The End of Everything Forever

by Eirik Gumeny

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Welcome to the Pornateria

  Thor grabbed the outstretched hand of Queen Victoria XXX and pulled her up.

  “Jesus, Thor,” she said. “Give me some warning next time you decide to try and electrocute me.”

  “I was helping,” countered Thor, before turning and looking at the massive crater he had created, then through the billowing dust to the scorched cars and chunks of burning, crumbling buildings surrounding it. He rubbed the back of his neck. “OK, maybe I helped a little too much.”

  “I’m pretty sure you killed some people.”

  “No way.” Thor smiled and waved at the small group of stunned and occasionally wounded townspeople gathering by the nearest abandoned storefront. A small, traumatized girl, covered in soot and holding half of a teddy bear, raised a hand and slowly wiggled some fingers in reply.

  “See?” he said. “Fine.”

  “Maybe by your standards,” replied Queen Victoria XXX, smoothing down her static-shocked hair. “Let’s go after Charlie and Andy.”

  ***

  Chester A. Arthur XVII laid his hands on the door of the adult video store and pulled gently. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The store was big. Bigger than it looked earlier, definitely. Huge even. Chester slid his hands along the door, walking forward hesitantly. He wasn’t sure he could take it all in.

  The porn shop seemed to go on forever. A solid acre of wire shelving, holding all manner of dirty movies, occupied the center of the floor. The walls on either side were covered with leather outfits and corsets, and tables littered with sex toys sat between the DVDs and the back offices. Immediately in front of Chester A. Arthur XVII was a life-size cardboard standee of a naked woman; she was holding a banner proclaiming WELCOME TO THE PORNATERIA that blocked everything except the naughty bits. The cloned president stepped past it slowly. To his left were more cardboard naked people, to his right, inflatable naked people.

  Also, one large, clothed, non-inflatable person.

  He punched Chester A. Arthur XVII in the face.

  ***

  “So what’s the deal with you and Charlie?”

  “What are you talking about, Thor?”

  “If you two are having a contest to bang the most people, isn’t punching one of them cheating?”

  “Oh, that,” said Queen Victoria XXX. Knowing full well that this conversation could end with Thor offering his “services,” and knowing even fuller well that Thor was terrible at picking up on subterfuge, the queen lied. Both to Thor and to herself, about the lying to Thor.

  “We’ve been ... I was ... jealous,” she said, wincing subtly at the word. “I guess.”

  “Of a blind chick?”

  “Apparently.”

  “But you can see ...”

  “That’s ... that’s not why I was jealous, Thor.”

  “Then why – Oh, wait. Was it ‘cause she had bigger boobs?”

  “They weren’t – I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “Nobody ever wants to. But you’re supposed to. If you don’t let the bad feelings out, they burrow into your colon like tiny spiders and then you can never get rid of them. No matter how hard you poop.”

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it. And definitely not with you. Things between me and Charlie are a little more involved than your grade school understanding of human emotions.”

  “Catrina always says that if –”

  “This conversation is over, Thor. No more talking.”

  “Well, OK,” said Thor doubtfully, “but if you need to screw someone to get back at him, I’m more than will–”

  Queen Victoria XXX put her fist through the nearest shack. She grabbed a large hunk of wood from it and held it to Thor’s face. “Finish that sentence and I will cut you.”

  “That’s wood, Vicky,” he explained. “Blunt wood. It’s not even splintery.”

  Queen Victoria XXX grabbed a handful of Thor’s shaggy blonde hair, pulling him closer, and pressed the lumber against his cheek.

  “I will find a way,” she hissed.

  “Right, got it.”

  She let him go and the two of them continued toward the adult video store.

  “You know,” said Thor quietly, “you getting so violently angry at the thought of boning me hurts my feelings a little.”

  “No, it doesn’t, Thor.”

  “It hurts some of them.”

  “Horniness isn’t a feeling.”

  “Oh,” said the thunder god. “Then I guess I’m fine then.”

