by Eirik Gumeny
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I followed the instructions in the pamphlet note for note.”
“What pamphlet?”
“The one I wrote on the back of this napkin.”
The replicated royal held up a coffee-stained square of paper and waved it slightly. Chester A. Arthur XVII took the napkin from her and held it against the steering wheel.
“This is completely unintelligible,” he said, knitting his brow. “I’m pretty sure most of it isn’t actually in English, or any recognizable dialect for that matter.”
“Well, no,” replied Queen Victoria XXX, leaning over and pointing at the second entry on the list. “Step two is create your own language. I’ve got seventeen words that mean ‘oh my god, can’t you drive any faster.’”
“It’s not my fault you forgot to charge your iPod.”
“I’m also hungry.”
“How many words do you have for that?”
“Six. One sounds an awful lot like ‘no Chinese’ and two of them rhyme with ‘cannibalism.’”
“Only two?”
“I don’t really feel like driving.”
“Well, we’ll be stopping soon, I’m going to have to refuel anyway.”
Queen Victoria XXX scanned the vast, empty space between their car and the horizon.
“Define ‘soon.’”
“That would be roughly equivalent to the length of time it takes us to move through this impenetrable nothingness and into a someplace that actually houses something of use and, preferably, isn’t populated by homicidal atomic mutants.”
Queen Victoria XXX returned her eyes to the horizon. She searched for any signs of civilization, any signs of life, but, instead, found only her sanity lowering a rusty razorblade to its wrists, weeping and inconsolable, desperate for some kind of a release from the incomprehensible, never-ending void that lay before it.
“So, what, twenty minutes?”
***
“Are we there yet?”
“No.”
“Are we there yet?”
“No.”
“Are we there yet?”
“No.”
“Are we there yet?”
“No.”
“Are we there yet?”
“No.”
“Are we there yet?”
“No.”
“Are we there yet?”
“No.”
“Are we there yet?”
“No.”
“Are we there yet?”
“No.”
“Are we there yet?”
“No.”
“Are we there yet?”
“No.”
“Are we there yet?”
“No.”
“Are we there yet?”
“No.”
“Are we there yet?”
“No.”
“Are we there yet?”
“No.”
“Are we there yet?”
“No.”
“Are we there yet?”
“You are aware that the controls for your window are available to me, and that opening said window will immediately flood the interior of the car with enough radiation and heat to boil your skin from your bones in a matter of moments, right?”
“Yes.”
“OK.”
“Are we there yet?”
“Seriously, Vicky, I’m not above killing us both to get you to stop talking.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Happy Fun Breakfast Time
“Come on, babe,” said Josh, one hand on his coffee, the other holding his wife’s hand. “The city isn’t that bad.”
“I know,” said Jennie, one hand under her husband’s hand, the other on her pregnant belly. “I like it enough, I just don’t know that I want to raise a child here, is all.”
“Hey, I grew up here, and I turned out fine.”
“I know ...”
“The schools are good, crime is down ...”
“That’s true,” said Jennie, shifting in the wrought iron seat set up outside the café. “It’s just ... I don’t know. Maybe ... maybe you’re right. Maybe it isn’t so terrible here after all.”
Josh smiled at his wife. Jennie smiled back as her husband leaned across the matching wrought iron table to kiss her.
It was at this point that Quetzalcoatl ran down the street making extraordinarily loud whooshing noises, one arm raised as if in flight, the other holding a baby like a football.
“That ...” said Josh, shaking his head, “that probably wasn’t a real ...”
It was at this point that an irate mother dragging an empty carriage behind her and screaming, “Give me back my baby;” a taxi driver hopping on one foot and screaming, “Give her back her baby;” and three policemen – two of whom appeared to have been hit in the face by an apple pie – screaming, “You god damned son of a bitch, give her back her baby;” ran down the street after Quetzalcoatl.
“OK, yeah,” said Josh, still positioned uncomfortably over the table and not quite kissing his wife. “I’ll put in for a transfer tomorrow.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Talk Economical to Me, Baby
Chester A. Arthur XVII and Queen Victoria XXX sat with their backs against the closed, locked doors of the liquor store, staring out into the alternatingly bright and pitch-black dawn.
“We probably should’ve checked the hours before we left,” said Queen Victoria XXX.
“Yeah,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, leaning his head against the glass door. “In hindsight, our actions were rather rash.”
“We were out of beer,” explained the reconstituted royal, shrugging.
The pair watched as the horizon turned purple, then black, then blue, then purple again, within a span of seconds. It had been doing that a lot lately.
After the world was ended for the twenty-first time, every single governing body on the planet collapsed in what was described as “the greatest, most confusing game of dominos ever witnessed.” During the brief vacuum of political and military power that followed, an orbital cannon was hijacked by a giant lizard that was, in turn, being controlled by a giant ape and, well, hijinks ensued.
“The sky’s kind of pretty, though.”
