The End of Everything Forever

by Eirik Gumeny

  “Your roses smell unquestionably like donkey turds, sir,” said Quetzalcoatl, despite the onslaught of fists. In an effort to end the beating, Quetzalcoatl tossed the child into the air, grabbed him by his ankles, and swung him at the father like a baseball bat. The boy’s back collided with the father’s head. The father was knocked to the ground. The boy wet himself.

  The insane Mexican man gently returned the boy to the ground and then knelt down, lining up his eyes with the child’s. Quetzalcoatl stared at the boy. He stared hard.

  “I hate you, small thing,” he whispered.

  The boy wet himself again.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” said the father, picking himself up off the ground and collecting his child.

  “That is like a nurse murdering a rabbi,” replied Quetzalcoatl. “What you should be asking is, ‘What is wrong with me?’ How could an antelope possibly let a circus clown kill his dingo and then beat him with the stains on his sheets? You have been mauled by lions and will surely be forgotten by the etchings of cavemen everywhere.”

  The father slung his urine-soaked child over his shoulder, flipped off Quetzalcoatl, and retreated to his minivan.

  “You shouldn’t run with scissors!” counseled the former Aztec god, smiling and waving.

  It was then that Quetzalcoatl heard a rustling sound behind him. He turned, expecting a pile of leaves and possibly some wind. Instead, he found a pudgy, unkempt man in a patchwork flannel shirt and tattered jeans. The man approached Quetzalcoatl carefully.

  “My name is Will,” said the man named Will. “I’d like to talk.”

  The grungy nomad put his arm around Quetzalcoatl and led him across the park.

  “I have a feeling,” said Will, “that you know more about the ways of the universe than you let on. That you have a deeper understanding of ... society ... of even the sky ... the stars ... everything!”

  “I have a feeling,” replied the fallen god, “that is akin to being hungry, but in the back of my brain, and only for certain shades of red and blue. Also my toes.”

  “You’re starved for knowledge! Exactly! I could see it from the way you handled yourself during the ... incident prior. It permeates your very soul!”

  “Kittens are nice.”

  “And yet you can still appreciate the more ... mundane aspects of life! The ... aesthetic pleasures of our reality! Oh, I couldn’t have said it more eloquently myself ...” Will paused. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “You can call me Roger.”

  “Roger, yes. I’d like you to meet some people ...”

  “Now you can call me Susan.”

  “Susan ...”

  “Call me Wilhelmina.”

  “Oh, man, see,” said Will, pulling his arm away from Quetzalcoatl and clenching his fists excitedly in front of his chest in excitement, “this is what I’m talking about! This is amazing! Why settle on simply one persona? Be anyone! Be everyone! How can anyone honestly ever truly commit ... to one life, one persona? Life is constantly in flux ... people changing right along with it. You and I, Wilhelmina ... we are different now than we were those moments before.”

  Seriously, Will’s eyes were glazed over from the excited excitement he was feeling. It was crazy. Quetzalcoatl may or may not have noticed, as he was very, very drunk and a little high on torturing children. Regardless, he replied in the following manner:”I would like to go by Mr. Sausage King.”

  “Look, Mr. Sausage King,” said the smelly man in the flannel, “come with me. I’m a part of a ... convocation, of sorts. A collection of dreamers, like you ... fascinated by the world and trying to make sense of it ... trying to see beyond, see through ... the every day. I am certain that your input would be invaluable to our cause.”

  “I once saw the Paris burlesque on ice,” replied Quetzalcoatl earnestly.

  “Yes, I understand your doubts,” countered Will, equally as earnestly. “It is a bit ... abstract. But then, really, how can one ever hope to impose order on a gathering of ... philosophers and artists, writers and free-thinkers? Why, there are those among us who aren’t even convinced the world exists, much less that it needs saving.”

  Will continued, “Now, I’ll be the first to admit that even before the first of the apocalypses our roles in society were a bit ... frivolous. But that’s the beauty of it, really. Governments toppled, corporations and organizations collapsed, but we ... we remained unaffected. Our less ... defined structure allowed us to ... avoid the setbacks that destroyed the more ... entrenched paradigms. Pragmatically, the end of the world wasn’t much of a change for us.”