  ***

  Chester A. Arthur XVII, no stranger to being punched in the face with little to no warning, responded by immediately throwing out his hand and latching onto his assailant’s neck. The neck, however – as well as the man it was attached to – was very, very large. The man’s fists were also continuing to punch him. As such, it was taking significant effort on Charlie’s part to strangle the stranger, much less see anything besides knuckles.

  Eventually, though, by adding a second hand and tapping into the deepest reservoirs of the public utilities infrastructure that was his work ethic, Chester A. Arthur XVII was able to bring the hulk to his knees.

  The reconstituted president looked down at the man he was currently choking into unconsciousness.

  “You’re not Andrew Jackson II.”

  “No,” the man coughed, “I’m not.”

  “You’re Leif Eriksson XXXIII.”

  “Yes ...”

  “You’re working for Andy now?”

  “Par– Part time. He ... he pays pretty well ...” said the genetically reconstructed Viking. “And my wife ... she’s ... We’ve got twins ... on the way ... I really kind of ...”

  “Andy’s here, though, in this smut emporium, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “OK.”

  “Can you,” the man sputtered, “let go now?”

  “No,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, “I don’t think I can do that.”

  The two men continued to stare at one another, standing silently. Well, Chester A. Arthur XVII was standing silently. Leif Eriksson XXXIII was kneeling and gurgling slightly.

  “You’re sure he’s here?” asked the presidential clone.

  “H– He was, yeah. Climbed down from the roof ... into ... into one of ... one of the back rooms ... He sa– He said he jus– just needed ... a minute ...”

  “OK,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, staring intently toward the trio of doors at the back of the store. Abruptly he added, “What the hell, Leif? I thought you knew better than to pal around with that psychopath.”

  “I really ... I needed the money ...” coughed the Viking. “Do you have any idea ... any idea how hard it is t– to find a job ... when the economy literally ... doesn’t exist anymore?”

  “No, I get that. But you’ve got to be able to do better than Andy. You’ve got a lot going for you.”

  “I do– I don’t think you understand ... how much he’s paying ... us. An– and how much it costs to ... raise a family ... now– nowadays. Never ... Nevermind baby-proofing the house ... and ... and the weapons ... You ha– you have to ... reinforce everything ... against zombies ... against werewolves ... Hollow Men ... Do yo– Do you have any idea ... what a steel-fortified basement ... is going for? A sub– subterranean alarm system? The ... the contractor fees alone ...”

  “Leif, believe me, I am the undisputed heavyweight champion of running questionable errands to turn a few dollars. But Andy is an unbridled sociopath who would shoot a baby in the face and then not even take the candy. You have to know, going in, that anything he’s involved with is no good.”

  “Well ... who ... who among us can really s– say what’s bad ... and wha– what’s good? It’s all ... all shades of grey ... really ...”

  “I’d like to believe that there are certainly some pretty clear delineations of good and bad behavior. At the very least, there are inscrutable actions on either end of the spectrum that fall firmly into one category
or the other. Like, say, playing a part in an increasingly detailed ambush and attempting to murder your old friends.”

  “And ye– and yet ... here we are ... with you ... you choking me ... to death ...”

  “Not to death, Leif. I’m not going to kill you.”

  “I’m having ... a ver– very hard time ... breathing ... right ... n– now ...”

  “You shouldn’t have punched me then.”

  “Ye– yeah ... may– maybe ... but it’s n– it’s not like ... I sh– shot you or ... or ...”

  “You punched me a lot, Leif. And you are a very sizeable man.”

  “Tha– That’s no– not my ... my ...” The reconstituted Norseman was beginning to turn purple in the president’s hands.

  “You’re positive Andrew Jackson II is here? This isn’t another elaborate distraction? If he was luring me in here to shoot me, I’d most likely be shot already. It’s not like him to stall. Andy never thought a single god damned plan through. Everything he did was half-cocked.”

  “I had plenty of time,” said a voice from deep within the wire racks of pornography, “to learn to use the whole cock while I was locked up.”

