The Wheel of Time turns, and ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth and even myth is long forgotten when the age that gave it birth comes again. In one age, called the third age by some, an age yet to come, an age long past, a great yawn escaped the mouth of the Creator. This yawn was not a beginning. There are neither beginnings or endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time, especially endings. There are only sequels.

"Alright!" one of the Creator's bodies announced to the set. Around him, was the courtyard of the White Tower. The Creator's many bodies shuffled around the set, preparing the next act of the Wheel of Time. People stood, frozen in tableau, while the Creator spun the threads of time so that everything would happen properly. The Creator's many bodies arranged people, lit candles, and otherwise did the logistics of preparing the world for when the production began.

"Alright!" said the Creator's many bodies again, "quiet on set! Start the camera's rolling in…"

"Sir?"

One of the Creator's many bodies was dragging a train of wheeled cages behind him. He stopped beside this Creator's other body. "Sir, where do we want all this Amazonian feminism?"

The cages he dragged were full of women, possibly the only people, other than the Creator's many bodies, who were moving. The courtyard was filled with statue-stiff Aes Sedai and Warders, but these women were moving. Some were freakishly muscled and some wore queenly crowns. Others wore distinguishing medallions and headdresses alongside other symbols of authority. Most were just looking around them with a stare as cold as ice, as if to say "the world belongs to me." Others were dressed as warriors, heavily muscled, and swinging heavy swords and spears around them. Others were repeating the same phrase over and over again.

"A man is like an oak. He resists the wind and breaks. A woman is a willow, moving with the wind!"

"The weaker sex is men!"

"A woman never needs a man!"

"Women are smart, men think with the hair on their chests!" Not one appeared to realize they were in cages.

"Gee," the Creator looked over the cages. "I didn't know there'd be so much."

"We've also got a massive load of misandry…"

"Put it with the feminism!"

The Creator looked for his body that held the script. "Hey!" he shouted, upon realizing his body who held the thick script for what was to come was sharing it with a young female prophet.

"See?" the body was whispering to the prophet, "this is what will happen." The prophet was flipping through the script and nodding.

"I'll share this with all my online buddies," the prophet answered.

"Just be ambiguous. I don't want any spoilers…" the Creator's body froze and snatched the script back from the prophet before the other body reached him. In a snap of the fingers, the prophet vanished.

"Do we have enough spaces for all this feminism and accompanying misandry?" asked the Creator to the other.

"There's not enough room in the script," answered the other. "You'll just have to pile it everywhere." The other body nodded and returned to the cages.

"Just scatter it everywhere. Fit it wherever there's a flat space. Cram it into every nook and cranny."

Moments later, the set was prepared. The bodies all coalesced into a single figure, who looked out across the courtyard.

"Quiet on the set! Three! Two! One! ACTION!"

'Argh,' thought the reader. 'The prologue is 75 pages long.'

….

The Salad Bar nursery was filled to the walls with babies. They covered the floor, the tables, even the ceiling fans with their little wiggling bodies. Babies, babies, babies, everywhere. They were all boys, cooing in the way that babies did. It would be cute, were the nursery not in a furnace.

Nyaneve closed the door and turned on the heat. The collective death-screams of one hundred baby boys cried out from the nursery, now a charnel, as fire superheated the air. She turned smartly to face Egwene, who was approaching from the other side of the hallway.

"I sure do hate men," Nyaneve remarked, folding her arms beneath her breasts. Egwene took little issue with this. Then again, she'd taken little issue with being dragged away from her home and family to serve in a life of adventure without so much as a proper goodbye. Now that Egwene never though of her family anymore, it seemed doubtful that she'd ever had one.

Nyaneve was wearing a blue dress with a swooping neckline that showed the tops of her breasts very keenly. It was a neckline that would attract many eyes from men, and many hits, from an angry Nyaneve. She was beautiful in it. It showed a lot of bosom.

"Nyaneve, I need help," Egwene answered. "It's the Aes Sedai. The rebel Aes Sedai who fled to the city of Salad Bar, where we are now, are asking me to become the Amyrlin Seat!" Nyaneve nodded, touching her chin to the chain around her neck, which supported the ring that Lan gave her, hanging as it did between her breasts.

"Why? Those fool women are as dumb as men," spat Nyaneve in spite. She grabbed her braid and gave it a tug. "You're what? 18? They're many centuries old, some of them. You've been an apprentice for two or so years. You're not even a full sister. You know little about commanding people, you've not travelled nearly as far as a lot of the Aes Sedai and you're as inexperienced as a college girl." Nyaneve shook her head at the foolishness of the Salad Bar rebels. "Maybe Elaida's right." Elaida was, of course, the Aes Sedai who'd taken over the White Tower. Nyaneve threw her ponytail across her chest, which swung across her breasts.

"I know, I've not a lot of experience," answered Egwene. "but there's no choice. I cannot decline it. What do I do?" Egwene gestured to her own clothes: a tight-necked stole with golden buttons. "I don't show nearly as much bosom as you."

"Show more. You'll do better the more you show."

"What else?"

