The End of Everything Forever

by Eirik Gumeny

  “I am the keeper of the bridge,” he stated. “Beyond here is the Sovereign Nation of Atomic Mutants. If you want to pass, you will have to answer three trivia questions.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. You have your choice of Friends-, Sex in the City-, or Star Wars-related questions.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not,” he said, shaking his overly large head. “For every question you get wrong, I’ll be forced to cut off your face.”

  “That seems a little excessive.”

  “Not really. We’ve had problems with non-mutants coming here in the past, taking pictures of everything and stealing all our rocks for souvenirs. We need those rocks, too, you know. We are a very decorative people. We take our landscaping seriously. But thanks to you non-atomic jerks, the nearest retaining wall is a good fifty miles from here. Do you have any idea how hard it is to landscape without rocks? Or retaining walls? If cutting a few faces off is what it’s going to take to get you to leave us alone, then so be it.”

  “Well, here’s the thing,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “I don’t know anything about any of that stuff. But I am chasing the man who murdered my friend so that I can murder him. And he went into Pennsylvania.”

  “He wearing tight pants? Uncommonly handsome?”

  “That’s the guy, yeah. He crossed the bridge?”

  “Yeah. He chose the Sex in the City questions.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Two hours maybe?”

  “If I promise not to steal your rocks or take any pictures, can I cross without answering any of your trivia?”

  “No can do,” said the atomic mutant. “If you want, some of the Star Wars questions are pretty easy. Stuff everyone should know. I can ask three of those.”

  “I don’t have time for this bullshit,” barked Vicky, her hands balling into fists. “Let me cross this stupid-ass bridge so I can go murder someone.”

  “I sympathize with your desire for vengeance, but, no.” The atomic mutant removed the scimitar from his shoulder, pointing it toward Queen Victoria XXX in a much more menacing fashion. “Answer the trivia questions or turn around.”

  Queen Victoria XXX looked at the atomic mutant. Then at the bridge behind him. Then at the surrounding vegetation and the sheer drop the bridge was spanning.

  “There’s a river down there, right?” she asked.

  “Yes, the Delaware.”

  “Think I could swim across it?”

  “Probably,” said the mutant, lowering his sword. “Though I’m not supposed to recommend that. If nothing else, it’s kind of a hike, literally, to get down there.”

  “Well, that’s bad news for you then.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Queen Victoria XXX punched the atomic mutant so hard her fist went halfway through his skull.

  “Ew, gross,” she mumbled, trying to retract her hand. She began walking across the bridge anyway, still shaking her fist, still trying to remove her hand from the yellow-robed atomic mutant she was now dragging behind her. “What is his face made of, glue?!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  With Great Power ...

  “Yeah, she’s dead,” said Dr. Kong, a sentient silverback gorilla and owner of two medical degrees, kneeling beside the blind girl and unceremoniously dropping her wrist to the floor. “That’ll be two hundred dollars.”

  “You heard the man, Timmy,” said Mark. “Pay up.”

  “I’m not following,” replied the telepathic squirrel telepathically, removing his head from the peanut butter jar Mark had left on the counter.

  “You owe me two hundred dollars for the room.”

  “It’s not free?”

  “No.”

  “Catrina failed to mention that.”

  “Yeah. She’s not very good at her job.”

  “I thought you said she was the best employee you have.”

  “She is,” said Mark with a heavy sigh.

  “Are you ... having a conversation with the squirrel?” asked Dr. Kong, now standing in front of Mark and raising a large, hairy eyebrow.

  “It’s OK, he’s psychic.”

  “How did you say this girl ended up here again?” asked the doctor suspiciously. “And the old man on top of her, for that –” Dr. Kong didn’t finish his sentence, howevfer, as his giant head fell off of his giant neck and onto the floor. His even gianter body followed, landing on the heap of corpses in front of him.

  Behind him was a pimply-faced seafood restaurant waiter possessed by the ghost of Blackbeard, wearing an eye patch and a plastic tri-corner hat, and holding a real and now very bloody scimitar.

