Chapter 29: Pizza Prophet

Josh Keller was not what you'd call motivated.

He was the kind of teenager who once fell asleep halfway through microwaving instant noodles, who referred to gym class as "survival horror," and who believed firmly that socks were optional if the vibe was right. The only reason he even remembered there was a history essay due was because his best friend Mikey texted him:

Bro. Essay. Midnight. Move it.

Josh groaned. It was already 11:03 PM.

He rolled out of bed, still wearing the same hoodie he'd been in since Saturday (it was Tuesday), and plopped in front of his laptop. A half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza from lunch lay on his desk, now cold and rigid like a cheesy shuriken.

He clicked open a blank Google Doc and stared at the blinking cursor like it owed him money.

"An Argumentative Essay on a Belief System of Your Choice."500 words minimum. Cite your sources.

He chewed the crust thoughtfully.

What belief system did he believe in?

Not organized religion—too complicated. Not science—he'd failed three labs this semester. Not politics—he once voted for a llama in a mock election out of spite.

His eyes drifted to the slice. Greasy. Perfect. Reliable.

Pizza.

A grin crept across his face.

The next 45 minutes were a blur of chaotic typing, snack crumbs, and wildly overconfident metaphors. He opened with a dramatic thesis:

"Pizza is more than food. It is the glue that binds civilizations, the beacon that guides lost souls through the darkness of hunger, and the holy circle of life."

He cited ancient Rome, probably inaccurately. He referenced a YouTube video called "Top 10 Pizzas That Changed the World". He argued that Friday pizza nights were the modern Sabbath and that ordering a large was an act of faith in your fellow man.

He even included a diagram of a pizza wheel labeled "The Sacred Cycle of Flavor."

The final paragraph? Pure nonsense:

"In a divided world, only pizza remains universally loved. A slice for the rich. A slice for the poor. A slice for the lactose intolerant, if they so choose. We do not ask what toppings you choose—only that you choose. And believe."

At 11:59 PM, Josh hit Submit, then high-fived himself and passed out face-first on his keyboard.

He didn't know it yet, but his essay had been uploaded not just to the school server, but—thanks to his sketchy Chrome extension that boosted Wi-Fi range by piggybacking off satellites—to an old, forgotten NASA relay in low orbit.

That relay, long considered junk tech, still pinged deep space.

And somewhere, something was listening.

Josh woke up with the keyboard imprint on his cheek and the faint smell of cold mozzarella in the air.

It was Wednesday. Barely. His phone had seventeen notifications: a group chat argument about whether crust counts as "breadsticks," two memes from Mikey, and a reminder that he was failing biology "with impressive consistency," according to his school's grading app.

Business as usual.

Until the humming started.

It was subtle at first—a low, vibrating bwooommm that rattled the windowpanes. Josh assumed it was someone mowing their lawn too aggressively. Then the house shook. A framed photo of his cat, Professor Whiskers, fell off the wall and landed on the carpet with a soft thump.

Josh stumbled outside in his pizza pajama pants and hoodie, blinking into the bright morning light.

And saw the spaceship.

Hovering directly above his backyard like it had just rolled out of a futuristic Uber app. It was enormous—sleek, metallic, and humming with an eerie light that shimmered like the surface of a bubble. On the underside was an emblem that looked suspiciously like...a pizza slice." what." Josh said, eloquently.

Then, they appeared with a flash of blue light and the gentle sound of popcorn popping .

Four beings descended from the ship in an anti-gravity beam. Each was about eight feet tall and roughly shaped like a blob of fluorescent jelly caught mid-melt. Their bodies shimmered with shifting colors, and their faces were… well, there weren't any faces, exactly—just patterns that changed to match their mood. One of them wore what looked like a necktie made of laser light. It waved enthusiastically.

"Supreme Mind," it said in perfect, accented English, bowing low.

Josh took a step back. "Uh. Sorry. What?"

Another stepped forward. "We are the Zarnakians of the Nebulon Accord. We intercepted your sacred transmission: 'Why Pizza Should Be a Religion.' It is… transcendent."

