by Eirik Gumeny
The donut merchant’s broken foot, encased in a hard-drying plastic boot, rested on a pile of issues of Wired on the doctor’s coffee table. The hotel clerk sat with her legs curled up beneath her, leaning toward Ali’s chair. Her good hand rested gently on his arm.
Thor was also there, sitting on the floor and working on a maze in an issue of Highlights, but Catrina and Ali didn’t seem to notice.
“I also seem to have forgotten how to do math,” continued Ali.
All was not sunshine and unicorns for history’s greatest despots, though. As with any recipe forged in the dark ovens of the underworld, there was a price to be paid. A steep, totally unnecessary, and completely unethical price. For the brownies were simply too perfect for any mortal man. They created an unearthly state of rapture and ecstasy in anyone that dined upon them, one that, quite often, literally crippled him with delight. Those of weaker constitutions often succumbed to delusions of grandeur, feelings of invincibility and immortality, stretching from the intestines to the brain, causing the devourer to do things he had only previously imagined, but never dared attempt.
“What the hell did he give you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it a pill? A shot?”
“A brownie.”
“A brownie?”
Joseph Stalin won the recipe from Hitler’s personal dessert chef in a game of Criss-Crosswords. “Onomatopoeia” on a triple word score. Hitler actually wept when he heard the news. Then he killed the dessert chef. And then he invaded Russia.
Stalin handed it off to Franklin Roosevelt, but soon thereafter the White House cooks, all of them, simultaneously had a stroke. Sadly, both Eleanor and Franklin’s mistress were terrible in the kitchen, and so F.D.R died. But there would be other cooks, other First Ladies, other mistresses, and the recipe remained in the possession of the United States for some fifty years.
Until the day Dick Cheney surreptitiously packed it in with his underwear and snuck it from the White House. He kept it for years, feasting almost exclusively on the insanity brownies, until he lost the index card in an arm-wrestling contest at a roadside diner in Kansas, late one summer’s night.
A small figure, dressed all in black, walked up to Cheney while he was eating pie. The figure looked the vice president square in the eye and challenged him for the recipe. The diner was lousy with potential voters, Cheney had no choice.
The man in black rolled up his sleeve, revealing a pneumatic harness. He nearly broke Cheney’s arm in two. Defeated, Dick opened his wallet and removed the worn and folded recipe card, slowly, painfully, handing it to the man who had bested him. The waitress said she could see what little was left of the former vice president’s soul shrivel up and die, right then and there.
“It was the most awesomest brownie in existence. I tasted feelings, Catrina!” said the donut merchant, turning and placing his hand on Catrina’s upper arm.
“You shouldn’t be able to do that, Ali,” replied Catrina, getting up from her chair. “We may have to talk to Dr. Arahami.”
“You’re very pretty,” countered the donut merchant. Catrina blushed. Ali smiled at her. She smiled back. Then Ali began winking rapidly and continually.
“I don’t get what that means, Ali.”
“Pineapple hula trunk.”
“What?”
“Monkey monkey parasol.”
Ali began sliding down his armchair. His leg slipped to the floor, spilling the tower of magazines.
“I think he’s having a stroke or something,” said Catrina, breathing quicker and trying to lift Ali back into his seat.
“They must be really good brownies,” remarked Thor, not taking his eyes from his maze.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I Will Do Science to It!
Queen Victoria XXX threw the last velociraptor carcass at the charging dilophosaurus, the crested carnivore toppling sideways from the impact. From atop his fountain perch, Andrew Jackson II put a bullet into the skulls of each of the other two dilophosaurus still running towards him. They hit the ground and skidded into the pile of dinosaur bodies collecting at the base of the broken fountain.
“You intolerable douches!” shouted Susan B. Anthony III from atop her styracosaurus. “You’re killing my babies!”
“We’re not trying to!” yelled Queen Victoria XXX in reply, trying to kick her way free of the half-dozen tiny dinosaurs swarming at her feet. “But they keep biting!” She swatted a kitten-sized compsognathus from her shoulder. It fell to the ground, twitching slightly. “And they go down so easily.”
“Like yo’ mama!” added Andrew Jackson II.
“You disgraceful bastard!” shouted the lab-created feminist, a large blue vein throbbing on her vultury neck.
“How the fuck was that helpful, Andy?” agreed the queen.
“You have no idea how many dinosaurs I have at my command!” bellowed the old woman, her eyes bulging. “It’s been ‘too easy’ so far? You ignorant blights upon humanity. I sent the little ones first!”
“Little ones?!”
“The damn triceratops were the size of small trucks!” snapped Andrew Jackson II.
“And that motherfucker with the ... mohawk ... things,” said Queen Victoria XXX, wiggling her hands out from her nose, “and all the teeth – “
“Dilophosaurus,” corrected Andrew Jackson II.
“– that one was like eight feet tall!”
“Their names were Tiny, Mojo, and Princess Eva, you dark-skinned bitch!” thundered Susan B. Anthony III. “SNUFFLES!”