  “I don’t think that’s how you should phrase that,” said another voice quietly. “Especially not, y’know, here.”

  “Well, it’s too late now,” the first voice responded hastily. “I can’t exactly take it back.”

  “Say something else! Quick!”

  “What? What am I suppo–”

  “Something! Anything!”

  “You know I can hear you guys, right?” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, releasing the throat of Leif Eriksson XXXIII. The facsimile Viking fell to the floor in a very real heap. “This is a warehouse. The acoustics are incredible.”

  “Too late,” said the second voice.

  Chester A. Arthur XVII stared down the canyon of porno-graphic DVDs, VHS tapes, and audiobooks. Stepping into view at the other end, looking as unstable and bloodthirsty as ever, was Andrew Jackson II. At his side was Boudica IX, the last-standing and, from the look of things, inhumanly bubbly replica of Britain’s redheaded warrior queen.

  Andrew Jackson II and Chester A. Arthur XVII locked eyes, their hatred of one another palpable. Boudica IX did her best to join them, but she was being paid hourly and that kind of animosity was generally reserved for a salaried position.

  Chester A. Arthur XVII’s heart was pounding, adrenaline was jumping up and down and screaming in his veins. He took a deep breath. He was ready for this.

  Then Charlie thought about it for half a second.

  Andrew Jackson II had a large knife holstered over one shoulder, a pistol on each hip, and exuded a fiery vengeance that appeared to actually be radiating around him. Boudica IX had twin grenade bandoliers crisscrossing her person, lifting, separating, and providing ample storage for all her small explosives needs. All Chester A. Arthur XVII had was a belt with a fairly pointy buckle and sideburns that could probably cut a man.

  Chester A. Arthur XVII was not ready for this. In fact, he couldn’t help but feel a slight sense of regret about running headlong into a known trap against a dangerous, mortal enemy both alone and unarmed.

  But Chester A. Arthur XVII wasn’t one to back down from a fight.

  Even when he very clearly should have.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Slippery Sons of Bitches

  “So, were leaders here elected entirely on looks?”

  “I’m sorry?” asked Queen Victoria XXX, turning to face Thor. They were hunched beneath an office window at the rear of the pornography superstore, positioned strategically between flyers for a variety of fetish-specific skin flicks and watching Chester A. Arthur XVII, Boudica IX and Andrew Jackson II through the elbow hole of a child’s construction paper Ron Jeremy taped to the glass.

  “I was willing to write you and Charlie off as lucky, but, damn,” said Thor, continuing to stare at the tousled hair, smoldering good looks, and tight pants of Andrew Jackson II. “That is one sexy man.”

  “It was part of the cloning. The corporation made us prettier, stronger. A lot of times they spliced us with various ethnicities for fun. That’s why Billy’s half-Mexican, Charlie’s got six kinds of Asian in him, and I’m everything except British.”

  “British is the ones that painted themselves blue and danced around rocks?”

  “No,” said the queen, “that was the ancient Britons.”

  “And what’s the difference again?” asked the former Norse god.

  “A thousand years and a bunch of artificial boundaries.”

  “Is that one of those ‘nations’ you mortals got all hopped up on for a while?”

  “More trouble than they were worth, really,” said the clone.

  “I never got what was wrong with clans, and tribes,” he replied. “Those seemed fun.”

  “Way the world’s going, we’ll be back there soon enough.”

  “So, what’s this guy’s deal?” asked the god, squinting toward the standoff.

  “A hundred percent Andrew Jackson,” explained the queen. “The first couple of clones were almost always perfect copies. Wasn’t until down the line that the scientists got bored and started throwing other shit into the mix. I’m pretty sure one of the surviving Qings is part tiger.”

  “Part tiger?”

  “And Teddy Roosevelt XL is an actual bear.”

  “And you’re sure they didn’t splice this guy with, like, Baldur? Or Apollo?” asked Thor. “He’s stunning.”

  “Are you OK? We’re here to stop this guy, not fuck him.”