"Learn to make them hop when you say 'toad.' I think you'll find things will become easier then." Nyaneve turned around, pointing her breasts at the door.

"Don't go!" Egwene shouted. Nyaneve's breasts turned to her. "I need experience! Where do I get some?"

"There's no place you can get some in so short a time," replied the head that was perched on the neck over Nyaneve's breasts. "Just other's to help you. I've got to wash pots and pans." Egwene bit her lip, which hung one foot higher than and six feet away from Nyaneve's breasts.

"I'll try," Egwene fled the hallway that contained Nyaneve's breasts.

…

On the other side of the book, a great problem was arising. The Waste was on the advance, the armies of shadowspawn ready to advance on a ruthless path of conquest into the lands of...

The lands of…

"WHAT'S THIS WORLD CALLED?" asked the Dark One's voice to the gathered Forsaken, who stood in the Pit of Doom (one or two thousand miles north of Nyaneve's breasts).

"Never did see a name on the map," remarked Asmodean. "By the way, I've had enough of this evil. No more shadow, no more death. I wanna play the harp." The Forsaken watched in dismay as Asmodean gated away. Now there were 12.

"What it's named matters not!" cackled Moghidean. "As long as there's people to lie to."

"And heroes to undress," added Graedal, who, even now, had not finished her pole-dancing routine. Oddly, the male Forsaken stood closest to her.

"I don't care about skin or pleasure!" howled Sammael. "I want to challenge Rand! I can see it now: an epic showdown of colossal proportions. He will lead an army to Illian and a seven year siege will follow. It will culminate in a clash of swords over the tall tower of Illian's palace. He and I will fight with swords while lightning streaks across the sky and epic music plays. It will be…it will be better than the final fight in the third Matrix movie. It will be, like, so much better. Surely the pattern will weave it so, and it will be fifty pages long…"

"SILENCE!" bellowed the Dark One. "I MUST HAVE MY VICTORY! SOON THE LANDS OF…OF THE WORLD WILL FALL TO ME! I WILL MAKE THE WORLD IN MY OWN IMAGE!"

"Gee," mumbled Rahvin to Graedal, "that's vain, even for us."

"I HEARD THAT!"

"So what are your plans, great lord of the dark?" cried Ishamael to the Pit of Doom. "How can the 13…12 Chosen serve you?"

"FIRST, THERE IS SOMETHING IMPORTANT YOU MUST DO. THERE IS A DAGGER! THE DAGGER CAME FROM SHADAR LOGOTH. IT WILL GIVE ME GREAT POWER TO INVADE THE WORLD WITH. I LAST REMEMBER IT WAS TAKEN BY ONE OF THE DRAGON'S FRIENDS!"

"Stop speaking in all-caps," Moghidean scolded. "It makes you look childishly angry."

"WHO SAID THAT! IS THAT YOU MOGHIDEAN? LET ME SEE YOUR FACE!" the Dark One roared. All eyes turned to Moghidean, who was looking as smug as a bully sitting over a conquered victim.

"You don't need to see my face," she insisted, waving her hand.

"I DON'T NEED TO SEE YOUR FACE."

"I'm not the Chosen you're looking for."

"YOU'RE NOT THE CHOSEN I'M LOOKING FOR!" The Dark one snapped out of the spell while the other forsaken looked on in awe. Moghidean giggled. "IN ANY EVENT…" the chamber filled with the sound of a musical bell. It rang twice before the Dark One spoke again. A mechanical beep ended the musical bell.

"HELLO?" asked the Dark one. "OH, HI CTHULHU…I'M SPEAKING TO THE CHOSEN." The forsaken looked at one another awkwardly while they waited the Dark one to finish with his cell phone. "THIRTEEN OR SO. OH YES, THEY'RE VERY SCARY. HM? UH, NO I STILL DON'T WANT TO JOIN THE ELDER GODS. NO, YOU SEE, I NEVER HAD THE FACE FOR TENTACLES OR THE BACK FOR WINGS." Ishamael took the time to check his blackberry (a VERY black blackberry) while Sammael continued to whisper about how great his duel with the Dragon would be. Lanfear and Graedal softly argued over who would get to "keep" the Dragon once the world had fallen and Balthamel fell asleep.

"FINE, JUST TELL THE…WHAT? WHEN? WELL, TELL SAURON THAT I ONLY BORROWED ONE OF THE MOUNTAINS OF DHOOM FROM HIM AND I'LL GET IT BACK TO HIM AS SOON AS I'M DONE WITH IT." Pause. "WELL IF SAURON THINKS ALL THE MOUNTAINS OF DHOOM ARE HIS THEN HE CAN HIKE HIS METAL, BIG-SCREEN BACKSIDE INTO THE BLIGHT AND PICK IT UP HIMSELF.

Ishamael and Rahvin started to play a few rounds of 007.

NEXT TIME YOU SEE HIM, TELL HIM THAT I STILL THINK HE'S A LOSER FOR SELLING HIMSELF TO A MOVIE. HE EXPLODES AFTER LOSING A FEW FINGERS. HA! WELL, MY SERVANTS WOULD NEVER DIE IN SUCH EMBARRASSING, LOW-ACTION WAYS. NOT ONE FORSAKEN WILL GET CHEAP-SHOTTED TO DEATH, NO SIR. THEY'RE INVINCIVBLE, SEE?"

