by Eirik Gumeny
“What?” Catrina leaned across a pile of invoices and snatched the folder that bore her name from Thor’s hands.
“‘Short ... Pretty ...’” she read. “‘No criminal record ... Would be easy to seduce ...’” She made a face. “Easy to seduce?!”
“Well, that’s clearly wrong.”
“If it was so easy then why didn’t he?” she mumbled.
“Wait, you wanted him to hit on you?” asked Thor. “How come every time I try I get yelled at? Or punched? Or have something thrown at me?”
“Because when you do it it’s creepy. You’re like my brother.”
“Yeah, but I’m not actually your brother. It might be a little weird at first but it’s not like there’d be flipper babies or anything.”
“It’s too late, Thor,” explained Catrina, shaking her head. “We will never sleep together. You violated the Feces Illation. I had to deal with your poop before I got to see you naked. And because of that I will never be able to look at you sexually. Ever.”
“Well, OK, sure,” began Thor, “but I’ve seen your naughty parts. And you haven’t so much as farted in front of me. So shouldn’t I still get to –”
“One, no. Two, if passing gas in front of you is what it’s going to take to get you to stop hitting on me constantly, then fine. I will fart in front of you.”
“OK,” said Thor, nodding his head. He continued staring at Catrina. “Well?”
“What? Now?”
“Do you have any idea how much porn I looked at this morning? If you want me off your back, it’s probably in your best interests to let one rip as soon as possible. Of course, if you’d rather I was on your back ...”
“OK, OK,” conceded Catrina, raising her hands in surrender. “You’re just lucky I had a giant burrito for dinner.”
Catrina Dalisay took a deep breath, clenched the necessary organs, lifted a cheek from the floor, and, closing her eyes, squeaked out the tiniest little princess fart. It smelled like roses and cookie dough.
“That was adorable,” said Thor.
“Can we get back to work now?”
“I never stopped,” said the former Norse god with no small amount of pride. He continued shuffling through assorted papers. “I’m multitasking the crap out of this conversation. Like to see Charlie do that! Mr. Laser-Focus-On-One-Thing-At-A-Time. ‘We don’t have time to get ice cream, Thor.’ ‘Stop fantasizing about your next fork sculpture and help me kill this guy, Thor.’ Lazy, dead slave driver. I was helping him kill that guy! With a fork! Why couldn’t I think about what animal I was gonna bend it into when I was done with it? I just had too many things going on for him to keep up.”
“How much sugar did you have today?” asked Catrina.
“He’s got half a drawer full of invoices for scrap metal deliveries,” said Thor, flipping through a folder. “They’re all to the same guy. Dr. Lee Arahami. Why does that name sound familiar?”
That name sounded familiar because Dr. Lee Arahami was a renowned scientist. His name was in every history textbook Catrina had ever told Thor to read, his face was plastered on several freestanding exhibit walls at the Touch This! kids’ museum, and he was the former host of a television science show that Thor often watched repeats of. But there were a lot of names in a lot of books, and a lot of museums with a lot of trivia, and Thor watched a lot of TV. Mostly the name sounded familiar because ...
“He’s the dickhead who started the Robot Wars,” Catrina explained. “There’s a permanent bounty on his head.”
“I thought the robots started the Robot Wars,” replied Thor.
“Technically, I guess. But he’s the guy who made the robots sentient.”
“Why would he do that if they were gonna kill everyone?”
“Dunno. He went into hiding before he could explain it to anyone.”
“So why was Charlie working with him?”
“That’s a good question.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Like Those Whom You Remember No More
Queen Victoria XXX was jogging west along the shoulder of an old interstate. She was fairly certain she was still following the trail of Andrew Jackson II, though she couldn’t be one-hundred-percent confident. It had been nearly an hour since she had seen any actual evidence of his passing through, but, seeing as how the last few miles of everything that wasn’t the interstate had been a raging inferno, she felt pretty good about her hunch.
About a half-mile past a line of slowly melting medical waste serving as a firebreak, Queen Victoria XXX spotted a U-Haul truck resting on cinderblocks a few dozen feet from the side of the road. Scrawled along the side of the trailer, in what appeared to be a mixture of axle grease and feces, was the word CHURCH. At the back of the truck, surrounding the loading ramp, were a half dozen three-foot-tall candle holders, some dead flowers, and a psalm board that showed only the number 88.
Two priests sat in the trailer deck, backs against the walls and facing one another. They appeared slightly worse for wear, with mussed hair, skewed collars, and tattered black clerical clothes. They also appeared somewhat angry.
“Alms for the poor,” snarled the first priest.
“That doesn’t sound like a question the way you say it,” said Queen Victoria XXX.
The priest hopped off the truck bed. “It’s not.” He grabbed a candle holder and marched quickly toward the queen. The second priest followed, carrying a dented chalice and a large, heavy Bible.
Queen Victoria XXX raised an eyebrow. She also took a step backward.
“I thought you guys were supposed to be non-violent.”