  “I don’t – That’s – I mean, I don’t think that’s –”

  “Uh huh,” said Queen Victoria XXX, returning her gaze to the facsimile presidents, the redheaded queen, and the unconscious Viking. “Save your sexual awakening for later, big guy. We’ve got skulls to crack.”

  “Yeah, OK,” the thunder god replied. “But, for the record, if this is some kind of awakening, it’s from, like, a nap. You would not believe some of the shit I got up to back in Asgard. Like, once –”

  “This is not the time, Thor,” the clone seethed.

  ***

  “I take it you’re here to kill me?” asked Chester A. Arthur XVII.

  “Yes,” replied Andrew Jackson II.

  “Do you want to know why?” asked an enthusiastic Boudica IX, bouncing on her toes.

  “I’m guessing it’s because I defeated Andy, tortured him repeatedly, and then buried him alive in the irradiated backwoods of Romania.”

  “No!” she blurted out even more excitedly. “Well, OK, it is, a little. But mostly it’s because he’s going to run for president again and so he’s executing all his competition!”

  “What? Then why are you and Leif working with him?”

  “Because we’re not Americans.”

  “None of us are. We were created in a corporate laboratory in Germany.”

  “A technicality,” said Andrew Jackson II.

  “A technicality your entire assassination campaign is apparently based on!”

  “Would you rather I just killed everyone then, Charlie? Is that what you want? Jesus. You’re a monster.”

  “Andy’s doing it in the order of how much he hates the person,” added Boudica IX, “and you’re first! You’re a trendsetter, Chester!”

  “You are aware there’s no government anymore, right, Andy?” asked Chester A. Arthur XVII. “You can’t be the president of a country that doesn’t exist.”

  “I believe in the United States of America, Charlie!” replied Andrew Jackson II. “I’ve saved it from itself once and I can save it again. I will bring this country back, restore it to its former glory!”

  “You were never president, Andy,” said the less delusional presidential clone, lowering his head into his palm. “Andrew Jackson was president, two hundred years ago. You are not Andrew Jackson. You are a clone.”

  “I’m more Andrew Jackson than you’ll ever be!” shouted Andrew Jackson II in reply
.

  “Well, yes, OK. That is technically true. But I don’t see how it’s relevant.”

  “Did you really think twelve feet of radioactive dirt and a concrete coffin were going to be enough to hold me?” asked the second replica of the thirteenth president. “You should have killed me when you had the chance, Charlie!”

  “Yes. Yes, I should have. But you are a very difficult man to kill, Andy,” explained Chester A. Arthur XVII. “We actually contracted the ghost of Rasputin to come up with ways to murder you. When that didn’t work, we tried Joseph Kony’s ghost, then Mr. Skittles – that brown bear who took over the Kremlin and declared war on humans – even Genghis Khan XII, you remember what a sociopath he was? Finally we called a bunch of horror film writers living in an underground bunker in New Hollywood. No one could figure it out. You kept living. Do you have any idea how frustrating that was?”

  “That sounds terrible, Charlie. My heart bleeds for you,” returned the president with a smile. “But we all have our talents. Let’s see if you’ve got any useful ones.”

  Andrew Jackson II drew both pistols as Chester A. Arthur XVII dove for cover behind the inflatable sex dolls. A half dozen shots rang out; the dolls began hissing and deflating on top of him.

  Thor and Queen Victoria XXX took advantage of the gunfire, covertly shattering the office window with a chair, stealthily tumbling out onto the broken glass, quietly picking themselves up from the floor while bickering about what “covertly,” “stealthily,” and “quietly” meant, and then charging forward. Queen Victoria XXX grabbed a twelve-inch silicone penis from the spinning rack to her right and hurled it at the back of Andrew Jackson II’s head, causing him to stumble forward and drop one of his guns. He turned around and promptly took another dildo to the face.

  “I got the redhead!” shouted Thor, tackling Boudica IX with great exuberance.

  “Oof!” added the redhead, being tackled with great exuberance.