  “Roast beef sandwiches.”

  “Well, no ... We do not have much in the way of a ... practical stratagem. Or a mission. Or any sort of ... defined goal. We are perpetually in the process of establishing one, really. But, then, that’s why I’m ... inviting you. Each new member has the chance to set that goal ... Each new viewpoint will be weighed fairly and without bias.”

  “Hey, like Shakespeare said, it can’t be porn if it’s classy.”

  “Oh, yes, absolutely! Our intentions are nothing if not noble! I knew you’d understand! Come on, my van is this way. It’s the unmarked white one over there.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Other Half Is Violence

  Chester A. Arthur XVII paid for his bag of Slim Jims, pretzels, and soda and exited the rest stop convenience store. He made it about halfway to his car before a large, malformed hand pressed against his strapping chest – not actually stopping his forward movement, but forceful enough to imply that was the goal. The hand was attached to an outstretched arm attached to a shoulder that belonged to what was pretty clearly an atomic mutant.

  “Can I help you?” asked Chester A. Arthur XVII, gently removing the hand from his torso.

  “We don’ want yer kind here,” snarled the atomic mutant.

  “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “Wha? How do ya mean?”

  “Well, for starters, what do you mean by ‘kind?’ Men? Guys standing in front of you? Walking replications of the genetics of dead presidents? Or is it some kind of pent-up rage against any and all non-irradiated, non-mutated human folk? Maybe you’ve mistaken me for a robot, or a werewolf, or one of your cousins who owes you money?

  “Then, of course,” continued Chester A. Arthur XVII, “there’s the issue of ‘here.’ Are you referring to the convenience store I’ve just vacated? The parking spot the two of us are currently standing in? Or something more general, like the state of Pennsylvania? Perhaps you’re referring only to this particular stretch of nuclear wasteland. Am I somehow on your lawn? You’re going to need to make your meaning more apparent if you expect to elicit some kind of response from me, whether it be the one you intended or otherwise.”

  “Hold up, hold up,” said the mutant. “What’re mah options ‘gain?”

  “They were really more akin to suggestions than options. There could be myriad other reasons you’re impeding my exit beyond the ones I mentioned.”

  “Well, sure, son. And ah’m sure the heart ah the matter, tah reason ah’m in yer way to ‘gin wit’ is somethin’ else ‘tirely, if’n we’re bein’ honest. Can’t live in the middle ‘a miles an’ miles ‘a ‘radiated badlands ‘t’out some kinda life-alterin’ trauma, tha’s fer damn sure. Here and now, tho’, I ‘as jus’ tryin’ to reply in kind, makin’ sure I ‘dressed all yer listed concerns ‘fore we continue this little altercation.”

  “Oh, well, that’s not really necessary. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the effort, I do, but what I said previously was more of a hastily assembled collection of hypothetical guesses than any grouping of actual concerns.”

  “That so?”

  “That’s so.”

  “Well, a’right, then. Yah want ah should start from the threatenin’ shove ag’in? Er yah good to jus’ go from here, pickin’ up where’n we left off?”

  Chester A. Arthur XVII bit the side his lower lip, cons
idering his options.

  “I think,” he began, “it would be fair to say that, regardless of how we choose to proceed, your aim is for this to end in fisticuffs or some other kind of physical harm?”

  “Wouldn’ say ‘aim’ so much as a’ ‘nevitability. Mah goal ‘volves more ‘round robbin’ yah than it does beatin’ yah, ta be truthful. Tho’ the two does go hand in hand, mos’ often.”

  “Understandably so,” replied the president. “The difference this time, however, is that you will not be getting my wallet. Even should this interaction of ours come to blows.”

  The atomic mutant raised his gigantic eyebrow incredulously. “An’ how ‘xactly you figger that?”

