The End of Everything Forever

by Eirik Gumeny

  “That’s what happens when you spend too much time with guys,” said the hotel employee, shaking her head.

  “They’re not all bad. They’re like brothers to me.”

  “I don’t know, I think Charlie’s a little too ... uh ...” The Filipina woman blushed. “I don’t think anyone should be thinking about him like a brother is all.”

  Queen Victoria XXX smiled slyly and began to speak, but was interrupted by Chester A. Arthur XVII and William H. Taft XLII barreling down the hallway, rushing past the women and toward the elevators. Chester A. Arthur XVII stopped just long enough to grab the cloned royal by the elbow and say, “The Dunkin Donuts guy is giving away free donuts!” before running off again.

  “So, all right,” said Catrina, nodding, “maybe you can think about him like a brother.”

  Queen Victoria XXX laughed, loud and short. “It’s gotta be the same with you and Thor, though, right?”

  “Thor’s more ...” The girl scrunched up her face. “Thor’s something else.”

  As if on cue, the onetime thunder god came running out of his room in only a towel, shampoo still in his hair, chanting, “Donuts! Donuts! Donuts!”

  “Like a cousin who used to eat paint chips,” Catrina clarified.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  It Was, In Fact, His Third

  “Sir,” said the completely nondescript bureaucratic drone whose fortune-telling mother hadn’t even bothered to name him due to his fated role in the world, “it appears that Kansas and Wyoming have been taken by the Hobo Empire.”

  “So?” said the President of the Amalgamated Provinces and States of Canada, America, and Mexico.

  “I really don’t see how that’s even close to being the appropriate response, sir. It seems callous and unprofessional at best, especially given your title and responsibilities.”

  “It was Kansas and Wyoming.”

  “Today, yes. But those are the nineteenth and twentieth states to fall since Pennsylvania last week.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “The Hobo Empire has now annexed the entire Midwest and, as of this morning, set the west coast on fire.”

  “I’m not familiar with that term, son. Are you trying to say they’re forcibly taking the western states? That they’ve laid siege to California?”

  “No, sir, I mean, quite literally, that the full length of the western coastline is aflame. I’m not really sure how, but even the ocean is burning.”

  “That doesn’t seem right.”

  “There are also reports that the one calling himself Quinn is, in actuality, the Aztec god of creation and knowledge.”

  “Quetzalcoatl?!” barked the president.

  “One and the same, sir.”

  “I thought we killed that son of a bitch years ago!” The man slammed both of his fists against his enormous desk, spilling several cups of coffee and a container of paper clips. “I’ll never understand why he couldn’t just accept that he was no longer deific and become human or kill himself like all the others. Instead, that motherfucker destroyed half of Mexico and made me look like a fool.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sure that was entirely his doing, sir.”

  “We’re just going to have to kill him all over again then,” said the president, his eyes growing wide and glazing over. “We’ve no other choice.”

  “How exactly do you plan on doing that, sir?” asked the nameless man. “There are still far, far too many civilians for a nuclear strike. And we can’t even be sure that would get rid of him anyway. Quetzalcoatl’s destroyed wave after wave of murder-drones all on his own, and his philosopher army is proving fairly proficient at surviving now as well.”

  “This isn’t my first rodeo, boy,” replied the president. “We’re calling in a specialist.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  This One Goes Out To All The English Majors

  “So,” said Thor Odinson, leaning back, his elbows against the front counter of the Secaucus Holiday Inn, “you’re not with Vicky, right? What with the separate bedrooms and everything?”

  “Not at the moment, no. Even if we were, she’s not a big fan of labels or the implied possession inherent to them,” replied Chester A. Arthur XVII, standing next to Thor in a similar fashion. “What’s the deal with you and Catrina?”

  “Friends.” The former god shrugged. “Not that I haven’t tried.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Apparently she’s got some kind of ... standards, all of which I’m in violation of.”

  “And if I were to ask her out to dinner ...?”

  “What about it?” Thor growled.

  “So there would be a problem.”

  “More than likely.”

  “And that problem would be ... what?”

  “You, mainly,” answered Thor, stepping from the counter and standing directly in front of Chester A. Arthur XVII, his hefty arms crossed over his t-shirted chest. “And my inherent distrust of you, specifically. You’re too ... handsome to not be an asshole.”

  The cloned president nodded slightly, conceding the point. “That’s understandable. I’m told that a lot, actually,” he said. “I obviously don’t trust you either, given the underhanded tactics you utilized to herd us into your hotel, but I’m glad we’re being aboveboard about the situation. The last thing we need are backdoor shenanigans and romantic entanglements complicating things.”

  “Oh, I’ll complicate her backdoor,” mumbled Thor, leaning against the counter again and eyeing the low cut tank top of the dark-skinned queen lasciviously.

  “You do realize I can both see and hear you, right?” rumbled Chester A. Arthur XVII. “Besides, if you’re trying to sleep with Vicky, ogling her from across the room is entirely counterproductive to the endeavor.”

  “Wait, so ... you’re cool if I try to hit that?”