“Huh?” replied the first priest, genuinely taken aback. Then he looked at the large brass candelabra he was holding in an inadvertently threatening manner. “Ohhh, this. This is for defense.”
“People tend to try to hit us a lot when we start preaching,” added the second priest. “Speaking of, have you let God into your heart today?”
“Look,” said Queen Victoria XXX, “I know a god. He’s kind of a tool. I’m not about to let him into anything.”
“How dare you speak ill of the Almighty!” exclaimed the first priest, brandishing the candle holder in a slightly-less-inadvertently threatening manner.
“What? No. Not your god, a different one.”
“That’s even worse!” shouted the second priest.
“Look, have you seen a guy in tight pants fleeing this way?”
“We’re supposed to tell you ‘no,’“ said the first priest, putting down his candle holder.
“But instead, you’re going to tell me that he kept going down this road, right?”
“That really depends,” said the second priest, scratching the back of his head with the chalice. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but we don’t have much of a congregation anymore thanks to those idiot fucking scientists and their –”
“Henry,” scolded the first priest.
“Right. Sorry. Anyway, our church could really use all the help it can get.”
Queen Victoria stared at the stationary U-Haul and the two downtrodden men before her. The breeze shifted and she caught a faint whiff of burning hair. One of the dried up floral arrangements began tumbling away, a number a large insects following after it.
“No offense, guys,” she said, “but your church may be beyond help.”
“The tight pants guy helped. He donated a thousand dollars.”
“And he fixed the air conditioning.”
“Just tell me where Andy went, OK?” the queen asked, with no small amount of exasperation. “Or else broken air conditioning will be the least of your worries.”
“You do know how close we are to the fires, right?”
“Working air conditioning is a life or –”
“Where the fuck did he go?!”
“So moody,” said the first priest, shaking his head. “This is exactly why women shouldn’t –”
Queen Victoria XXX slapped the priest upside his head. He toppled to the ground like
an artlessly stacked pile of dominoes.
“He kept going down this road,” the second priest said, and quickly.
“Thank you,” said the queen.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
And Napkins, Lots of Napkins
Another quick Google search later and Thor had learned that Dr. Arahami was renowned not only in the field of robotics, but also that of cybernetics. Most of the articles were vague on the specifics of his abilities, contenting themselves with calling the doctor names and libeling his grandmother, but they did all seem to agree that he could do some truly miraculous shit. And while there was no actual proof that death was a mere plaything to the former television scientist, Dr. Lee Arahami’s Wikipedia entry did state that he
once brought a tower of giraffes back to life after they were all being mauled by lions and then he turned them into his robot slaves because he had a very tall librayr and he was short. [needs citation] Also he did that with ded monkeys and made them butlers because it was awesome and he could.[citation needed] And with an old cohost that accidentally exploded.[citation needed] It is rumored that he once spit in the face of the Grim Reaper so hard that the Grim Reaper starting crying like a little bitch and had to go to a doctor to stop crying because he was crying like a little bitch so much. [citation needed]
which was good enough for Thor.
Unverified and incredibly dubious claims from the internet generally weren’t enough for Catrina, however, so, instead, Thor told her: “I saw him do it on TV once.”
“What? That can’t be –”
“No, totally. He brought a horse back to life with a potato, a couple wires and some empty soda cans. Someone dared him he couldn’t so he did. He won a hundred bucks. And the horse. And then another, smaller horse.”
“What show?”
“That one ... where they ... did stuff like that.”
“You mean Myth–”
“No, the ... other one?”
“What other one?”
“Dare ... takers?”
Catrina, knowing her co-worker as well as a teenage boy knows the contents of his father’s nightstand, suspected that Thor was lying to her, both because he didn’t want her to know that he fell for an internet rumor again, and because, for some reason, out of all of the thousands of reasons he could have made up, the thunder god thought his fake memory of a non-existent television show would be the most persuasive and reassuring to her.
Catrina said as much to Thor, albeit with much smaller words and a slight giggle.
“You are so full of shit.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Thor, of course, knew exactly what she was talking about. He also knew that she knew that he knew. But he also knew that she knew that she was going to go along with it anyway because they both knew that Charlie would have done the same for them.
“Well, OK then.” Catrina grabbed Dr. Arahami’s most recent invoice and looked at the address. “I guess we’re going to the Las Máquinas territory.”
“Las Máquinas? That’s angry robot land. Is there anything more specific than that? I don’t wanna have to stumble through bake sales and car washes raising money to kill all humans or something.”
“Only other thing it says is El Mal Muerte Volcano.”
“That’s his address?”
“That’s his address.”
“It’s gonna be a lair, isn’t it?”
“Sounds like.”
“Damn,” said Thor. Then he shrugged. “Guess I’ll go get Charlie ready for a cross-country trip.”
“And I’ll call Billy and see if we can borrow his helicopter.”
***
“William H. Taft XLII, please.
“Hey, Billy, it’s Catrina. Something’s happened out here, we –
“Oh, come on, you didn’t even let me explain. It’s import–
“Charlie’s dead, you asshole.
