by Eirik Gumeny
“Do what?”
“Everything you were just saying!”
“About sailing to Atlanta and renting a car?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t rent you a car, sir. We’re a cruise line.”
“Then do what you can do! Get me on a boat that will get me to Atlanta!” he shouted. “We are wasting time here. I don’t understand why you’re making this so difficult.”
“Me, sir?”
“Yes, you.”
“I think you’re mistaken.”
“Do you know who I am?!” the sun god boomed. Light poured in through the glass walls surrounding the lobby. Several of the customers in line turned their heads or shielded their eyes.
“I can assure you that I don’t care. At all.” The clerk took his ticket from the printer, placed it in a cardboard sleeve, and handed it to him. “Sincerely. From the bottom of my heart.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
7 Problems Only Redheads Understand That Can’t Be Solved by Ghosts
Piotr Pushkaryov sat at his desk, empty cans of energy drinks everywhere, hunched over his laptop and scouring the seediest subthreads of the internet, in search of a new story for The Daily Butt Trumpet, North America’s most trusted source for inconsequential news and stolen pictures of celebrity boobs. It had been nearly six hours since the site last updated. Things were looking grim.
There was a knock on the editor’s door.
“Come in,” he said.
A disheveled young man in a blazer and thrift store t-shirt entered.
“Mr. Pushkaryov?”
“McGuire.” The editor sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Vhat is it this time?”
“I’ve been told that there’s a psychic squirrel working security at Willowbrook Mall.”
“So? That is not story.”
“Well, rumor is he’s kind of super reckless. He’s killed a couple of kids.”
“Kids die all the time, McGuire.”
“Rich white kids.”
“Vell, shit,” said Piotr, leaning forward, “vhy did you not open vith that?”
“Because it seemed crass and terrible. And, honestly, irrelevant. Kids are dying. It shouldn’t –”
“Crass and terrible is vhat ve do, McGuire. Do you not read emails I send?”
“I try not to. They’re usually pretty offensive. To, like, everyone.”
“Such thin skin you have.”
“I think I can get a story out of this, Mr. Pushkaryov. A real one. Something that will give The Daily Butt Trumpet credibility and expose –”
“No. You know that is not of interest to us. You vill give me a sensationalistic list of crimes of squirrel,” said Piotr. “You’ve got two hours, McGuire. I vant it up on front page of site before lunch.”
“But –”
“And see Debbie. Get her started on headline.”
“Before I even have the article?”
“Of course. Vhat does article have to do vith headline?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Fresh Squeezed From a Civet’s Butthole Every Morning
Satan and Steve Careers sat on repurposed portable commodes in a dark café on the outskirts of the wreckage of Washington, D.C. Something that sort of resembled music played softly overhead.
The devil took a sip of coffee from his misshapen, hand-molded mug and nearly choked.
“What is so hard about making coffee?” he grumbled. “There are two steps. And one of them is ‘buy coffee that isn’t terrible.’”
“Found something, boss,” interrupted the turtlenecked IT guy, the light of his laptop reflecting against his glasses.
Satan leaned over his shoulder and looked at the computer screen.
“Who do we know that’s in the area?” he asked.
“Persephone.”
“Hot damn.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Denied Dental Benefits
Mike McGuire huddled behind a potted plant. His “10 Mind-Blowingly Illegal Things This Security Guard Did (Also He’s A Psychic Squirrel)” column had gone viral almost immediately. But he knew there was more to the story, something real, something that spoke to the greater problems plaguing society, so he set out for the mall to photograph the killer squirrel in action.
What Mike found was Timmy the jumpsuit-wearing super-squirrel sitting in the food court eating the vegetables out of Mark Hughes’ lo mein.
The reporter was profoundly disappointed.
Luckily for him, a busty brunette in tight pants and a fur-lined greatcoat chose that exact moment to storm into the food court, kicking open the mall’s doors, a shotgun in each hand, along with a couple more strapped across her back. Mike’s own pants immediately got tighter.