  “You remember about a half dozen armageddons ago, when the gorillas hijacked all those satellites and Washington, D.C., was evaporated? How there was a mad scramble to reinstate the government?”

  “Course.”

  “Well, one of the possibilities floated about was to fill the seats of the United States government with clones of assorted previous leaders. The greatest political minds working together for the greater good and all that. Now, while that particular plan ultimately wasn’t implemented, there were still several football stadiums full of presidents and kings and unelected leaders created in preparation. Clearly, though, there was no way they could let that many clones out into the world – it would cause far too much confusion. But killing us all, well that would be genocide, which, as we all know, is an ethical no-no. The geneticists in charge, in their infinite and heartless wisdom, then figured one of each clone would be more than generous. So they had each leader fight himself to the death.”

  Chester A. Arthur XVII rolled his shoulders and stood up at his full, towering height. His shirt threatened to explode off his chest, the seams screaming in agony as they tried to keep his muscular frame clothed.

  “I killed sixty-two other Chester A. Arthurs that day. With only a tire iron,” he stated. “You’re not getting my wallet.”

  “Ah was not ‘ware ah that,” said the atomic mutant slowly, spreading his open hands in a show of submission while taking a step back. “Please ‘cept my ‘pologies for this inconvenience then, and you go on an’ have yerself a fine day.”

  “And you as well,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, raising his plastic bag. “Slim Jim for the road?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  He’s Pretty Well-Spoken for the Guy Who Founded Kentucky

  “With utmost sincerity, Mr. Taft, I am not above possessing you in order to obtain your silence.”

  “Man, look, I’m sorry, but, this ... this is disgusting,” replied William H. Taft XLII.

  “Disgusting?” asked the ghost of Daniel Boone. “How exactly did you think steakhouse meats were obtained?”

  “I honestly didn’t give it much thought,” replied the olive-skinned presidential clone, staring vacantly at the half-carved bovine standing and chewing cud before him, “but I was fairly confident that it didn’t involve covering my kitchen in blood and chunks of cow.”

  “I put forth the request that you throw down a tarp. I also suggested you actually kill or otherwise restrain the cow. Many times.”

  “I tried, dude, I tried! But it’s a fucking zombie! It doesn’t die!”

  “Yes, yes. I am well aware. And while I do agree that the cow’s continued existence certainly makes our task more difficult, it does not make it an impossibility. The meat is still on the cow, the knife is still in your hand. The process is entirely the same.”

  “It keeps moving!”

  “Mooooooorrr,” said the cow.

  “And that. It keeps doing that! My dinner should not be talking to me.” William H. Taft XLII began hyperventilating. He dropped into a chair with tremendous force.

  “oh man oh man oh man this is so weird” he babbled.

  “Mr. Taft,” said the ghost of Daniel Boone sternly, “I have numerous other appointments today, and your continued whinging and general girlishness is becoming increasingly trying. If you are, as I suspect, of the belief that I am going to complete this task for you, I am going to need the use of your appendages –”

  “Please! Yes! Go ahead!”

  “Right then.”

  And with that, the ghost of fabled pioneer Daniel Boone – summoned at an hourly rate via an online grilling instructional site – possessed the last remaining clone of William H. Taft, the twenty-seventh President of the United States, with the sole purpose of converting an undead cow into a pile of flank, chuck, and other assorted cuts of steak.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Business Ethics

  Mark Hughes and Catrina Dalisay stood in the center of the lobby of the Secaucus Holiday Inn staring at one another. The hotel owner had his arms crossed across his polo shirt, his head craned down to look at the ponytailed employee who stood nearly a foot shorter than him.

  “You want to live here, at the hotel,” repeated Mark.

  “Yes,” affirmed Catrina, trying to look as adorable as possible.

  “For free.”

  “Also correct.”

  “And you think I’m going to agree to this, why?”

  “Because the hotel has, at best, five guests a month, and yet contains over eighty habitable rooms,” explained Catrina. “Because there was an ... incident at my apartment, and it is no longer a fit place for a person to live. And because despite your hideous, metal-adorned exterior, you’ve explained to me that you do, in fact, have a human heart, and therefore my situation must, surely, stir it.”