Josh blinked. "Wait. You read that?"

"Absorbed it. Contemplated it. Played it back over smooth jazz," said the one with the necktie. "We have traveled light-years to receive your wisdom."

Josh looked around, half-expecting a hidden camera or at least a neighbor live-streaming this on TikTok.

"You guys... think I'm, like, your spiritual leader?" he said slowly.

"You are the Supreme Mind of Earth," said the tallest one, who smelled vaguely like burnt oregano. "The Keeper of the Sacred Circle. The Deliverer of the Deep Crust Truth."

Josh squinted. "Because I wrote an essay about pizza?"

"Yes," they said in unison, with complete, unnerving conviction.

There was a long pause.

Josh, still barely awake, still smelling faintly of ranch dressing, said the only thing his brain could manage:

"…Y'all want, like, a slice or something?"

Elsewhere, on the ship

Inside the Zarnakian vessel, other members of the delegation were watching security footage of Josh's essay video—automatically created by the AI when he submitted the paper to his school's learning portal. It was mostly his voice narrating over poorly cropped clip art of pizza slices orbiting a crudely drawn Earth.

The aliens watched with rapt attention.

"Observe," whispered one. "He speaks of the One Crust to Unite All."

Another gasped. "He rejects pineapple. The forbidden fruit. He knows."

They did not understand sarcasm.

Or satire.

Or the American school system.

But they did understand prophecy.

And to them, Josh Keller was the holy scribe of pepperoni truth.

Josh did what any teenager would do when faced with the sudden, interstellar declaration of his divine status.

He made frozen pizza.

Well, technically, he supervised while the Zarnakians tried to use his microwave.

Zarnak Prime—the one with the glowing tie—stood in the kitchen, staring at the microwave like it was a sacred artifact. "The sacred heat box. It sings a song when enlightenment is achieved."

"It's literally just a timer," Josh muttered, but they didn't hear him. They were too busy chanting around the rotating disc of bubbling cheese.

He sat at the kitchen island, still in his pajamas, sipping a lukewarm Mountain Dew and wondering if this was what a mental breakdown felt like. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe this was a stress dream caused by too much cheese. But then one of the aliens handed him a notepad filled with questions.

"Great Supreme Mind," said a soft, bubbling voice. "We are eager to learn the deep truths of your doctrine."

Josh squinted at the list.

What is the proper number of slices per offering?

Does sausage represent aggression or fertility?

Are calzones considered heretical scrolls or blessed pockets?

Please elaborate on the 'cheese pull'—is it symbolic of spiritual longing?

Josh blinked. "I... What?"

Zarnak Prime looked at him expectantly. "You wrote: 'When the cheese stretches, it is like the soul yearning for completeness.'"

Josh slapped his forehead. Oh god. I wrote that at like 11:47 PM.

"I was being poetic," he said. "You know. For the grade."

Zarnak Prime nodded solemnly. "Your humility only strengthens your wisdom."

Josh looked to the ceiling and whispered, "Why is this my life now."

Three Hours Later

His living room had been transformed into a makeshift temple.

The Zarnakians had rearranged the furniture into a giant circle—"The Holy Wheel"—and lit several scented candles they found in the bathroom cabinet. (Josh didn't have the heart to tell them that "Pumpkin Spice Latte" wasn't sacred incense.)

They bowed reverently before him as he sat cross-legged on a beanbag chair, holding a slice of pepperoni pizza like it was the staff of Moses.

"Please," said Zarnak Prime, "reveal more truths."

Josh took a deep breath. He realized he had two options:

Deny everything, freak out, and probably end up in some secret government bunker for the rest of his life.

Go with it.

He chose chaos.

"Okay," he said, straightening up. "Lesson One: Trust no one who puts pineapple on pizza. It's the universal test of moral alignment."

Gasps rippled through the aliens.

Zarnak Beta, a short, stubby one with pinkish tendrils, slowly pulled out a pineapple slice from its belt pouch and let it fall to the floor.