From the west side of the mansion a gigantic tyrannosaurus emerged. The beast roared, shaking the trees and knocking Andrew Jackson II from his fountain, then charged toward Queen Victoria XXX. She took a quick step to the right and pivoted, the dinosaur’s jaw snapping shut less than an inch from where she stood. The reincarnated member of royalty could see nothing but the side of its enormous, teeth-baring head.
Queen Victoria XXX punched the tyrannosaurus in the eye.
***
“He’ll be fine,” said Dr. Arahami.
“But, the twitching ...” said Catrina.
“Right.”
“And the inability to speak!”
“That does happen sometimes.”
“Will he be OK?!”
“Absolutely. He needs an hour or two to rest and he’ll be fine,” said the doctor. “You should really just be glad he didn’t get the explosive diarrhea.”
“Why would you even give him something that does that?!”
“He was in a lot of pain,” said the doctor, “and they’re really, really good brownies.”
***
Chester A. Arthur XVII blinked, laying on the steel table and blinded by the overly bright light above him.
“Wh– Where ...” he began. He blinked a few more times. Then he stopped. “It feels like I have a cannon in my chest.”
“Yeah ...” said Thor. “There’s a reason for that.”
“Do I have a cannon in my chest, Thor?”
“Would you like a cannon in your chest, Charlie?”
“I have a cannon in my chest, don’t I?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You didn’t answer mine.”
“I thought it was rhetorical.”
“Non-rhetorical: Did you put a cannon in my chest?”
“Not personally, no.”
“But you requested it?”
“I didn’t say no when it was suggested.”
“So there’s a cannon in my chest.”
“Yes.”
“This is by far the most impractical thing you could have put in me.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
“Why are you in here?” asked Dr. Arahami through his surgical mask, his gloved arm halfway up the right leg of Chester A. Arthur XVII. “This is a sterile work area! And how the hell are you awake?!”
***
The talarurus – the size of a small car, its back and sides cover
ed with thick, bony plates and short, protruding spikes – weaved uncertainly towards Andrew Jackson II.
The president, crouched behind the battered corpse of a triceratops, tilted his head as he watched the dinosaur near. Then he said, “Is it drunk?”
“No,” said Susan B. Anthony III from her styracosaurus, backing the beast up slowly, “but she is packed full of explosives.”
“You conniving bitch.”
“I thought you loved them!” shouted Queen Victoria XXX, ducking behind a dead tyrannosaurus.
“Like my own children,” replied the elderly femiNazi. “I simply hate you a lot more.”
***
The cold, metal room at the heart of Dr. Arahami’s volcano lair was as cold and metal as ever. As Chester A. Arthur XVII sat on the edge of the surgical table, staring at his new cybernetic implants – in addition to the chest cannon and a number of artificial organs, this included a reinforced abdomen consisting mostly of circuitry; titanium feet that, in a pinch or an ice age, could sprout hockey skate blades; and two new tungsten arms, one of which doubled as a flamethrower, while the other included a series of knives, as well as a spatula and a set of tongs in case the president felt the need for some grilling – Thor and Catrina began to fill him in on the details of what had happened while he was deceased.
“Where’s Vicky?” asked Chester A. Arthur XVII abruptly, sliding on a pair of slightly-too-tight jeans that Dr. Arahami had left out for him.
“She went after Andy,” said Catrina, watching the no-longer-dead dead-president get dressed.
“You came back from the dead,” said Ali, the donut merchant, entering on crutches with Dr. Arahami and still, unbeknownst to everyone else, tasting the subtly sweet tang of existential angst. “Shouldn’t you need some kind of recovery time?”
“Alone?” continued Chester A. Arthur XVII, ignoring him.
“Well, I guess,” replied Ali, not aware he was being ignored, “if that’s –”
“What? No, I was ignoring you,” clarified the president. “Did Vicky go after Andy alone?”
“Yes,” answered Catrina.
“Then we need to help her,” stated Charlie, pulling on a t-shirt.
“Or at least go get her body,” said Thor, before turning to the scientist. “Hey, would you be able to add lasers to her nipples?”
“She’s fine,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“I think you’re underestimating Andy,” said Catrina. “He did kill you.”
“I think you’re underestimating Vicky.”
“And I think I really want an answer about that laser nipple question,” said Thor.
“Yes, I could give her laser nipples,” said Dr. Arahami with no small amount of exasperation. “But, trust me, it’s a poor idea.”
“Does anyone know where she went?” asked Chester A. Arthur XVII. “Has anyone talked to her?”
“Not since she ran off and left me in the Pornateria,” answered Thor.
“Did Andy say where he was going?”
“Nope,” replied the thunder god, before turning back to the doctor. “Wait, hold on. Can you bring any dead clone back to life?”
“Don’t see why not,” answered Dr. Arahami with a shrug. “As long as they’re in less than a dozen pieces anyway. Why? Do you have more dead clones?”
“How are we going to find her?” continued Chester A. Arthur XVII. “It’s been days. Apparently.”
“Does she have a cell phone?” asked the donut merchant.
“Oh,” replied the president. “Uh, yeah.” He patted the pockets of his new jeans. “I’m assuming mine got broken when I exploded. Does anyone else have a phone?”
Catrina pulled hers from her pocket.
