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Planet BANARAMA (BEFORE CATACLYSM)
Planet BANARAMA (BEFORE CATACLYSM)
In a corner of the cosmos where logic occasionally took a coffee break, there existed Planet Banarama, a lush jungle world home to the most vibrant and diverse remarkably hairy ape civilization ever known, there reigned a glorious—but gloriously peculiar—Golden Ape King. His name? Well, that’s the thing. No one remembers it. Was it “Glorbo the Glittering”? “Banapoleon the Great”? Or perhaps “Sir King Noodlepants”? History is silent, and for reasons as strange as the king himself.
You see, the Golden Ape King wasn’t like other rulers. His fur shimmered gold, but not because of some divine blessing or ancient prophecy. No, it was the result of a coronation “incident” involving a vat of banana-flavored shampoo and a bolt of lightning. Instead of hiding the bizarre result, the king leaned into it, declaring, “The universe has gilded me! Who needs silk and satin when you’re already golden?”
And so, he decreed that he would never wear clothes. Instead, he strutted proudly in his shimmering fur, which seemed to catch the sunlight at all the right angles. But to ensure that his court still exuded royal splendor, he insisted his royal guards wear opulent, head-to-toe golden suits at all times.
If that wasn’t odd enough, the king’s pièce de résistance was his crown—a masterpiece crafted from his favorite thing in the universe: pasta. Made from perfectly al dente noodles, its design spiraled elegantly, encrusted with meatballs as jewels and a drizzle of marinara for that extra shine. He called it “The Crown of Endless Abundance,” though his critics preferred “The Crown of Utter Nonsense.”
Yet the Golden Ape King carried himself with such unshakable confidence that no one dared challenge his choices. “A king must reflect his kingdom,” he once declared, holding his pasta crown aloft. “And I have reflected—nay, perfected—it. Banarama will thrive as long as its noodles are twirled, its guards gleam, and its king stays gloriously bare!”
But while his antics baffled many, others whispered that there was something more to his peculiar ways. What kind of king insists on a crown of spaghetti and meatballs? Why did he reject the grand traditions of his ancestors for a life of absurdity? And yet, despite the swirling chaos that seemed to follow him everywhere, somehow… things always worked out.
When the royal treasury mysteriously vanished, the king declared, “We must hire squirrels as accountants! They’re experts at hiding nuts.” Against all logic, the squirrels promptly unearthed the stolen gold (and no one dared question how or why it worked).
When the jungle’s water supply dried up, the king stood atop a rock, shook his golden fists at the heavens, and proclaimed, “We must yell at the sky until it cries!” After a solid hour of bellowing, a freak rainstorm rolled in, drenching the jungle and refilling its rivers.
“Golden wisdom!” his advisors would proclaim, barely able to suppress their nervous giggles, while the king beamed with self-satisfaction.
The apes of Banarama were a kaleidoscope of fur, coming in every color imaginable—and a few that left you scratching your head. Each hue brought its own quirks and chaos, and together they formed a society as vibrant (and occasionally ridiculous) as their jungle.
First, there were the white and creamy apes, whose fur gleamed so brightly they could double as jungle disco balls under the moonlight. They were proud of their spotless coats, though they spent so much time avoiding dirt that they rarely got anything useful done.
Moving through the shadows came the black apes, mysterious and stealthy, though their drama was occasionally undercut by their uncanny ability to walk into trees when showing off their “silent moves.”
Then there were the yellow apes, who shone like portable suns and had an infuriating habit of being annoyingly cheerful at the crack of dawn. They’d swing through the jungle shouting, “Good morning!” while everyone else muttered, “Do we have to like them?”
The blue apes, on the other hand, were their polar opposites - calm, collected, and just suspiciously serene. It was widely believed that they were harboring some sort of secret, though what it was, no one could say.
There were the red apes, fiery and loud, who turned even the smallest disagreements into full-blown shouting matches. “WHO STOLE MY BANANA?” a red ape might scream, holding a peeled fruit in their hand. No one dared argue with them because, frankly, it wasn’t worth the headache.