"Forgive me," it whispered.

Josh nodded solemnly. "You are forgiven, child of the crust."

They all murmured in awe and scribbled this down in their glowing journals.

Feeling a rush of power—or possibly the caffeine—Josh leaned in. "Lesson Two. The pizza must be shared in even slices. No one takes more. Balance is the essence of peace."

"The Circle of Equality," Zarnak Prime whispered.

"Yes," Josh said, inventing terms now. "And never—never—fold your slice unless under spiritual duress."

The aliens gasped again. One of them folded a slice slightly and screamed before running outside to cleanse itself in the sprinkler.

That night, Josh lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the soft glow of alien orbs floating gently around his room, keeping watch. One of them occasionally hummed a Gregorian chant version of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles theme.

"I'm literally bullcrapping my way through interstellar diplomacy," he whispered to himself.

His phone buzzed. It was Mikey.

yo why is there a spaceship over your housealso u on alien tiktok bro u blew UP

Josh opened the app. There he was, mid-bite, sitting in his beanbag throne, captioned:

"Earth's Chosen One: The Pizza Prophet Speaks Truth 🙏🍕🛸 #DeepCrustThoughts"

The video had 3.7 million views.

Josh stared blankly at the screen.

"…I am so dead."

Josh had always wanted to go viral. Just not like this.

Not international-news-headline-with-his-face-next-to-a-UFO viral. Not livestreamed-giving-pepperoni-based-spiritual-advice-to glowing blobs viral.

But here he was—standing in his backyard, holding a pizza paddle like a sacred relic, while CNN, BuzzFeed, and something called The Crust Network live-broadcasted his "Morning Sermon."

"…and so," Josh said into the cameras, voice cracking, "we must ask ourselves: Do we fold under pressure, or do we remain flat and whole? Like a thin-crust Margherita, unbending… yet flavorful."

Applause erupted from the Zarnakian delegation. A few of them even wept softly—by releasing fragrant gas clouds shaped like teardrops.

Josh gave a tight smile. He was really getting the hang of making nonsense sound meaningful. Maybe he should apply to law school.

Within 24 hours, the world had organized into three groups:

True Believers.People who fully bought into the Pizza Religion. They wore t-shirts that said "In Crust We Trust", got tattoos of "The Circle of Infinite Toppings," and started showing up at Josh's house to meditate near the mailbox.

Pizza Skeptics.Hardcore atheists and food snobs who thought the whole thing was "a dangerous meme cult." They organized protests with signs like "Dough Is Not Divine" and "Stop Worshipping the Pizza Kid".

Marketing Executives.Every fast-food chain on the planet wanted a piece of the Prophet. By Friday, Josh had 11 sponsorship offers, including one from a deodorant brand called "Holy Slice."

The United Nations held an emergency session. Not to deal with the aliens. But to ask, why the hell they only listened to Josh.

"We sent the Secretary-General," one diplomat grumbled. "They told him to 'kneel before the Sausage Sage' and teleported him into a Chuck E. Cheese."

Meanwhile, U.S. officials offered Josh a security detail. Not for protection from the aliens—but from fans. One lady tried to kiss his hand and slipped him a business card that said "Licensed Cult Starter."

Even NASA got involved.

"Can we maybe... explain that the essay was a school assignment?" said one exhausted scientist.

"We tried," said the translator. "They said it was 'a test of divine humility.' Then they levitated a pizza and sang."

Mr. and Mrs. Keller returned from their spa retreat to find:

A spaceship hovering over the house

A crowd of camera crews and pilgrims camping on their lawn

Their son wearing a gold robe made out of thermal blankets and pizza boxes

Josh greeted them with an awkward wave. "Hey Mom. Hey Dad. So, um… little update."

They stared in silence.

Then Mrs. Keller fainted. Mr. Keller took a selfie with the aliens and said, "Well, I always knew the boy had potential."

Meanwhile, in the Shadows... Trouble Brewed

Far across the galaxy, the Cult of Kale—natural enemies of all things gluten-based—watched Josh's rise with growing rage.

