by Eirik Gumeny
“I’m not an expert,” said the thunder god, sidling up behind his former co-workers, “but I don’t think he’s coming back from that.”
“Maybe there’s ...” began Catrina, before trailing off. She looked at the black smoke collecting in all corners of the sky.
“I don’t think so,” said the cyborg, putting what was supposed to be a comforting hand on Catrina’s shoulder. “It looks like all of Las Máquinas has been taken out. All the scientists are gone.”
“But ... if they’re ... Oh, god,” she began whimpering. “Ali ...”
“Shouldn’t we go knock on some volcano lairs and make sure?” asked Thor.
In the distance something large, and probably nuclear, exploded.
“I don’t think we’re going to like what we find,” replied Mark.
“He’s ... Ali’s dead?” continued Catrina. “Ali’s actually, completely dead? Forever?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Catrina dropped her head into her hands, a sobbing, hysterical mess.
“So ... you need a minute or something?” asked Thor.
“Thor,” scolded Mark.
“What?”
Catrina continued crying.
“Look,” said Thor, feeling uncomfortable, “I’m gonna go get Ali’s body out of the trunk. It’s what he would’ve wanted. I’m assuming.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Them!
As Queen Victoria XXX and Chester A. Arthur XVII defied most of the laws of physics and thermodynamics and approached Las Vegas, a terrible sight came looming into view over the city.
“What the hell is that?” asked Queen Victoria XXX, shouting over the sound of the jetpacks.
“A booger bug,” replied Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“Is that ...?”
“A giant bug made out of boogers? Yes.”
“That is fucking disgusting.”
***
The couple touched down in the center of the Las Vegas strip moments later. They found, much to their displeasure, that aside from the giant booger bug towering over the casinos, a pair of Amish butter monsters and swarms upon swarms of chupacabra were also ransacking the city.
And that’s just what they could see.
“Holy shit,” said the president.
“Butter monsters,” grumbled the queen, sliding the jetpack from her shoulders. “Why did it have to be butter monsters?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Punches With Wolves
Thor Odinson unceremoniously dropped Ali Şahin’s body next to the pile of robot pieces and eviscerated doctor parts. He stood there, trying to simmer the rage boiling up inside of him, but found that the stove of his anger only went down to medium-high at best. The only man he knew who knew how to make donuts was dead at his feet, next to the man who knew how to bring him back to life. Thor could hear Catrina sobbing on the far side of the tank. The realization of the finality of Ali’s death had turned her tiny human frame into a wet, snotty ball of heartache.
The thunder god wanted to punch something. Hell, he wanted to punch everything. But there was nothing to punch. Well, maybe the volcano. But that was already on fire, so it hardly seemed like a productive use of his punching. Still, there had to be something Thor could do.
“We should probably bury him, right?” he asked solemnly, looking down at his dead friend. “That’s what you mortals do?”
“You should probably dig a couple extra holes while you’re at it.”
The beefy blonde man looked up and saw a heavily-mustachioed, naked Native American man striding from the darkened entrance to Dr. Arahami’s lair. Behind him was an equally as naked woman, two long braids of hair hanging down to her waist. They were both covered in gallons of blood.
“How come they don’t have to wear pants?” asked Thor.
“I assume then that you’re the guys that did all this?” asked Mark Hughes, hobbling to Thor’s side and indicating the butchered landscape surrounding them.
“We did,” said the slight man.
“I have a hard time believing that.” Mark furrowed his brow, looking the smallish, unarmed, naked folks over.
“Do you?” The woman’s eyes turned black. “How about now?”
In a heartbeat, the Native American lady transformed into a gigantic, frothing black bear and let loose a roar that shook the ground. The man dropped to all fours and changed into a ravenous coyote the size of a large motorcycle.
“OK, yeah,” stammered Mark, taking a few steps backward, “now I think I might believe it.”
“Hot damn,” said Thor, clenching his fists.
The coyote rushed at the Norseman, covering the distance between them in a fraction of a second and pouncing from ten feet away, tackling the thunder god to the desert floor with tremendous force.
“Damn it,” shouted Thor, dust billowing up around him. “I think I landed on a cactus.”
“Yeah, that’ll happen,” said the canine, before snapping his maw toward the Norseman’s face.
The enormous bear, meanwhile, charged at Mark, who had heroically, if a bit stupidly, decided to stand his ground. The black bear rammed a razor-clawed paw into his shoulder and lifted the man up, Mark’s one good leg kicking at the creature’s face.
“This was a terrible idea,” he moaned.
“You guys must have really pissed off the devil,” replied Thor, pinned to the ground by the colossal coyote, his forearm wedged into the animal’s dagger-toothed mouth.
“You guys seriously think we’d work for Satan?” asked the bear, lowering the cybernetic bed-and-breakfast owner to the ground and easing up on the stabbing ever so slightly.
“You’re not?” replied Mark, likewise pausing his spastic kicking.
“I’m insulted,” she spat. “That guy sucks.”
“Oh. Well, any chance you could tell us who you are working for then?”
“Not really, no.”
“I figured,” replied Mark, wanting to shrug but deciding against it, what with the ursine hand-knives in his shoulder and everything. “Thought it couldn’t hurt to ask.”
