Creamed corn pageantry takes a back seat as you look around in confusion. Chanting is not something you've ever associated with the festival, at least outside of the annual auction of the winning entry to the "Cook With Rhubarb" recipe competition. But this is something different. Elusive.

The air feels greasy. Not the greasy smogginess of too much barbecue, but a feeling of unreality. And the chanting is growing in volume although you can't quite make out the words. In the meantime, everyone around you seems to have . . . stopped. Suspended animation, you wonder, or just bored into petrification? Only Jerry seems to still be on your wavelength.

"Dude, what the heck?" you whisper.

Jerry is pale. "No way. No way," he mutters and pulls out the ratty spiral bound notepad he's always geekily kept in his shirt pocket. "No freakin' way."

"Man," you're starting to get freaked, "what's going on?!"

"Clearly it's a displacement in the fabric of reality," a new voice chimes in. You spin to see some blonde chick in uniform who doesn't seem any happier to be at the Harvest Festival than you are. She is not alone. "The seismic vortex we experienced seems to have shifted us laterally into a continuum of . . . of . . . sir, I don't actually know what just happened."

"Well for cryin' out loud!" the guy next to her groans. "How do we get out of it? I mean, Goa'uld yes, Ori, sure, Replicators, why not? Corn? I ask you. CORN?"

"A very healthful food, I'm led to believe," the most imposing of the group observes. "Indeed."

"Actually," the last one pushes his glasses up his nose, "harvest festivals date all the way back to ancient times, whereby the goddess Succotash, who we now know to have been a Goa'uld decreed-"

Inexplicably, you yawn. Stifling the threat of boredom, you turn to Jerry. "Hey, aren't they-"

"No, no, no," Jerry mutters, flipping pages. "They can't be here. If they're here, then-"

"Phasers on maximum! Fire!"

You drop to the ground, pulling Jerry with you. There are some phrases that simply bypass the brain and go straight to gross motor function. That was apparently one of them. A squad in full Starfleet-ish regalia stampedes by, looking for cover behind the concessions stands. They are followed closely by a chattering group of vengeful. . . Ewoks?

You turn to Jerry, who is still mumbling and shuffling through pages. You always knew about his little . . . writing habit. Hey, no one is perfect and you've always been fine with don't ask/don't tell, but . . .

The chanting is now clearer. The crowd, those still left standing, have joined in.

"This is our disclaimer: We do not own anything in these universes. These are the property of others. Thank you George Lucas. Thank you Panzer/Davis Productions. Thank you Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. Thank you estate of Gene Roddenberry. No copyright infringement is intended. We are not worthy. We are not worthy. This is our disclaimer . . ."

Horror fills your soul, turning your marrow into . . . okay, not anything like creamed corn, but nothing good either. Not that creamed corn is actually good. You grab Jerry and snarl, "You did not do multiple fanfiction crossovers. Tell me you didn't write multiple crossovers!"

"I . . . I didn't mean to!"

Infuriated, you drag him up and pelt away from the center of the fracas, which is beginning to look like turning into a general melee. You need to think about this, figure a way out of it. The concession stands all seem to have become the property of Starfleet and SG-1 is apparently taking cover behind a vintage collection of John Deere harvesters. Bullets, laser beams and ballistic acorn squash, (thank you, Ewoks,) are flying thick and fast. It's just a matter of time before someone other than some anonymous crewman gets it in the neck.

You'd just as soon it wasn't you.

It looks clear to either the garbage dumpsters or the abandoned livestock building. Where to go? What to do?

For dumpsters, go here.

For the abandoned livestock building, go here.