  “No. Not even a little. That is not what I was saying at all. Not that it’s my place to decide, or even really comment upon, who she will or won’t – Besides, you are nowhere near good enough for her.”

  “What? I’m a fucking god, dude.”

  “No, you were a god,” said the cloned president, turning to face Thor. “Now you’re just some unskilled meathead dressed like Stanley Kowalski and working at a hotel in the middle of a swamp. Not to mention how out of touch you are. Most of the time I’ve spent with you, you’ve been confused and ineptly angry, like a flightless bird stuck on a tree branch.”

  “Yeah, no. You misunderstood what I meant.”

  Chester A. Arthur XVII thought about that for a second before saying: “Oh.”

  “Yep,” replied Thor.

  “You do realize that you’ve proven my point, though, right?”

  “What are you talking about? That was the greatest double entendre in the history of history.” He mumbled, “Like to see your West Virginia Jones do that.”

  “Tennessee Williams?”

  “Look, just because I don’t know what book-writer –”

  “Playwright.”

  “– you were talking about doesn’t mean I don’t know how to be good with my mouth. See? I did it again!”

  “Just because you’re a cunning linguist doesn’t mean she’s going to forget about all your other obvious faults.”

  “I’m pretty sure she will,” replied Thor with a smirk.

  “No, it was ... it was two words. Cunning. Linguist. I was – wordplay. We were being clever.”

  “I’ll be clever all over her.”

  “Don’t even bother with Vicky,” ordered Chester A. Arthur XVII, his eyes lowered. “She can do a lot better than you.”

  “Really?” said the former thunder god, getting all up in the president’s business. “‘cause I’m pretty sure you implied that you’ve been with her.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “What the hell do you think it means?”

  Meanwhile, on the faded green-and-brown couch on the other side of the lobby ...

  “What a
re they getting all worked up about?” Catrina Dalisay asked.

  “Not a clue,” said Queen Victoria XXX.

  “Whatever it is,” said William H. Taft XLII, situated between the two women in his new hoodie, his fully-sleeved arms stretched out along the back of the sofa, “I’m not getting in the middle of it.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Hippie Hippie Shake

  Gil Rasputin and Lil van der Schnoot, two of the few unwashed hippies that hadn’t been present during the murder-drones’ assault on the Hobo State, sat on the Northern California beach and watched the ocean burn.

  “Man,” said Gil. “I don’t know why Quetzalcoatl had to go and do that. I mean, Mother Earth is going to be pissed.”

  “Oh, no doubt, no doubt,” said Lil.

  “I mean, seriously, we are in for some bad karma, just for being associated with him, you know? For letting him have his way with nature like that. And for what, man? Just so we can be there when he ... when he ... Wait ...” He paused, for longer than he probably should have. “Why are we helping him again?”

  “No clue, man, no clue.”

  “Right, right.”

  The flames began rising, just as the sun began setting. The entire shoreline was bathed in a spectacular crimson glow. Gil and Lil couldn’t help but reflect on how beautiful it was.

  “You bring any marshmallows?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  The Best Laid Plans

  Thor Odinson and Chester A. Arthur XVII continued to stand by the Holiday Inn’s front desk talking about the women in ways that would certainly have cheesed off the women, while the women continued to sit on the couch opposite them talking to William H. Taft XLII about a hodgepodge of trivial things. Neither conversation was particularly interesting or engaging. The individuals involved were mostly talking to fill the silence – a silence that allowed them to hear a cybernetic hotel manager vigorously humping a vending machine.

  This lack of involvement in their activities actually proved to be beneficial, as four men in black suits, accompanied by a woman in a dark blue suit with a dark brown burlap sack over her head, soon walked into the hotel’s lobby.

  Catrina Dalisay, her attention not focused on what she was doing, was able to immediately identify the woman.

  “Judy?”

  “Hi!” replied Judy Lin, waving, and, Catrina assumed, smiling. It was kind of hard to tell, what with the bag and all.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re here for Thor, actually,” said the scientist, crossing the lobby and sitting on the arm of the armchair near the couch. “We need his help.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Thor theatrically, “could you repeat that? My friend here –” He indicated Chester A. Arthur XVII. “– is a little hard of hearing.”

  The sideburned clone rolled his eyes.

  “We need your help, Thor,” Judy repeated at a much greater volume.

  “That’s what I thought you said,” replied the former Norse god.

  “Fine,” relented Chester A. Arthur XVII, “you’re not completely worthless.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What exactly is it you need Thor for?” asked Catrina.

  “After the incident with subject 37-E, I was recruited by the Department of Science to – Well, not recruited, really. Since we fucked up so bad, the department pulled our funding and took back our building, confiscating all of our research and supplies. And me, ‘cause I was living there. Anyway, I told them about how Thor killed the werewolf with lightning and they put me in a cell for a while and then last week they had me tell the story again and then they gave me this suit and told me to go get him. So that’s why I’m here.”

  “That’s great, Judy,” replied the tiny hotel employee before repeating, very slowly and distinctly, “but what do you need Thor for?”

  “Oh, right. There’s a renegade Aztec god with an army of philosophers and hobos marauding up and down the west coast and we need Thor to destroy it.”