“Understandably,” replied the bear. “Back to the fight to the death?”
“I guess so,” he said wearily, bracing himself to be hoisted back into the air by his bones and shredded muscles.
Instead, a jagged piece of Bex’s leg burst through the bear’s chest. The bear casually looked down at the bloody harpoon, then removed her claws from Mark, patted him on the head, and leisurely turned around to find out who exactly it was that had rammed the robot remainder through her. She found Catrina standing there.
“You stupid, shithead motherfuckers killed the man who could’ve unkilled my boyfriend!”
“It was just business, honey,” replied the bear nonchalantly.
The Filipina woman screamed, grabbing another piece of android and stabbing it into the bear’s massive chest. The bear sighed heavily. Catrina tilted her head slightly.
“This, uh, this doesn’t seem to be bothering you.”
The Native American shapeshifter shrugged.
“Shouldn’t you be, like, dead or something?” asked the former hotel employee.
“Why would I be dead?” asked the bear.
“You’ve got two giant pieces of metal through your organs.”
“What makes you think that’s where I keep my organs?”
“What?”
“Oh, fuck,” said Thor. Immediately, he pulled his arm from the coyote’s mouth, pushed up on the bottom of his jaw, and punched his fist straight through the animal’s chest. The coyote gave no indication that this was a problem.
“You too, huh?” asked the thunder god.
“Yup.”
Thor set his face.
“Do you mind moving that?” asked the coyote, pointing awkwardly with his snout toward the arm through his torso. “It’s starting to get a little annoying.”
The former Norse God of Thunder flipped through the Rolodex of his mind.
“Coyote?” he eventually said.
“You didn’t already know that?” replied the Navajo god.
“Well, it’s not like we ever formally met or anything.”
“I’m an immortal, shapeshifting coyote. Who else was I going to be?”
“You do realize how much crazy shit regularly goes on out here, right? Last time I visited Las Máquinas I met a half-koala/half-mushroom.”
“OK, sure, but I can’t help but be a little offended.”
“Oh, come on,” replied Thor, “like you’d really recognize me in a supermarket.”
“It just ... it hurts, you know?” said Coyote. “Not the arm through the chest thing, obviously, I’m talking about emotional pain, an insult to our pride. Changing Bear and I used to be such a big deal.”
“Believe me, I get it.”
“How did you cope with it? The Fall. Do you ever get used to it?”
“It’s not easy. Drinking helps.”
“Hey, if you guys are done making out,” shouted Catrina, running past them with the enormous, snarling bear goddess chasing after her, “she’s decided to try and murder us again.”
“Oh, right,” said Coyote. “That.”
“You know,” said Thor, removing his arm from the coyote’s chest, “you didn’t have to kill everyone out here.” He tossed the animal sideways.
“Probably not,” replied the Navajo god, scrambling to his feet. “But it definitely made your lives more difficult. And, honestly?” The enormous coyote lunged at Thor again, once more knocking him to the ground, his knife-like teeth inches from the Norseman’s face. He snarled: “It was pretty fun.”
Thor kicked his foot with tremendous force into the coyote’s crotch. Coyote gave him a look.
“Those are organs too, buddy.”
“You removed your testicles,” Thor dead-panned.
“It was obviously the right move, wasn’t it?”
“Who removes their testicles?”
“Someone who gets kicked there a fair amount more than most.”
Thor grunted, punched the shapeshifter in the face, and then rolled and hurled the coyote across the scrub-strewn desert. Before the Navajo god finished skidding across the dirt, lightning tore through the sky and struck Coyote square in the cavity that would normally have been holding his heart. Shaking his head, the elephantine animal lurched back to his feet.
“That’ll wake you up,” he said.
“I’m assuming we’ve got to find your organs and squish them?” asked Thor, likewise picking himself back up.
“Generally how it goes, yeah.”
“OK,” replied the thunder god. “Timmy?”
“Timmy?” echoed Coyote.
“Already on it, chief,” replied Timmy, the artificially-ancient, mind-reading super-squirrel, his jumpsuit tied around his shoulders like a cape.
Turning to look where Thor was looking, Coyote saw, a short distance beyond the melee, and in front of the chained caterpillar treads on the passenger side of the tank, a good-sized pile of internal organs gleaming in the sun.
“Oh, shit,” muttered the Navajo god.
“Sorry, man,” said Thor with a shrug.
“No, you’re not.”
“In my defense, you were trying to eat my face.”
“Hey, so, how do I move this thing?” asked Timmy psychically from the driver’s seat. “I don’t exactly have a driver’s license.”
“Can’t you just push it with your mind?” asked Thor out loud.
“Not really, no. I don’t have the strength. I burned myself out finding all this crap. I’m barely keeping conscious right now. This shit’s going to have to be done manually.”
Sensing Thor’s preoccupation and seeing an opportunity, Coyote began to sprint towards the organ pile. He was immediately struck by a catastrophic thunderbolt and dropped to his knees.
“Not a chance, dude,” said Thor, shaking his head.
“Turn the key,” shouted Catrina, running between the two gods, the third god hot on her tail, “move the gearshift from P to D, then push down the accelerator.”