  “Hmm ...”

  “Also, Thor is kind of useless and you’re extremely lazy and we’re down at least one porter and you know damn well that without me this place would have even fewer guests than it does now and that would be bad for everyone.”

  “That is quite the compelling argument, Catrina,” replied the cyborg, “and my heart is most certainly stirred, as well as shaken, but I’m going to have to say no.”

  “Oh, come on, dude!”

  “Look, Catrina, I can’t just let people start crashing here without paying whenever they feel like it. I am trying to run a business, after all.

  “Despite all those vaunted efforts of yours,” he continued, “the hospitality industry is pretty much obsolete. The only reason this place is turning any kind of a profit is because Holiday Inn went out of business two years ago and the lease holder on the building was eaten by carnivorous monster ants back in ... in ...”

  “No, please.” Catrina crossed her arms and glared at Mark, something akin to victory glinting in her dark eyes. “Go on.”

  Mark closed his eyes and groaned. “Take your pick of the top floor.”

  “Thank you, Mark,” Catrina lilted, before adding, “I moved my shit in an hour ago.” She skipped onto the elevator.

  “Don’t tell anyone!” shouted Mark as the doors slid closed. “Word gets out and I’m gonna have all manner of degenerates asking to stay here.”

  #

  Ten minutes later, Thor Odinson came barreling into the lobby, covered in blood and dirt and carrying a duffel bag.

  “Holy shit, Mark, man ...” explained the Norseman breathlessly.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake ...” the cyborg grumbled.

  “Dude, holy crap, the fucking ... the fucking Hollow Men took my duplex. A giant damn sinkhole, man, took the whole house! I woke up underground! Underfuckingground! In the Hollow fucking Earth! They’ve got a sun down there! Odin’s smelly taco shits, Mark, I had to ... had to fight my way out, they were ... they were everywhere, man, holy shit, and –”

  “You need a place to stay.”

  “Well, yeah. There was a lot more murdering and burrowing and whatever, but, yeah, that’s pretty much why I’m here.”

  Mark rubbed his forehead. “Fourth floor.”

  “Really? That’s it? No arguing? I came up with a whole list on the way over. It’s very compelling.”

  “Just go, Thor.”

  Thor shrugged, then walked to the computer behind t
he front desk and quickly created a keycard for room 401. As he pocketed the card and hustled to the elevator, the ringing in his ears – caused by the Hollow Men’s borers – grew higher in pitch, drowning out the lecture Mark appeared to be giving. The elevator doors closed.

  The former god knit his brow for a moment, before realizing that he didn’t particularly care what Mark was going on about anyway. He assumed it was about owing him one, or no free rides, or humping the toaster oven or something. Thor really didn’t have the patience for it right now. The doors opened; he stepped from the elevator and began walking down the hall, desperately in need of a shower, a nap, and everything in the mini-bar.

  Instead, Thor opened the door to room 401 and found a naked twenty-something woman standing in front of him.

  That’ll work, too, he thought.

  “What the shit!” exclaimed Catrina, grabbing a comforter and covering up her naughty parts.

  Thor frowned.

  “Jesus fuck, Thor, close the god damned door!” she shouted.

  “Why would I want to close the door?” reasoned the fully-clothed former god, laughing slightly.

  The naked Filipina woman threw a remote control at Thor’s head.

  “Come on, there’s no need for hostilities,” he said, swatting the remote away.

  The naked Filipina woman threw a lamp at Thor’s head.

  “Baldur’s dingleberries!” Thor ducked swiftly out of the way of the heavy and multi-cornered lighting fixture. “I didn’t know you were in here, OK? Why are you in here, anyway?”

  “Because you befouled my apartment, jackass,” she said, pulling the comforter higher over her small breasts. “I called a cleaning service and two of them died. Then the landlord found out and now the building’s being razed. I needed a new place to live, cheap, since my security deposit’s being put towards the funerals.”