Judgment day -- unseen by the lone spaceship orbiting the planet like a ripe, peach-colored melon, all plump and juicy -- a black iron meteor crossed from the wrong side of the solar system into the wrong part of the sky. Wrong like your daughter's last boyfriend with the goatee that resembled your butt hairs and the suspicious pepperoni-like bulge that wasn't his wallet.
The meteor moved over the ocean, crossed the demarcator from night to day, hid behind the sun and passed like a silent but deadly vaporous emission, like a 100-ton kidney stone and remained out of sight like leftovers in the back of the fridge.
After crossing the ocean, it met atmosphere and burned like cubic zirconia on a cheap date's finger. A beacon, a reminder of the vast array of dreams cast to the stars like pennies into a poisoned well, like wishbones broken at dinner, like dice breathed on in Vegas. By the time human eyes saw the fireball trailing smoke and flame like a giant burning jack-o-lantern sneering, all their mouths could say was "balls to the wall, every man for himself."
The meteor, a mass like several mountains, shattered the center of the continent, depressing the earth like a whore depresses a mattress, cracking the crust like makeup on Joan River's face, exposing the mantle like a teenage boy reading playboy. The impact sent waves rippling though the rocky surface like rings expanding around the toilet bowl as a little boy aims at the paper boat.
The planet rebounded, quivering like canned pork brains in milk sauce, splitting like crispy bacon and shattering like a glass casserole on the kitchen floor.