt the rustling we have created.”
>”Master; what do you have planned for us now?” Wuten looks up at him. “We have rustled so many; where do we go to next?”
>”To the world known as Equestria,” the hooded man grins, tossing the hood back. His face was slightly marred by scars, and his eyes gave off an eerie yellow glow. "Their Jimmies are prime for rustling! We shall flood that world with our superior Clop, or my name isn't Aether, Emperor of The Clop!”
>Wuten bows his head; Aether smiles down at him
>”Now rise, my apprentices; we have much to prepare for.”
>The four of them rise to their feet
>”Say the word and we shall crush those that would dare oppose your benevolent rule, Master,” a female’s voice speaks with great arrogance, her fist closing in the air in front of her as if to crush whatever was inside
>”Calm yourself, Betty. We will have plenty of time for that later…” Aether says, raising a hand and turning to face out the window. “Leucine, have all the necessary preparations been made?”
>”Of course, Master,” another robed figure replies with an elegant tone, “I would not disappoint you by having them done late.”
>”Very well. Tyko, you may begin the firing test when ready,” Aether grins at the final robed man
>”Yes, Master,” he says, holding up his hands. He begins a chant
>”Marehood. Marehood. Marehood…”
>This chant repeats in solemn, monotone verses as the rest of them join in, raising their hands into the air
>The entire station around them starts to glow an ominous red
>At the front end of it, six pronged appendages aimed directly at a nearby planet
>”We will use this planet as a test for our new weapon,” Aether shouted above the other chanting voices. “We will show this universe the might of the Clop!”
>He turns to face them. “Fire… the deathbomb cannon.”

>Chronicler is sitting calmly on his cushioned seat, deep in meditation
>Suddenly, he is shocked awake by a great force
>”What is it?” one of his fellow meditating followers of the Rope turned to look at him
>”I am not sure, Fillydelphian,” he says, “But I have felt a great disturbance… as if millions of jimmies were suddenly rustled all at once…”
>”This is not a good sign,” another one turns to him, awakening from his meditation
>”No, it is not, Shermanator,” Chronicler turns to the other man, “I fear we may be dealing with something far greater than we ever could have imagined…”
>”…May our jimmies remain un-rustled…” they chant, slowly and calmly