“I’m not gonna lie, I expected more compassion than that. You’re normally the least douchey of all of us.
“Oh, OK, yeah. They say LSD’ll do that. I’m guessing that flying out here to pick us up is out of the question then?
“Pregnant? When the hell did that happen?
“I said when, not how. I know how.
“Oh. OK, maybe I don’t. How did ...”
“Seriously? I didn’t think that was even possib– Upside-down? Really? Huh.
“Oh. Yeah. No, it sounds kind of hectic there.
“No, seriously, it’s cool, don’t worry about it.
“Tell Stefani and April and Cherri I said hi.”
***
Early the next morning, Catrina and Thor – the lifeless, duct-taped body of Chester A. Arthur XVII slumped over his shoulder – stood staring at the dented, sputtering Volkswagen laying sideways in the hotel’s foyer.
“Will it get us to Las Máquinas?” asked Thor.
“Well,” said Catrina, “if we replace the two flat tires –” The car backfired a few times and black smoke began pouring out of the exhaust pipe. “– and fix that –” The hood of the car popped open, then tore free of its hinges and crashed to the floor. “– and that –” The engine burst into flames. “– no.”
“Then I guess we’re stealing a car.”
“Whose car?”
“The Dunkin Donuts guy’s. He leaves the keys in the visor.”
“We can’t steal Ali’s car! He’s a nice guy!”
“OK, fine, we’ll ‘borrow’ his car then. Without telling him.”
“That’s still stealing, Thor.”
“He works there twenty-four seven. He never leaves. What’s he even need a car for?”
“I’m sure he leaves some–”
“He’s got a cot in the donut-making room.”
“Can we at least ask him first? Technically, he’s your oldest friend in this plane of existence.”
“OK, fine. We’ll ask him if we can steal his car.”
“It’s the right thing to do.”
“I want it known that I’m only agreeing because I really want donuts all of a sudden.”
***
Thor, Catrina, and the mutilated, tape-cocooned corpse of Chester A. Arthur XVII entered the tiny Dunkin Donuts situated along the brick plaza adjacent to the Secaucus Holiday Inn.
“Hey,” said Thor to the employee behind the counter, “can we steal your car?”
“If you ask it’s not really stealing,” answered Ali Şahin, the employee behind the counter.
“What if we take it even if you say no?”
“That’s probably stealing.”
“Right. Assume we’re going to do that then.”
“Where are you going?”
“Las Máquinas.”
“That’s angry robot land. Why are you heading out there?”
“We have a mad scientist to find.”
“Is that ... Charlie? On your shoulder? Dead?”
“Yup.”
“And this is all related somehow?”
“It is.”
“Can I drive?”
“What?” asked Catrina.
“Can I come with you guys? You always have the best stories. And Charlie’s got that nose, and Vicky has that awesome scar. All I’ve got is that one time I got in a knife fight with a rat out back.”
“What?” repeated Catrina.
“It’s a good story,” said Thor.
“Bastard took two of my fingers.” The brown-skinned man lifted his hand, waving five fingers in series.
“But you –” began Catrina.
“Used to have seven,” he explained. “Rat did me a favor, really.”
“Yeah, but he was a total dick about it,” added Thor.
“True. The stuff about my grandma was way over the line.”
“What?” said Catrina.
“The rat could talk.”
“We didn’t mention that?” said Thor.
“Worst gutter mouth I’ve ever heard.”
“
He was creative, though.”
“Definitely.”
“You do realize there’s a high probability of you getting maimed and/or killed, right?” explained Catrina.
“Yes,” said the guy behind the counter. “But this job is so boring. Do you have any idea what it’s like to stand behind a counter all day? Wearing this annoying polo shirt? Doing what other people tell you to and listening to their idiotic questions, barely suppressing the urge to grab a carafe of hot coffee and smash it into their stupid, stupid faces?”
“Yes,” said Thor. “Yes, we do.”
“Then you understand my need to stare down near-certain, probably-crazy death rather than spend another five minutes in this hell-hole.”
“Ali,” said Catrina, “are you listening to yourself? That’s –”
“Yes,” said Thor.
“Oh my god,” muttered Catrina. “He’s going to die and it’s going to be our fault.”
“He’ll be fine,” said the former Norse god. “But, if you do die ...”
“There will be other donut guys, Thor. You have my word.”
“OK. Then you can come with us,” said the thunder god. “But first can I get a half-dozen Boston creme?”
“And a couple of jelly donuts?” added Catrina quietly.
“Honestly, you should probably grab everything you have,” said Thor. “We’ll stick them in the trunk.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
What Can You Get a Wookiee For Christmas When He Already Owns a Comb?
Queen Victoria XXX had been following Andrew Jackson II for the better part of eighteen hours, across what was left of New Jersey toward the irradiated wastelands of what had, until recently, been known as Pennsylvania. She stood before the last functioning bridge across the Delaware River, staring down an atomic mutant in an unnecessarily over-the-top yellow robe and leaning on a rusty scimitar.
The mutant stepped toward her, raising the sword to his shoulder and impeding her path.