Aginor was drawing swirls on Balthamel's sleeping face with his crayons.

"NOW, NEVER INTERUPPT ME WHEN I'M TALKING TO THE CHOSEN EVER AGAIN. I DON'T KNOW HOW! YOU'RE CTHULHU, USE THE MAGIC POWERS THAT YOUR AUTHOR GAVE YOU." The Dark one hung up.

At that moment, the Dark one forgot what they'd been talking about. There was such a huge space of time between what was being said that the conversation had totally lost its flow. Any words the Forsaken now spoke about what they were talking about before would be meaningless. This problem was not exclusive to the Dark one. It happened all over the world.

"So…this dagger?" Lanfear asked, quickly summing up what they'd been talking about.

"RIGHT!" bellowed the Dark one. "THE DAGGER MUST BE FOUND, STOLEN AND BROUGHT TO ME. I WANT ALL OF YOU TO GO AND FIND IT FOR ME. FIRST ONE TO FIND IT BECOMES SECOND-IN-COMMAND."

The Forsaken rushed from the chamber, pushing and shoving to be the first outside. One by one, the Forsaken gated to all corners of the world, searching for the dagger of Shadar Logoth.

…

Ebou Dar (closer to and lower than Nyaneve's breasts than the Pit of Doom) used to have a Ogier stedding near it. Now, the stedding was gone. The Ogier who'd lived there had named the place "Los Angeles." It had since been replaced by Ebou Dar, a stinking city filled with crime and gangs. Given the way things were going, Ebou Dar would not last long.

The Seanchan army marched through the streets of the conquered city. They had helmets like the ones the samurai wore. They rode animals that looked like they'd been made from clay, by a child who wanted to make a dinosaur but hadn't quite done it right. All around them, their militaristic mastery was grinding the conquered city under its foot. They were strong! They were invincible!

"What is this?" snapped a disgusted Seanchan at a poster that hung on the nearest wall. "BEWARE THE SEANCHAN" it read. Depicted upon it was a warrior in plate mail who wore a giant ant head.

"It looks like a local warning of our invasion," replied the other Seanchan. "They…didn't quite get the head right." The other man fingered the frills rising out of his samurai helmet. "These look like antenna sir, maybe someone described our helmets as looking like the heads of insects."

"I wouldn't doubt it. But now they see us for what we are, how badass we look, and they will never make the same mistake." The Seanchan laughed as he circled the corner to face another poster. It depicted the victory over the whitecloaks during the failed first wave. The whitecloaks were dying under the power of the da'maine. However, the ranked legions of Seanchan were drawn improperly.

"Ant heads! Grasshopper heads! Wasp heads!" cried the Seanchan lord in dismay. "NO!" they looked stupid. They looked so very stupid. "Get rid of these damned frills!" In anger, he stormed into the nearest building for some solitude.

"It is good to be beneath Nyaneve's breasts."

The Seanchan lord snapped to attention upon seeing he was not alone. The menacing, yet extraordinarily calm figure in the corner had the look of a raven about him. "What is your name?"

"Turak," the Seanchan lord answered.

"Turak. I am looking for the dagger of Shadar Logoth. Where is it?" the raven-like man answered. "I see we are both men of extraordinary tastes. I like dancing girls, so do you, eh? How about lending your fellow man a hand." The man reached out a friendly hand. "Rahvin, by the way."

"I've heard about the dagger," Turak replied. "The scouts flew over there and saw someone with the dagger." Rahvin cleared his throat.

"Are you guys Chinese, Indian or Japanese?" he asked timidly, "I never could tell…"

"We are Seanchan!" Turak snapped, "we've got an empire across the sea! We are many and one! We are…"

"I know full well what you are," Rahvin paused. "Flying scouts? Riding the flying…torraken?"

"To'raken," replied Turak. "But the scouts rode raken. Of course, I needed a sul'dam and a damane's power to understand what they were saying."

"What?"

"I needed people linked with an a'dam to understand the scout, because the scout was flying overhead and shouting the news down to me. I needed to voice amplified." Rahvin's eyes lit up.

"Ah, Adam. I didn't think that one got this far west. Adam was always such a bizarre figure, the quirks and jokes he pulled. He must have found a strange way to get the raken down. But, well, what can you say." Turak grumbled.

"An a'dam killed my brother."

"Really? I did not know Adam to be violent. If you ever see him, send him to me." Outside, a sul'dam walked by, with her damane. "And send me a few of those leash things. They look like good…er…toys." Rahvin's eyes floated away like a schoolboy's as he daydreamed about collared women. Turak rolled his eyes. Some false a'dam were indeed sold as arousal toys to couples with fetishes back in Seanchan.

"Well…yes I will. As for the dagger, the scouts said it was taken by a fellow in a green coat and a cowboy hat. He was last seen headed to Salad Bar," Turak remarked. Rahvin gated away.