  “What?” asked Thor. Though, truthfully, it was more a statement of disbelief than an actual question.

  “Renegade god?” asked Queen Victoria XXX. “What god? What the hell are you talking about?

  “Whoa, new person, hi,” said Judy. “It was a name with a lot of letters. Catcher ... Quesadilla ... Quasimodo?”

  “That’s the Hunchback of Notre Dame,” explained William H. Taft XLII.

  “Yeah, that’s not a god,” countered Judy.

  “Right, that was my point ...”

  “Right.”

  “I don’t –”

  Catrina put her hand on the shoulder of William H. Taft XLII. “Don’t do that,” she said. “Just follow my lead.” The Filipina woman leaned forward from the couch, putting her elbows on her knees, and called to the four men still standing by the half-repaired entrance foyer. “Hey, suits, anyone over there not an idiot?”

  Three of the men immediately took a step back and pointed to the fourth man. He looked confused. Catrina hung her head.

  “That explains why they’ve come for Thor anyway,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.

  Thor smacked the reconstituted genetics of a former president in the back of the head and then proceeded to strut toward the man in the suit.

  “So,” said Thor, “who’s this renegade god then?”

  “Quetzalcoatl,” said the man, similarly walking toward Thor, though with significantly less swagger. “Aztec god of assorted things.”

  “Anything in particular I should know about him?”

  Thor and the least imbecilic man in a suit met near the couch, and all the people situated thereon.

  “Wait, wait,” said Queen Victoria XXX, getting up from the sofa. “You’re seriously considering doing this?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “You’re going to get yourself killed, that’s why not,” said Catrina, likewise leaving the couch.

  Thor shrugged. “Not necessarily killed.”

  “Our reports,” said the man in the suit, “indicate that Quetzalcoatl recently manifested himself as an abnormally strong, winged snake-man hybrid with an unverified arsenal of supernatural powers. Plus he has a loyal, downright devout, army of liberal arts majors and homeless vagrants numbering in the thousands.”

  “Sounds like killed to me,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.

  “Wait ...” said Thor, “snake-man?”

  “Yes,” said the man from the Department of Science. “Snake-man.”

  “How much snake and how much man, exactly?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “If you were walking down the street and you saw this guy, would you be like, ‘Holy crap, it’s a giant snake,’ or ‘Oh my goodness, that man has a tail?’”

  “I don’t –”

  “This is very important,” said Thor, grabbing the man in the suit by the suit the man was in, “answer my fucking question.”

  “I don’t know. Sir. I honestly don’t. Please don’t hurt me.”

  “Let him go, Thor,” said Catrina, placing a hand on the former god’s arm.

  Thor let go of the man in the suit, but continued staring at him hard enough to make the man need a dry cleaner. Catrina, meanwhile, turned her attention to Judy.

  “Judy?”

  “Hey, I don’t know either,” replied the lady in the bag, putting up her hands. “We were told that every reconnaissance drone sent out by the Department of Science exploded or otherwise ceased to function. So no one’s actually received a visual yet.”

  “According ... according to our research, though,” said the man with the newly wet crotch, shuffling folders and hastily flipping the papers within, “Quetzalcoatl was traditionally described as ‘the feathered serpent.’ So I’d wager he’s more snake than man. Probably.”

  “Well,” said Thor, with unexpected calmness, “seeing as how you’re all clearly so well-versed in mythology, I’m sure it’s safe to assume that you’re already aware my battle with Jormungand, the Midgard Ser
pent, is prophesized as a key part of Ragnarok, right? And since the dead have already risen and I was at least partly responsible for killing Fenrir the Wolf, probably, the prophecy is kind of accurate. You know, within interpretation.”

  “I understood maybe half of that,” said Judy.

  “If I fight a giant snake the world will end. For real.”

  “Maybe you think so,” she replied. “We’ll take our chances.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  This Is a Call

  “Quetzalcoatl wants us all to come to Las Vegas,” said Jack Raskeller, one of the Aztec god’s hipster minions, closing his phone and putting it back into his pocket.

  “Las Vegas?” said Jill del Rey. “But what about all the missionary work we’re doing? We’re nowhere near finished.”

  Jack shrugged. “Gil says Bill says Quetzalcoatl says it can wait. Something big is going down in Vegas, apparently.”

  “He say what?”

  “Nope.”

  “But we just started here ...” Jill pouted and looked at the dozen terrified Mormons tied to chairs with rope and extension cord, their eyes duct-taped open and their mouths stuffed with socks.

  Jack shrugged again and began dismantling the video camera and tripod. “It can wait. They’ll still be here when we get back.”

  The dozen terrified Mormons began banging the chairs they were tied to around in a frenzy.

  “What the hell’s gotten into them?” asked Jack.

  “I’unno,” said Jill, shrugging.

  Jack and Jill were interrupted by the sound of a door slamming shut. They turned to see Hil Hoffman trying desperately to hold the door closed as murder-drones battered it from the other side.

  “Uh, guys?” she said, ducking slightly as a spike lodged itself in the wood above her head. “We got murder-drones.”