  “This be a stick-up!” shouted the spirit inside the server.

  Mark exhaled heavily, walked to the counter, reached over it, and came back with a shotgun and a container of sea salt. He fired the gun without hesitation, directly into the pubescent pirate’s face. The living human part of the equation promptly stopped living, the waiter’s body tumbling onto the now quite impressive pile of dead primates.

  “What d’ya do that for, ya filthy cunt?” asked the now and once again incorporeal ghost of Blackbeard.

  Mark shook his head and tossed a handful of salt at the ghost. It flickered where it was hit and then vanished entirely.

  “What in the hell ...?” asked Timmy, cocking his furry little head and looking at the prostrate body of the would-be thief.

  “Fucking pirates,” growled Mark.

  “This happen a lot?”

  “Yeah ...”

  After the yetis won the Battle of Antarctica and threatened to create a new ice age with their weather machine, the Republic of Africa launched an extraordinarily large magnifying glass into orbit, positioned it between Antarctica and the sun, and suddenly and completely melted the entire continent, causing the world’s oceans to rise and claim the cities of Amsterdam and New York, the mandatory retirement state of Florida, the prostitutocracy of Thailand, and a bunch of other places that weren’t as important, ending the world for the thirteenth time.

  With a slew of new and unprepared coastal cities to raid, Somali warlords everywhere soiled their collective pants with excitement and began trying to terrorize all of these new targets themselves. Sadly, though, there was simply too much water for the Somalis to be effective, and too many seventeenth century pirate ghosts absolutely aching for the chance to rape and pillage again. After placing an ad for host bodies on Craigslist, the ghost pirates found allies in waitstaff, register jockeys, call center representatives, and other hourly workers harboring serious grudges against humanity but lacking the testicular or ovarian fortitude to actually start tearing shit up themselves.

  In less than a day, a new era of piracy dawned.

  Plus, with almost every retail and customer service position now open, unemployment rates plummeted to a fraction of a percent.

  “Look, I’m the head of the neighborhood watch, so I really have to get out there and get everyone in line,” said Mark Hughes. “Catrina’s normally my number two, but since she’s not here, can you –”

  “No problem, chief,” replied Timmy, “but you’re going to have to waive the room fee.”

  “Kind of figured,” conceded Mark with a shrug. “You sure you’re down for this, though? I don’t want to interrupt your retirement.”

  “Don’t worry. That got real boring real fast,” countered the super-squirrel. “Let me go get my cape.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Honest Clark’s Aerotorium

  Thor, Catrina, and Ali had been driving for nearly twenty straight hours, crammed into the beat up, two-door Honda Civic of the man from Dunkin Donuts. They were only as far as Peyton Manning Is Our God Now, Indiana, thanks to the sorry state of the continent’s infrastructure; the fact that the donut maker’s car, fittingly, had a balding, donut spare instead of a real tire; and Thor’s tiny bladder.

  “Oh, shit, pull over.”

  “You just peed!” sho
uted Catrina.

  Tempers were short. Odors were strong. Facial hair was spotty at best.

  “No, it’s not that,” said Thor. “Well, not entirely. Look over there.” The thunder god leaned forward from the back seat and pointed to a hastily painted billboard that stated Going Somewhere? Why drive when you can FLY!!!!! Below the text was painted – elegantly and, presumably, less hastily – a sleek, silver passenger jet.

  “That’s impossible,” said the donut guy.

  Commercial passenger aviation hadn’t existed since prior to the first end of the world. All the major airlines at the time, unable to stay ahead of the terrorists that the media and the government kept warning them about, decided to tackle the threat head-on and instituted a new law that forbade all brown people from being allowed on flights. There being a lot of brown people in the world, and a number of Italians who kind of look brown, and almost all of them not being terrorists, the law did not go over so well. When a white guy from Michigan blew up a plane shortly thereafter, igniting a small explosive he had swallowed and pooped out in the aircraft’s lavatory, things got even more oppressive. The airlines had no choice but to ban every person in the world from flying.