“Which one’s the accelerator?” asked Timmy.
“The long skinny one,” said Mark, staggering forward and throwing himself into Changing Bear’s knees. The massive ursine god tumbled forward and landed directly on top of him.
“That was a mistake,” he grunted.
“Got it,” thought Timmy. “Thanks.”
The tank rumbled to life and began inching forward. Coyote once more made a desperate scramble for the viscera, but, before he could reach them, the tank ran over the organs, exploding them in a gratuitously disgusting manner and killing the Navajo gods dead.
Coyote fell mid-stride, collapsing into the desert and sliding forward in a cloud of dust.
“That was close,” muttered Mark, the full weight of the now-deceased Changing Bear laying on top of him. “Can someone give me a hand? I think I broke some bones.”
“One second,” said Thor, wiping blood and chunks of supernatural coyote from his arm. “Who knows what kind of diseases that guy was carrying.”
“That’s kind of racist,” said Mark.
“What? No. Like sex diseases, not smallpox. It’s a compliment.”
“I don’t really know if that’s any better.”
“Thanks, Timmy,” said Catrina, hands on her knees and catching her breath.
There was no response.
“Timmy?”
The young woman ran over to the tank and found the squirrel passed out cold on the floor of the driver’s seat and looking remarkably like a mummy.
“That’s not good,” she said.
“OK,” said Mark, painfully and awkwardly attempting to shinny his way out from underneath the gargantuan black bear, “I think I might be ready to get some medical attention now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
With a Little Help From My Friends
With one foot firmly on the spiky head of the chupacabra, Chester A. Arthur XVII pulled his axe free from the creature’s brain, then turned to William H. Taft XLII, an old friend and current mayor-king of Las Vegas.
“What in the holy hell is going on here, Billy?” The dead president spun around and decapitated two more chupacabra lunging toward him. “What exactly are we up against?”
“Last count,” said the other dead president, tearing a goatsucker in two with his bare hands, “two Amish butter monsters, the booger bug, a cyclops, a throng of boraro,[xxxvi] at least one mothman, and, like, all the chupacabra in the world.”
“How are they all working together? And why?”
“That I don’t know.”
“There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to their attacks,” added Martin Van Buren XCIX, another cloned president, heaving a chupacabra over his head and throwing it into another group of the tiny lizard-dogs. “Just random violence and disorder.”
At that moment, Boudica IX, the last-surviving clone of the unstoppable Britannic warrior-queen, came flailing through the air and landed in the middle of the group.
“Holy nuts,” she said, standing up and shaking her wild red mane.
“What the hell was that?” asked Queen Victoria XXX, pulling her broadsword from the abdomen of one of the lizard-dogs.
“We got a cave troll.”
“Seriously?”
“Yuppers.”
“Shit.”
“Hey, how come my arm doesn’t work?” asked Boudica IX, limply shrugging her left shoulder.
“It’s probably dislocated,” said William H. Taft XLII.
“Can you feel this?” asked Queen Victoria XXX. She punched Boudica IX in the bicep.
“Nope,” replied the cloned Celt.
“It’s broken,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“Well, balls.”
“Less talking, more fighting, guys,” said Martin Van Buren XCIX, reloading his revolver and indicating the densely packed crowd of salivating monsters closing in on them.
“This is pretty fucked, guys,” said William H. Taft XLII.
“Kill count contest?” asked Queen Victoria XXX.
“You’re on,” replied Chester A. Arthur XVII, peeling off his wool jacket and tossing it to the side.
“Loser goes down on the winner.”
“Can we all get in on this?” asked Martin Van Buren XCIX.
“Yeah, all right,” replied the queen with a shrug. Then she kicked the head off a chupacabra.
CHAPTER FORTY
Eulogy
Thor placed the shovel over his shoulder and looked down at the pile of dirt now covering Ali Şahin, his oldest friend in this plane of existence.
“I think something’s wrong,” said the thunder god. “I’ve got this weird feeling in my stomach, like it’s been hollowed out or something.”
“You’re sad, Thor,” answered Catrina sadly, sitting cross-legged beside the grave and feeling even sadder.
“You’re sure I’m not just hungry?”
“Do you normally feel like that when you’re hungry?”
“No.”
“Then you’re not hungry.”
“Well, if it is sadness,” said the blonde man, “it sucks.”
“Yeah, that’s basically sad’s whole deal,” explained Mark, sitting on the dusty ground and leaning against the treads of the luxury tank. He pointed his chin toward the bifurcated remains of Dr. Lee Arahami. “Any particular reason you didn’t bury the scientist too?”
“Odin’s curly ass hairs,” mumbled the Norseman, planting the shovel back into the ground.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Golden Showers
After heroically saving the day by finding a riding lawnmower and just enough gasoline to accidentally-on-purpose cause the mass extinction of the chupacabra, Martin Van Buren XCIX ditched the sputtering farm equipment in a fountain and ran through a street littered with shredded goatsucker meat toward his friends on the tree-covered median to deal with the newest problem facing the fivesome: every other godforsaken monster attacking the city-state of Las Vegas.