“In that ‘science can’t explain how it hasn’t killed us all yet’ kind of way, sure.”
It was all very complicated.
“Well, yeah,” replied Queen Victoria XXX, a look of confusion on her face. “What other definition of ‘pretty’ is there?”
Society was handling it fairly well, all things considered.
Chester A. Arthur XVII lifted his wrist and looked at his watch.
“Damn it,” he said. “We must have passed through a magnetic field of some sort on the drive over. My watch is frozen. You have any idea what time it is?”
“Half past who gives a fuck?” replied Queen Victoria XXX.
“That’s not helpful, Vicky.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
“I’m simply trying to make sure we utilize our time as best as possible. If we can be doing something else rather than just sitting here and marveling at the broken laws of nature, I’d rather be on that errand.”
“God, I love it when you get all efficient,” cooed Queen Victoria XXX, climbing over and straddling the president. “Tell me about how we’re going to stack the cases of beer in the trunk.”
Chester A. Arthur XVII slid his hand through the queen’s tumbling dark locks and pulled her towards him. They quickly found something to do besides just sitting there.
CHAPTER NINE
Classy
Thor and Catrina sat on opposite sides of the electrical wire spool she was using as a kitchen table, red-eyed and hair askew. The former god of thunder was wearing baggy sweatpants and a tight t-shirt, his barrel chest stretching the fabric to its breaking point, his beer gut skipping the fabric entirely and hanging out in the open air. The tiny Filipina woman was in pink plaid pajama pants and a black tank top. Two half-emp
ty mugs of coffee grew cold between them. Neither one had spoken a word for the better part of twenty minutes.
“Look,” said Thor softly, “I think we should –”
“I really don’t want to talk about it, Thor,” replied Catrina coldly.
“We can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Yes,” said the petite young woman, nodding rapidly, “yes, we can.”
“We both know that’s a lie.”
Catrina began swirling the coffee in her cup, averting her eyes from Thor’s.
“What happened last night ...” he continued.
“No,” she said, snapping her head up. “I said no, Thor.”
“For fuck’s sake, Catrina,” barked the Norseman. “We’re friends, we work together. We have to talk about this.”
Catrina swiftly gathered up both coffee mugs, emptying their contents into the crowded sink and turning her back to Thor.
“I appreciate you taking me back to your place after I got poisoned, I do,” continued Thor. “You were looking out for me and ... I mean, I’d like to think I’d have done the same thing if it had been you, but, I don’t know, maybe, in hindsight, maybe it wasn’t the smartest ... especially given the circumstances ...”
“You should leave,” said the young woman, her back still turned to her friend, her shoulders hunched and her hands on the edge of the sink.
“Look, neither of us could’ve known,” said Thor. “I mean, all right, I wasn’t really surprised it happened. And I don’t think you were either, if you could just be honest about it for –”
“I said go. Now.”
“Damn it, no, Catrina.” The former thunder god pounded the table. “We need to get this out of the way.”
Catrina turned to face him, rage in her eyes and a knife in her hands.
“What happened last night ...” she said, her voice barely controlled, the knife wavering in her grip. Sure, it was only a butter knife, and she wasn’t actually as menacing as she thought she was, but it was still pretty clear she was pissed. Thor got that much.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Catrina softened, the murderous fury drifting from her face. She tossed the knife back into the sink.
“No,” she said softly, “don’t apologize. You don’t need to. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know,” said Thor, “but I feel responsible. Let’s face it, if I wasn’t here it wouldn’t ... hell, it couldn’t have happened.”
“I know, Thor. I get it. I just ... I don’t want to talk about it. I know it wasn’t your fault, but, at the same time, you’re right, if you – If I hadn’t – Look, we can’t change what happened.”
“I know. And I know it’s weird, and uncomfortable. But I don’t get why you’re so upset about it. Hell, I’m kind of ... proud. All things considered, it was pretty impressive.”
“Jesus, Thor,” said Catrina, her face turning red. Then she started laughing. Thor joined her.
“I’m sorry I defiled your bathroom, Catrina.”
“It’s OK, Thor, I forgive you,” she said. “But, please, can we not talk about this ever, ever again? That was ... the single most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Man, who knew battery acid would fuck someone up like that? It was like Surtr’s hot spring in Múspell, like a damned volcano coming out of my ass.”
“Please don’t refer to it like that ever again. Ever.”
Thor began laughing again. “Did you see the ceiling?”
“Yes,” said Catrina solemnly.
“Honestly,” said the former Norse god, still laughing, “it might just be easier for you to move.”
CHAPTER TEN
Bring the Shotgun
After the world ended for the third time, only a handful of corporations around the globe remained functioning in any useful capacity. Realizing just how precarious the continued existence of capitalism was, these stalwart companies banded together to pioneer the creation of a limited artificial intelligence and quickly produced a robotic workforce of startling efficiency.