The squirrel and the cyborg turned to see what the commotion was. They were promptly fired upon. The pair clambered underneath the table – Timmy on purpose, Mark because he had been shot in the shoulder and fell out of his chair.
“Rumpelstiltskin,” grumbled the bed-and-breakfast proprietor, gripping his bleeding arm.
“I got this, buddy,” replied the squirrel. Using his brain, he upended the table so the two of them were hiding behind its stainless steel surface, just as two more shots rang out. The table buckled and slid a few inches backward in response.
Timmy leaned his tiny head out from behind the table and grabbed the woman with the guns telekinetically, pinning her arms to her sides and lifting her into the air.
“What the shit, lady?” the squirrel politely inquired.
“This is all your fault!” shouted Persephone, former Greek Goddess of the Underworld, wriggling in his psychic embrace. “You’re the reason I don’t have a job anymore! I don’t want to go back to farming meat pumpkins! I won’t!”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, sweetheart.”
“Fuck you.”
“Look,” said Mark, popping his head out from behind the table, above Timmy, “maybe we can talk this out. What exactly are we supposed to have done?”
“You helped stop the blackout and wrecked up WANG. So then Walt Sidney fired all of us. All of us! I had a corner office!”
“So Walt Sidney was behind the blackout?” asked Timmy.
“Well, he didn’t cause it, if that’s what you mean, but he certainly prolonged it. It just made good business sense.”
“If we say we’re sorry, will you stop trying to kill us?” asked Mark.
“Not a cracker’s chance at a cocktail party in Hades,” she spat.
“I don’t – Do they like crackers in Hades? Is that what you’re implying?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Then you don’t leave me any options,” replied Timmy. He dismantled her guns with his mind and then dropped her hard to the floor, pinning her arms behind her back.
Persephone writhed helplessly against the tile, her fury rising with each passing second. She thrashed and thrashed against the psychic bear-hug, her cheeks beating against the floor like a short-circuiting android, her body squirming like a worm on a frying pan.
And then she was free.
“Oh, shit,” said the cyborg and the rodent simultaneously.
The goddess pulled herself to her feet. Timmy the super-squirrel tried to seize her psionically again, but Persephone wasn’t having it.
“Shit.”
With a wave of her hand, Timmy collapsed like a soufflé against the floor of the food court. His fur began to wither and grey, his breathing became shallower.
“Timmy!” shouted Mark, ducking back behind the table. He pulled his rodent friend closer. “Timmy!”
“She’s doing something to me, Mark,” coughed the squirrel. “I don’t feel right.”
“Hang on, buddy.”
“You’re next, robot boy,” said Persephone. Mark could hear her boots approaching against the tile.
The cyborg grabbed a nearby chair and snapped off two of the legs. He crouched as close as he could to t
he steel tabletop, using his x-ray implant to watch the former Greek goddess near. As she gripped the edge of the table to pull it away, Mark lunged upward and stabbed the pointed chair legs into her shoulders. Persephone shouted in agony. Her arms fell limp by her side. Mark grabbed the table and swung it into the woman’s face. She toppled to the ground.
Mark scooped up the sputtering super-squirrel from the floor with his good arm and bolted towards the exit.
From a heap on the tile, Persephone yanked one of the chair legs from her shoulder and let loose a primal scream. A powerful pestilential curse radiated for fifty feet around her, killing plants and salads and the handful of fry cooks that had been looking on.
The edge of the curse caught Mark’s calf and he tumbled into the foyer. Picking himself up, he staggered out of the mall, dragging his dying leg behind him.
Mike McGuire, safely fifty-one feet away from the furious goddess, ended the video recording and slid his cell phone back into his pocket.
“I am going to be Scottish duck levels of rich.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
And the Horse They Rode In On, Just In Case It Was Taking Notes or Something
“Mr. Sidney, sir,” said Loki Laufeyjarson, an enormous smile beaming across his skinny face, “we’ve got a problem.”