"This Pizza Prophet threatens the cosmic balance," snarled High Leaf Elder Grön. "He must be silenced… before our followers convert to the Way of the Cheese."

A fleet of angular, plant-based warships turned toward Earth, loaded with kale chips, compost bombs, and one giant bottle of vegan ranch.

Intergalactic war was on the menu.

And Josh Keller, high school slacker and reluctant religious icon, was about to become Earth's cheesiest line of defense.

It began with a sneeze.

More specifically, a sneeze from Zarnak Beta—who expelled a puff of glittery spores into the sky and whispered, "A storm approaches."

Josh didn't take it seriously. After all, Beta had also once declared an impending apocalypse when he accidentally watched Sharknado 3.

But the storm came.

And it wasn't weather.

At exactly 4:44 PM, the clouds over Earth parted to reveal a looming fleet of angular, matte-green ships shaped like spiraling artichokes. Each one bore the mark of the Cult of Kale: a glowing leaf inside a triangle, pulsing ominously.

At the front of the fleet: the Verdant Vengeance, a monstrous flagship that looked like a blender with attitude.

A voice boomed from the skies:

"People of Earth. You have been deceived by the false prophet of dairy and gluten. Your salvation lies not in mozzarella—but in fiber."

Josh, mid-bite into a stuffed crust slice, froze. "Uhhh… that doesn't sound good."

Zarnak Prime floated beside him, solemn. "The Kale Ones have long hated the Delicious. They believe in blandness. In rawness. In… flavorless righteousness."

A second transmission followed:

"Surrender the Supreme Mind or face the wrath of the Leaf."

Josh blinked. "Why does every cult name sound like a bad metal band?"

Within hours, the United Nations, the Zarnakian delegation, and a very annoyed representative from the Vegan Intergalactic Peacekeepers (VIP) were all assembled at a massive pizza parlor-turned-neutral-meeting-site in downtown Chicago.

Josh stood at the front of the room, wearing a cape made of pizza delivery bags and holding a spatula like a scepter.

The Kale Cult's emissary—an angular, pale-green figure named Elder Grön—glared across the table. "You are poisoning the galaxy with saturated fats and synthetic joy."

Josh cleared his throat. "Okay, first of all, joy is not synthetic. It's hand-tossed. Like, spiritually."

Gasps of reverence rippled through the Zarnakians.

He pointed to a whiteboard with a diagram titled "The Flavor Spectrum."

"Look. Pizza isn't just about taste. It's about balance. Crust, sauce, cheese, toppings—each different, but united. Just like people. Or… intergalactic species. Or whatever. You can't just remove one piece and call it better. That's not harmony. That's sad salad."

The Kale emissary hissed.

Zarnak Prime stepped forward, glowing brightly. "The Supreme Mind speaks of The Great Bake. All ingredients, baked together, to create unity. Kale… may yet be a topping."

The room fell silent.

Even Elder Grön paused.

"…a topping?" he whispered.

Josh nodded solemnly. "Yes. As long as it's not the only one."

The final agreement—known as The Sauce Accord—was signed atop a ceremonial pizza stone.

Terms included:

Kale would be accepted as a topping across the galaxy, but never the default.

A joint task force would explore gluten-free crust diplomacy.

A "Galactic Buffet of Mutual Understanding" would be held annually on Planet Chucktron-8.

Josh, now dubbed The Crustodian of Peace, was awarded a medal shaped like a pizza cutter and given lifetime access to any pizza joint in the universe.

Josh finally returned to his bedroom.

He sat on his bed, now entirely too famous to attend regular school, and stared at the ceiling.

"I just wanted to pass history class," he muttered.

Zarnak Beta floated in. "You have passed… something far greater."

Josh looked at the little alien.

"Hey, Beta?"

"Yes, O Cheesy One?"

"…you want to try pineapple this time?"

There was a long pause.

Then Beta smiled (or something like it).

"…only if you try kale."