The skyscraper arches lazily into the sky.  In the penthouse, Mr. Arthur A. Spam, the King of Spam finishes a phonecall.

"Godammit, I don't want to make a donation, the kids can eat spam."

He rolls up a sleeve and checks his blood pressure, a boardroom meeting awaits.

It had been a long haul to get to this point, and now his spam empire was crowding the corners of the earth. 

He'd started in meats, why not?  Many a successful cattle-baron had led comfortable lives, and here he was, cleaning up the scraps.

And when someone had suggested moving into the mass mailing business, well, it only seemed to make sense.

Now, at this late date, his empire encompassed the earth. 

And this is the thing that Arthur didn't even know--he was one of the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse.

His spam was everywhere.  In the stores, on the computer, in the mail.

He air-dropped it everywhere.  Paraguay has just disappeared under a mountain of junk mail, and the internet teeters on the verge of collapse due to the overwhelming bulk of useless information.

"President Bush, line three, sir," his secretary intoned into the intercom, "He sounds a little frantic."

It was no surprise to Arthur.  None of it was, and he had no questions about it.  He felt a fine destiny, and it was all taking shape.  World leaders, foreign and domestic, all had to bow down to the King of Spam.

"Yes sir,"  Arthur said, scratching his balls absentmindedly, "That's four trillion dollars, and I will bury the middle east in a mountain of junk mail."

The department of defense had been courting him for months.

"I air dropped canned shipments into India, sir," He said, "But the drop killed five thousand people on impact.  And now I hear tell of tainted meat. Anthrax, sir. Looks like we'll end up thinning the herd despite our best intentions."

And thats the way the road to hell is paved, actually, through ignorance and good intentions.

Our demise will come at the hands of well meaning idiots.