Ultimate Crossover of Cosmic Horror and Villainy

(This is the grand, final, terrible symphony of endings.)

It started with a scream that had no source,

A cancer growing in the multiverse.

A final thread of fate had come undone,

Beneath a black and ever-dying sun.

Realities, like pages in a book,

Were torn and scattered by a force that shook

The pillars of existence, time, and space,

And put a grin on every fallen face.

From out this wound, this multiversal tear,

The ultimate expressions of all fear

Stepped forth, not as a team, but as a flood,

To write the final chapter in new blood.

Upon a throne of conquered, silent gods,

The Mad Titan, Thanos, weighed the cosmic odds.

His gauntlet pulsed, a universe of might,

He saw the chaos, and his eyes were bright.

He sought not balance now, but simple truth,

To be the final victor, long in tooth.

"Let them all come," his voice a rumbling quake,

"For in the end, it is my will they'll break."

Through shattered stars, a hog's deep engine roared,

The Main Man, Lobo, feeling far from bored.

He cracked his knuckles, lit a fresh cigar,

"Fraggin' amateurs, don't know how nuts they are.

This whole damn mess looks like a payday spree,

The last bastich standin's gonna be me!"

He saw the gods and monsters, and he grinned,

A one-man riot on the cosmic wind.

From Sector Zero, where all light has died,

A new corps rose upon a blackened tide.

The Green of Will, now twisted and made cruel,

The Emerald Tyrants, masters of the rule.

Their constructs were not shields, but cages vast,

A perfect, sterile order, meant to last.

"The chaos ends," their leader did proclaim,

"We are the cure. Remember our new name."

And in the heart of this chaotic stew,

Two matching smiles, one old and one brand new.

The Joker skipped across a dying moon,

Humming a jaunished, psychopathic tune.

"Oh, what a party! What a grand affair!

So much potential for sublime despair!"

But near him stood a darker, sharper twin,

The Bat Who Laughs, the Bat who let the madness in.

"The party's over," came his chilling drawl,

"I am the one who's come to end it all.

You are all notes in my grand symphony,

The final, perfect song of agony."

But as these titans postured and prepared,

A deeper, colder, final truth was bared.

A threat that did not want to rule or fight,

But simply swallow every speck of light.

From deep within the silent, dead domain,

A different kind of madness, born of pain,

Had found the ultimate, most perfect host,

And given up its pale and lonely ghost.

The Black Lanterns, the corps of death and rot,

Had found the one true king they'd always sought.

Not Black Hand, not a god of ancient lore,

But a boy who'd loved Death to his very core.

He rose, no longer just a punk-rock ghoul,

But master of the endless, hungry school

Of undeath. Evil Ernie, with a grin,

Now wore the Black Lantern upon his skin.

His Smiley button, now a sigil dread,

That pulsed with power from the countless dead.

He didn't speak. He didn't have to boast.

He simply raised a hand, and every ghost,

Every fallen hero, every conquered soul,

Began to rise and answer to his call.

The dead of Krypton, and the dead of Korugar,

The dead from every single, fallen star.

They wore the black, their voices a dead hiss:

"Flesh... Will... Fear... Rage... All will be abyss."

Thanos paused, his gauntlet's light seemed dim,

Against the tide that answered unto him.

The Tyrant Lanterns saw their constructs fail,

As hands of shadow pierced their emerald veil.

Lobo growled, his healing factor strained,

As phantom claws left wounds that still remained.

The Joker laughed, a little less with glee,

"Well, this is new! They're not responding to me!"

The Bat Who Laughs stood silent, and his grin,

For once, seemed smaller, as the dark poured in.

He had a plan to kill a universe,

But Ernie's plan was simpler, and far worse.

He didn't want to rule it. Or to win.

He wanted to erase where it had been.

To give it all to his one, only love,

His pale queen waiting in the dark above.

This wasn't war. This wasn't a campaign.

This was a harvest in a cleansing rain.

The villains turned, their rivalries on hold,

A story far more terrible than old.

For in the face of that unending black,

There was no prize, no throne, no turning back.

Just the quiet, hungry, all-consuming might

Of Evil Ernie, and the endless night.

His army rose, a tide of black and grey,

To wash the very concept of a "day" away.

The multiverse was not a stage for war.

It was a buffet. And nothing more.