This story is an echo from forgotten times-an age when people walked on ceilings, labor was a reward, beasts wore neckties as managers, and machines sprouted naturally from the soil like bizarre mechanical cabbages. Our heroes, blissfully oblivious to conventional success, were entirely consumed with the selective breeding of new alcohol-distillation apparatuses, passionately composing speeches from armored vehicles, and pioneering a language built purely from creative vulgarity. They lived far from their native constellation, yet-I dare say-were kind of happy.
However, the tides of war in their homeland brought floods of refugees onto their adopted planet. Seeing the mounting chaos as both crisis and opportunity, our heroes decided it was high time to test their luck elsewhere-ideally somewhere they could avoid the usual cosmic fistfights over territory and sunlight. A timely advertisement caught their eye: the Constellation of Granada - named in honor of a football club idolized by its founder was welcoming new immigrants. Without hesitation, second thoughts, or even basic due diligence, our heroes shrugged collectively-"Why hide under the skirts when you're destined for the stars?" They swiftly tidied up their lives, scattered their accumulated belongings like ceremonial breadcrumbs, grabbed their backpacks, and set forth for their personal 'sich'. Thus began their reckless journey-into a land whose language they did not speak, whose customs baffled them completely, and whose reality they utterly failed to comprehend.