The former Norse God of Being an Asshole stepped into the sparse, sterile, very white office and stood directly in front of an immense, semicircular plastic desk. The desk belonged to Walt Sidney, Founder and CEO of the Walt Sidney Company, the largest and most beloved multifarious conglomerate on the planet.
“Then why are you so happy?” replied the executive, his voice like gravel in a blender.
Walt Sidney was a middle-aged, balding man with a pushbroom mustache and oversized glasses, unassuming and the exact opposite of intimidating – an appearance he cultivated and often used to his advantage. Right up until he died, anyway. That was several decades ago. Walt Sidney now existed as a cryogenically frozen head, in a jar of cloudy preservation fluid, and gave pretty much everyone the willies, all the time. He used that to his advantage too.
“The Walt Sidney Company has been linked to what went on at WANG Electric. Our gremlins say there’s a reporter working on the story now.[xxxii] One of the ones with actual integrity, sir. It won’t be long before the news gets out.”
“That,” the frozen head grumbled menacingly, “is unfortunate.”
“I know, right?” replied the former Norse god, barely able to contain his glee.
“Was it Lucifer?”
“Yes, Mr. Sidney. Persephone, technically, but she was under orders from Lucy. They found the guys who totaled WANG – well, the one guy and a chinchilla or something – and she confronted them, inadvertently confirming the company’s part in the blackout in the process. The guy and the furry thing managed to fight her off and get away.”
“A guy and a chinchilla fought off Persephone,” echoed the head, disbelievingly, “the former queen of the Greek underworld.”
“The chinchilla has telekinetic powers,” clarified Loki. “Did I not mention that?”
“You did not.”
“Here’s the best part, sir: it turns out they’re linked with Chester A. Arthur and Thor!”
“You need to be less excited about this.”
“I’m trying, Mr. Sidney. I’m sorry, Mr. Sidney.”
The frozen head sighed. “Well, I guess you know what the next step is.”
Loki began jumping up and down with joy.
“Kill everyone involved,” snarled the jarred head of Walt Sidney.
“With gusto,” replied the trickster god, a sinister grin cutting across his face.
“Start with the reporter.”
“Aw,” Loki whined. “Fine.”
“You need to learn to prioritize, Loki,” replied the severed head. “How else do you expect to get anywhere in this organization?”
“I’m already your right-hand man, sir, and the COO. Where else is there to go?”
“Someday I may need someone to take the reins of this company, Loki, a successor to the Walt Sidney Company crown when I’m unable to go on. I am nearly one hundred and fifty years old.”
“Are – Are you serious, Mr. Sidney?” said Loki, his dreams suddenly tangible, within reach, like an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet with steaming bins of crab Rangoon and spare ribs and no one else around. His heart pounded. “That would be an honor, sir. I’d be –”
The frozen head erupted with a very hearty laugh.
“Don’t be so gullible, Loki,” he said. “I’m going to live forever.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
This Is What Professional Ambition Gets You
Mike McGuire pulled his rattletrap sedan into the parking lot of The Daily Butt Trumpet, only to find the building – and most of his co-workers – on fire. The reporter could see his editor, Piotr Pushkaryov, completely engulfed in flames and running back and forth in front of the towering inferno. Piotr passed a burning heap that Mike was pretty sure was the payroll department.
“That’s probably going to make getting my check difficult,” he said to himself. Then he shrugged. “Good thing there’s still The Huffing Paint Post.”
As Mike put his hand on the gearshift to move the car into reverse, he heard a tap against his window. He turned his head. There appeared to be an enormous, red-haired, red-eyed dog-man standing outside his car.
“Boo,” said the furry monstrosity. [xxxiii]
“Ah, shit,” replied Mike McGuire.