With this automated army in tow, the corporations were able to pick up the pieces of a shattered society and rebuild a better world, one free from strife, economic turmoil, and workmen’s compensation claims. The rapid assimilation of smaller companies and the altogether astounding profit margins were simply a side effect of the corporations’ unceasing hope and compassion for humankind.
“Looks like there’s a rest stop up ahead,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, slowing down the car.
“Please tell me there’s a coffee place,” replied Queen Victoria XXX.
“They’ve got a Starbucks.”
“Damn it.”
After the world ended for the fourth time, the United States government decided it was no longer able to sustain itself and, following China’s example, auctioned itself off in lots. Canada purchased the majority share, while Starbucks and Walmart, the two largest corporations on the planet, vied for the remainder.
The resulting bidding war turned literal, destroying the cities of Seattle and Atlanta, as well as indie rock, rednecks, Santa Claus, magicians, and the internet.
“At least they’ve got free Wi-Fi out here,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII. “I can double-check the quickest route home. I figure we’ve got about two hours before Billy starts worrying.”
The internet eventually recovered.
“But it’s a Starbucks!” whined Queen Victoria XXX.
So did the rednecks.
“Come on, Vicky, they’re not all run by inbred, homicidal atomic mutants.”
Ideologically, anyway.
“You don’t know that.”
“Fine,” relented Chester A. Arthur XVII. “Bring the shotgun.”
***
A fairly intimidating Queen Victoria XXX entered the Starbucks and strode to the counter, the shotgun holstered across her back clearly visible. She placed her hands on the counter and leaned forward, her sinewy biceps obvious beneath the short-sleeved twill work shirt she wore over her Kevlar corset. She looked the clerk directly in the eye.
“I’d like a medium coffee, please.”
“We don’t have medium,” said the fairly intimidated girl behind the counter.
“How can you not have medium?”
“We have short, tall, grande, venti, and collegiate.”
“Give me the one in the middle then.”
“Which one, ma’am?”
“Whatever it was you said, the one that means medium.”
“Short, tall, grande, venti, or collegiate?”
“You’re really going to make me say it?”
After the First Robot Uprising ended the world for the ninth time, a number of the previously “pioneering” companies – having long since freed themselves from the burdens of human rights, and spoiled by the unparalleled growth, efficiency, and employee obedience that resulted – found themselves staring down legions upon legions of pissed off automatons.
The corporations that weren’t burned to the ground or vaporized by super-lasers outright were left hurting for a workforce.
“If you don’t say it and I respond anyway, I get whipped.”
Due to the complete and utter lack of a relevant operational policy, this pain was passed on to the new employees.
“I don’t want to get whipped, ma’am,” continued the young atomic mutant, trembling slightly.
Some companies handled it better than others.
“The whip is three belts, taped together,” she whispered. “Three belts with nails in them.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Quetzalcoatl Also Hates Children
Quetzalcoatl stood upon the decaying picnic table and began singing.
“Row, row, row your kayak, gently up the tree, hairily, fairily, bearily, life is but soup.”
The family situated around the decaying picnic table stared up in disbelief.
Quetzalcoatl, garbed in a bright blue tartan kilt and very little else, stood upon the picnic
table with his legs spread wide, braced against the gusting wind, and continued to sing at a significantly higher volume.
“Stow, stow, stow your crack, deeply in a nun, hairily, fairily, bearily, life is but a cup of minestrone and some oyster crackers!”
The adult members of the family situated around the picnic table – covering the eyes of the children situated around the picnic table – began ushering the younger members away from the picnic table, all the while continuing to stare up in disbelief.
Quetzalcoatl, garbed in a kilt and very little else, stepped in a bowl of potato salad.
“What the cheetahs?”
His foot lodged firmly in the bowl of potato salad, Quetzalcoatl nonetheless hopped off the picnic table and chased after the fleeing family.
“Hey! Hey, hey, hey, hay. You,” he said, limping after the family. “You there. Can you tell me where to buy stamps?”
The father halted his flight just long enough to scrunch up his face and look confused. “What?” he asked.
“Stamps,” repeated the former Aztec god, “I need stamps. Also, I seem to have put my foot into the squishy part of a plastic creature’s cranium. Was this your plastic creature? Have I killed your dingo?”
The father’s face relaxed slightly. The confusion was still readily apparent, though.
“Uh, no,” he said. “We don’t have a dingo. You did not kill our dingo.”
Quetzalcoatl suddenly leapt forward and grabbed the young child standing beside his father. The crazy man lifted the boy into the air and shouted, “Tell me why monkeys eat my cheese, small thing!”
The father’s expression changed from confusion straight into horror. He resumed his fleeing, hastily ushering the remaining children across the park and into the family minivan. The other father, meanwhile, threw his fists repeatedly into the face of Quetzalcoatl. He also assaulted the former god with no end of unsavory language, in case the man in the kilt didn’t get the point.