Classic brown apes were the backbone of the society - reliable, sturdy, and practical. But among them were the golden-brown apes, who believed they were destined for greatness. Most of their “greatness” consisted of dramatically posing in sunbeams
The black-and-white apes were a striking sight, with fur patterned in bold, zebra-like stripes. These apes had a certain flair for drama, always insisting they were “walking art” and not just, as the red apes teased, “jungle barcodes.”
When black and white apes had kids, sometimes their offspring were neither striped nor monochromatic. Enter the gray apes: the perfectly blended result of their parents’ contrasting palettes. They have a habit of blending into rocks and logs, making them accidental jungle trip hazards. “Who put this log here—oh, sorry, Steve.”
Now, onto the green apes. These leafy wonders were born when the sunny yellow apes and the serene blue apes fell in love, which they always did because opposites attract. Green apes had a knack for camouflage so perfect that even their own families lost track of them
Then there were the pink apes, who, let’s be honest, shouldn’t logically exist. But there they were, sporting fur so vibrantly pink it made flamingos jealous. No one knew exactly how they came to be, but the running theory was they were born when the universe decided it needed more fabulousness.
The most eye-popping were the trippy apes, whose fur shimmered and shifted like a moving rainbow. They were so rare that spotting one was said to grant the finder a month of good luck (or a headache, depending on how long you stared)
And then there were the mythical galaxy-furred apes, whose coats sparkled with entire constellations. They were so rare that spotting one was considered a sign of eternal good fortune or at least a week’s worth of no monkey drama. Legend had it that if you gazed into their fur for long enough, you could see the meaning of life. Most apes just saw swirling stars and got dizzy.
Story begins (and CATACLYSM too)
Story begins (and CATACLYSM too)
The apes of Banarama embraced their wild diversity, their delightful quirks, and their unwavering collective obsession with bananas. Life was a delightful chaos of swinging on vines, arguing over the proper way to peel fruit, and occasionally getting distracted by a pink ape’s impromptu dance party.
But all that changed the day something bizarre appeared in the sky—a shimmering, rainbow-colored cosmic thingy. It wasn’t the first time the apes had seen something strange up there. Last year, they’d all panicked over what turned out to be a smudge on their telescopes from a cream-white ape’s lunch. This time, however, it wasn’t a smudge—it was very real and very, very shiny.
“It’s a UFO!” shouted one of the trippy apes, already halfway through painting a mural of the mysterious object. “What’s a UFO?” asked a black-and-white ape, who promptly got sidetracked into debating whether it stood for “Unidentified Flying Object” or “Unusually Fancy Orangutan.”
But this was no ordinary UFO—it looked like a cosmic firework had exploded in slow motion and decided to stick around. It shimmered, sparkled, and pulsed with colors that made even the trippy apes jealous. Naturally, the apes reacted the only way they knew how: by making it all about themselves.
“Maybe it’s here to admire my golden fur,” said one of the golden-brown apes, preening under the object’s glow.
“No, no, it’s clearly a fan of stripes,” argued a black-and-white ape, striking a dramatic zebra pose.
“IT’S DEFINITELY PINK-INSPIRED!” hollered a pink ape, firing off a glitter cannon (which they always carried, for reasons no one understood).
And just as the apes were descending into their usual arguments, their king—the Golden Ape King—stepped forward. Wearing his pasta-and-meatball crown, his golden fur gleaming under the cosmic glow, he raised one noodle-covered hand and declared his words of wisdom: "What the fuck is this thing?! Why don’t we throw a party for this sky giant trippy ravioli?”
A collective silence fell over the apes, followed by a chorus of confused murmurs.
“Wait, it’s a ravioli?”
“Are we sure it’s not a glittery mango?”
“Do space ravioli even like parties?”
But the king, as always, was undeterred by logic. “Nonsense! Everything loves a party. We’ll call it… The Cosmic Banquet!” He twirled dramatically, accidentally flinging a meatball from his crown into the bushes, where it would later be declared a sacred relic by the red apes.
Little did they know, this harmless party idea was about to turn their world into chaos, crystal, and a whole lot of pasta-based problem-solving. But for now, under the starry skies of Banarama, the apes swung on their vines and laughed, blissfully unaware of the cosmic calamity their king was about to unleash.
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