  Within weeks, and for reasons unknown to them, the airlines all declared bankruptcy.

  They received a number of government subsidies soon after that.

  Then they all went bankrupt again.

  Then, several months after that, they all went out of business for good.

  As a fun historical side note, the “everyone” ban was first enforced two days before Christmas. A record number of travelers were left stranded at a record number of airports. Fueled entirely by rage – at both the prohibitory action and the eighty-dollar non-refundable baggage fees they had already paid – a large majority of the travelers staged a sit-in, refusing to leave the various airports until the situation was corrected. They even filed a petition against the Federal Aviation Administration from their phones.

  The agency, along with the rest of the government, was on vacation at the time, and didn’t get to the petition until spring. After reading it thoroughly, they promised to get to it soon. Then they went on vacation again.

  The airports were converted into terrorist training camps in very short order.

  “It must be an old billboard,” said Catrina.

  “Even more impossible,” countered Ali.

  During the fourth Robot War, all roadside billboards were converted into anti-human propaganda.

  After the humans won the war, all the propaganda billboards were dismantled and used to build a number of robot penitentiaries, so humanity could really rub the automaton’s metal odor-sensors in it.

  “Then what the hell is it talking about?” the girl asked.

  “Only one way to find out!” shouted Thor, leaning forward from the backseat again and pulling the wheel of the car abruptly.

  The vehicle veered to the right, crashing through a rusted roadside barrier, then a chicken wire fence, and then, despite Ali’s frantic braking, a tall wooden fence, before the car seemed to suddenly and immediately realize the tremendous trauma that it had undergone. The Civic stopped, hard and fast, on a tiny tarmac, unwilling to give inertia even an inch.

  Everyone inside the sedan was hurled forward, smacking their heads against, respecitively, the steering wheel, the dashboard, and, in Thor’s case, the front window through which he was thrown.

  A moment passed, the world remarkably quiet. Then: “You broke my car!” said the man from Dunkin Donuts, still wearing his orange polo shirt, throwing open the door and all but falling onto the pavement.

  “If you bought a car that can’t handle driving through three fences, this is on you,” replied the thunder god, picking himself up from the ground.

  “It looks like ... a runway,” said Catrina, leaning out the passenger-side window. He cardigan fluttered in the slight breeze.

  “Then where are the planes?” said Ali.

  “I don’t ... see any planes,” said Thor, turning and scanning the area.

  “That’s because there aren’t any planes,” said a loud Texan voice.

  The three former passengers turned as one to look at the source of the voice, a loud Texan with a large white mustache, in an overly bedazzled suit, standing next to the cracked driver-side window, his elbow on the roof.

  “Howdy,” said the man, “name’s Honest Clark, of Honest Clark’s Aerotorium. I take it you fellas are looking for a lift?”

  “How did you –” Ali began, narrowing his eyes at the man who had appeared behind him, literally out of nowhere.

  “I’m not a ‘fella,’“ said Catrina.

  “I don’t see any planes,” said Thor.

  “And you won’t, sir, not here. Not at Honest Clark’s Aerotorium.”

  “You keep using that word.”

  “The billboard had a plane on it,” continued the donut merchant.

  “That it did, sir,” said Honest Clark. “Bit of ‘creative advertising’ on our part, if you will. You see, here at Honest Clark’s Aerotorium, we’re all about giving our customers what they want. And what they want is to experience the luxury and efficiency of passenger flight again, at astoundingly affordable rates. Which is precisely what we’re here to do for you. Domestic and international. Anywhere you want, no questions asked, at incredibly inexpensive prices.”

  “I still don’t understand why there aren’t any –”

  “That is a magnificent mustache, Clark,” said Thor.

  “Well, thank you kindly, sir,” said Honest Clark of Honest Clark’s Aerotorium. “I must confess a deep appreciation of the collective facial hair of you gentlemen as well.”

  “What the actual –” began Catrina.