CHAPTER TWENTY
No Shirt, No Shoes, No Sandwich
Wei and Shannon Leber-Zheng sat in the diner across from their new friends, Queen Victoria XXX and Chester A. Arthur XVII, four cups of cooling coffee and two mostly eaten cheesecakes between them. The couples were having a remarkably in-depth discussion about interior decorating.
“We found these really pretty lead-lined drapes,” said Shannon, “at this store right off Route 7.”
“The place is haunted by the murderous ghosts of Vikings,” added Wei.
“Well, yes, but the prices are amazing.”
“And they’re radiation-dampening?” asked the president.
“They’re rated to six thousand gigabecquerels.”
Chester A. Arthur XVII turned to the replica queen. “We could use something like that in the back bedroom.”
“Are you guys facing that exploded factory too?” asked Wei.
“Yeah. Roger said the radiation was contained, but I’m not buying it. When the wind shifts, there is definitely the distinct odor of nuclear waste.”
“Rick was there when it all went down. Swears the explosion was to blame for his impotence.”
“Is he serious?”
“Yeah. He’s not happy about it. Won’t shut up about it either.”
“So, about Rick ...” began Queen Victoria XXX conspiratorially, “is he ... y’know ...”
“A werewolf?” replied Wei. “I’m pretty sure, yeah.”
“I’m not convinced,” added Shannon.
“Have you seen the way the man eats steak?” asked the cloned president.
“I know,” said Wei. “What else could he be?”
At that moment, Thor Odinson came crashing through the wall, and part of the roof, of the diner, clamped between the jaws of a dragon the size of a tour bus. A dragon that came crashing through the same wall, an adjoining wall, and more of the roof.
“Thank fucking Cumberbatch,” said Queen Victoria XXX, grabbing a fistful of silverware and standing on the vinyl bench. “No offense to you two, but this life is as boring as watching oatmeal boil.”
“You don’t like oatmeal?” asked Shannon.
“It’s an insult to breakfasts everywhere.”
The facsimile monarch threw off her tasteful blazer, clambered over her boyfriend and out of the booth, and then ran towards the wreckage of the wall and jumped, forks blazing, at a second dragon that had landed outside.
Thor, meanwhile,
was punching the first dragon in the face repeatedly. The gargantuan monster dropped the thunder god into a table, then let loose a column of flame that seared the Norseman and everything within five feet of him.
“You destroyed my donut shop!” shouted Thor, pulling himself free from the wreckage of the booth.
Through the hole in the ceiling, Chester A. Arthur XVII could see a sky full of dark clouds angrily rushing together.
“We should probably leave,” said the artificial politician to the Leber-Zhengs. “Now.” Less deftly than he imagined, the patchwork president pulled himself onto the straining table and shouted to the rest of the diner: “Everyone needs to evacuate this restaurant immediately! A good deal of destruction is imminent!”
“But I haven’t gotten my BLT yet!” hollered some guy at a table in the back room.
A canyon of lightning split apart the sky, striking the dragon through its skull and sending sparks through everything metal nearby. The beast shook its head and then let loose a pants-soiling roar in reply.
“Nevermind!” shouted the BLT guy, springing from his seat and hauling ass for the door.
Several more bolts of lightning ripped through the dragon as Chester A. Arthur XVII herded the diner patrons to safety.
Once more, the dragon roared awesomely in response, rattling the very bones of the thunder god, before stomping forward, spreading its wings and taking out several support beams of the erstwhile eatery. The building began collapsing like it was in a Michael Bay movie.
“And now my diner?!” screamed Thor. “You asshole!”
Thunder clapped like the audience at a Who show full of people with giant hands. Cups and napkin holders and window blinds shook. A heavy rain began to fall, pouring into the building through the shattered roof. Thor stood opposite the seething monster, shaking with barely contained rage, like an off-kilter lawnmower engine. His shirt soaked to his muscular chest. His hair fell into his face, his beard began to resemble a wet puppy. He was breathing slowly, heavily, his eyes set with slaughterhouse intent.