“Dead,” she said, glaring at Thor. “Something must’ve shorted it out.”
“Mine too,” said Ali.
“The phone companies won’t let me have one,” said Thor. “Apparently you have to pay for them.”
“I have a landline you could use if you’d like,” offered Dr. Arahami, pointing toward a large telephone mounted on the wall.
“A what-line?” said Catrina.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
That’s Good No-No Juice
Mark, breath short and muscles straining, slowly dragged the ape doctor’s very large body across the lobby, heading toward a long hallway and the freight entrance at the other end of it. Right below the freight dock was a pile of corpses, while on the dock were three red plastic containers of 180 proof bootleg rum, stolen from the pirates.
“You know,” huffed the hotel manager, before entering the hallway, “this would be a lot easier if you still had your powers.”
“Flowersh?” thought Timmy, swaying softly behind an empty shot glass that smelled strongly of the very same pirate rum. “What flow– Oh crap, my wife! Sh’ doeshn’t know I’m –”
Timmy the super-squirrel fell backwards off the counter and onto the desk behind it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Reach Out and Touch Someone
“Hey, Vicky,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII into the doctor’s antique, corded, push-button handset. “It’s Charlie.”
“What the hell’s he talking into?”
“That’s a phone, Catrina.”
“Charlie? You’re alive?” replied Queen Victoria XXX, shouting into her cell phone over the sound of a talarurus being driven into a pack of three-foot-tall coelophysis by Andrew Jackson II and then exploding.
“I’m alive.”
“You’re alive!” Vicky’s smile was so wide that Chester A. Arthur XVII could see it from inside the volcano.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Why’s it so big? And what’s that ... spirally cord-thing?”
“Wait, no, hold up,” said the queen abruptly. “You know the drill.”
Chester A. Arthur XVII sighed and then said, “I look so very, very pretty in my pink chiffon nightie.”
“It’s you!”
“It’s me. And I’m making up our next code phrase. You know I hate chiffon.”
“Phone’s weren’t always wireless and tiny,” explained Ali. “There’re parts of the world where cell phones are completely useless.”
“That’s impossible.”
“That’s how I grew up. The Community College Wars had decimated the entire state, changed the frequency of the air. We had to rely on hundred-year-old copper cables buried in the ground to communicate.”
“In some other places they don’t even have that. They have to meet for coffee and talk face-to-face,” added Thor.
“Now you’re fucking with me,” responded Catrina.
“How are you alive?” asked Queen Victoria XXX.
“It turns out being associates with a roboticist-in-hiding harboring a more liberal sense of ethics and a borderline pathological love of androids occasionally has some benefits,” replied the president. “Where are you? Do you need help?”
“I’m fine. Andy and I are in a fight to the death with Susan B. Anthony III. Well, I am, Andy might have –” Queen Victoria XXX stuck her head out from behind the tyrannosaurus.
“I’m OK,” shouted Andrew Jackson II from beneath a pile of therapod guts.
“Nevermind, he’s alive,” continued Queen Victoria XXX, sliding behind the corpse again. “Did you know that Susie was part Nazi? And that she had an army of dinosaurs?”
“I was not aware of the dinosaur army, no,” conceded Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“I punched a pterodactyl in the face, Charlie,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “You owe me twenty bucks.”
“Sounds like I do. Why don’t you tell me where you are and I’ll bring it to you right now?”
“You really think I need your help, don’t you?”
“No,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII. “I ... miss you.”
Queen Victoria XXX blushed. Behind her, a sarchosuchus – a forty-foot-long crocodile – chased after Andrew Ja
ckson II while Susan B. Anthony III laughed maniacally from atop her styracosaurus.
“Little help!” shouted Andy.
“In a minute!” hollered Vicky in reply. “I’m on the phone with Charlie!”
“Charlie?!” yelped the cloned president. Then he began screaming unintelligibly as the jaw of the sarchosuchus clamped down on his leg. Another spiked talarurus began wobbling toward him.
“You sure you don’t need a hand?” asked Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“You don’t get to save me, Charlie,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “That’s not how this has ever worked.”
“I’d never dream of it,” he replied. “But how often does one get a chance to avenge his own death?”
“I did get a little sidetracked from the vengeance thing,” said the artificial queen thoughtfully. “But, honestly, after the atomic wastelands, the butter, and the lack of sleep, I’m kind of surprised I still remember my own name.”
“And meanwhile I just woke from a seventy-two-hour nap,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“Fuck you,” Vicky countered with a laugh. Then she sighed. “You know, with you alive, this does kinda seem like a waste of time. Maybe I should head back home.” Queen Victoria eyed the herd of horned carnotaurus massing a few feet beyond the tail of the tyrannosaurus. In the distance, the talarurus exploded. Vicky moved the phone away from her mouth slightly and shouted, “After I eviscerate this racist bitch anyway!”
“Your call,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII. “But if you wanted to get some minor revenge against Andy it would be completely justified.”
“I think I’d rather see you again,” said Queen Victoria XXX.
Chester A. Arthur XVII smiled. “Why don’t we split the difference? Give me your current location and we can avenge my death together.”
“You always get your way, don’t you?” replied the queen with a smile.