  “Where’s your bathroom?” asked Thor.

  “Come with me and I’ll lead the way,” answered Honest Clark. Pushing himself off the car’s roof, he extended an arm toward the buildings on the far side of the tarmac. “Finest men’s rooms in the state. More than enough space between urinals for all three of you boys.”

  “Do you not see this rack?” shouted Catrina, stepping from the Civic and grabbing her tiny, t-shirted breasts.

  “Am I the only one who cares about the lack of planes at this airport?” asked Ali as he stared across the empty runways.

  In response, two tires ruptured and the car tilted to one side.

  ***

  “As I mentioned earlier,” began Honest Clark, standing at one of the many sparkling urinals in the men’s room at Honest Clark’s Aerotorium, “we’re all about giving the customers what they want. And while what they want is affordable air travel, what they want to see is shiny aeroplanes. That is why our billboards have planes and Honest Clark’s Aerotorium does not.”

  “The logic’s a little twisted, but it is advertising after all,” said Ali, standing at another of the urinals. “But if you don’t have planes, how do you –”

  “Say,” said Honest Clark, “weren’t there three of you boys?”

  “Catrina’s outside,” said Thor, at a third urinal. The three men were each standing against a different wall, the urinals ringing the entirety of the bathroom, right from one side of the doorway to the other. There were no stalls, no sinks – and no barriers, either, not even the tiny ones that didn’t actually do much and were mostly just there to project the idea of privacy.

  “Catrina? That’s an odd name for a man.”

  “I am a woman, you fucking half-wit!” shouted Catrina from outside the men’s room.

  “Don’t you have to urinate, son?” asked Honest Clark. “We’ve got urinals aplenty here at Honest Cla–”

  “I HAVE A VAGINA!”

  “It’s true,” said Thor. “I’ve seen it.”

  Ali turned and, violating all bathroom etiquette, glared at the thunder god, with a mixture of both disbelief and concern.

  “It wasn’t on purpose! I swear!” cried Catrina in reply. “And stop telling people about that, Thor!”


  “Well, I’ll be,” said Honest Clark. “We don’t have any women’s facilities here at Honest Clark’s Aerotorium. Don’t often have the need. Them bein’ too fragile for the harsh nature of the Midwest and all.” He raised his voice slightly. “You’ll have to go in the bushes out back, sweetheart!”

  Catrina growled from beyond the men’s room entranceway.

  ***

  “And this is our gift shop,” said Honest Clark, waving a hand. “You’ll find all manner of t-shirts, coffee mugs, and model aircraft.”

  “Speaking of aircraft, can you explain ho–” began Ali.

  Thor’s stomach rumbled mightily. “Do you have a food court or something here?” he asked.

  “We most certainly do,” said Honest Clark, leading the thunder god, the hotel clerk, and the donut merchant through the gift shop and into the cafeteria. “Nothing but steak, hamburgers and sandwiches.”

  “No salads, I’m afraid,” said Honest Clark, turning to Catrina.

  “I can eat sandwiches, you know,” she replied.

  “Of course you can, darlin,’” he said, patting her on the head. “We don’t carry any diet drinks, either. I s’pose we could probably throw a lemon into some water, though, if you needed someth–”

  Catrina grabbed a plastic knife from the utensil bin at her side and pressed it against Honest Clark’s neck.

  “Say one more disparaging thing about women and I swear to whatever snake-handling, panhandle preacher you listen to that I will end you.”

  “Y–Yes, ma’am,” stammered Honest Clark.

  “Good,” she growled, lowering the knife. “In the meantime, a water with lemon sounds lovely.”

  “You’ve been spending way too much time with Vicky, Catrina,” said Thor.

  Ali, meanwhile, had wandered over to the cafeteria window and was, once again, staring at the tarmac and its lack of both aircraft and hangers that could house aircraft. He turned, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, and said, slowly, trying to retain his composure, “Can we, please, get back to how in the holy hell you intend on actually flying us anywhere?!”