by Eirik Gumeny
“Not invested?! What the hell do you think I left Russia for, dick?”
“Lots of reasons, if we’re being honest ...”
“Well, OK, yeah.”
“You kept having sex in the back seat and then, as a steam-powered war machine approached, you ran off entirely and threw your underthings at me.”
“Yeah, but that ended up being Ted Turner, right?” said Artemis, nodding toward the elderly man in long johns behind her. “So no harm, no foul?”
“You did not know that was Ted Turner,” rumbled Ra. “For all intents and purposes, you left me to face an unknown threat alone.”
“You weren’t alone alone. You had Set.”
“Wait, Set was there? Where is he now?”
“This is because we’re ladies, isn’t it?” said Catherine the Great XLIX, shoving the Egyptian god again.
“No, of course not,” replied Ra defensively. “Given the circumstances, I merely thought you had given up on our mutual quest for vengeance.”
“We can do two things at once, you know,” said Artemis, glaring at him like a frustrated professor.
“Like drive and get head,” explained the cloned Russian empress.
“Or drive and give head.”
“That sounds extremely dangerous, young lady,” boomed the Egyptian god.
“That was ... weird,” said the Greek goddess. “You sounded exactly like Zeus right there.”
“Who’s giving head?” Thor called across the battlefield, turning and looking into the shrubbery, distracted long enough from his hammer fight to take the heavy side of Ukonvasara right in his ear. The Norse thunder god went sailing backward, past friends and Louseketeers and then through the sage bush and into a lubed and jumpsuited Ted Turner, the two of them rolling a few dozen feet farther, past a staggering, sleepy-eyed Set.
“Are we there yet?” asked the dog-man, rubbing his face. “Who were those guys?” He pointed toward Thor and Ted Turner with his thumb. “And what’s the giant robot doing here?”
“Set!” said Ra, running over and embracing his great-grandson. “You are here! I thought maybe I was hallucinating you.”
“What?”
“I’m so sorry I left you behind.”
“Behind? I’ve been asleep in the backseat of the SUV. Seriously, what’s going on?” He nodded toward the dried-out prairie in front of them. “There are just dead people everywhere out there.”
“I vote the old guy’s not in charge anymore,” said Catherine the Great LXIX.
“I may be OK with that,” said Ra, holding Set by the shoulders and looking at him both lovingly and suspiciously.
“What the hell is going on back there?” boomed Sidney from the other side of the field. “Why is that plant shaking and talking? Somebody go look into that.”
“Oh, right,” said Catherine the Great LXIX, looking to the Sidneytron 5000™, “this bunghole.” She slid on a pair of brass knuckles, then pulled a short falchion sword from the sheath on her back. “We doing this?”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THREE
Squad Goals
Artemis and Queen Victoria XXX, having quickly become fast friends, were rapidly being swarmed by an entire platoon of brisk-moving black-armored dragoons and were promptly kicking their asses, hastily trying to keep up with demand. Unfortunately, there were a lot of dragoons and the women were swiftly falling behind.
Thor and Ukko, meanwhile, had grown tired of chasing one another around, so the two thunder gods were now standing stock still in an open patch of grassland, taking turns hitting one another in the face with their magic hammers. Everyone else – Amen-Ra, Set, Catherine the Great LXIX, William H. Taft XLII, and Jesus Christ – was gathered behind the quite possibly enchanted purple sage bush, trying to come up with a plan, while the rest of Walt Sidney’s army tried and failed to find them.
“Right, so, I guess,” began William H. Taft XLII, doing his best impression of Chester A. Arthur XVII, “someone superpowered should probably go help Thor. That other thunder god is probably our biggest threat, outside of Walt Sidney.”
“On it,” said Set, nodding his furry head. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse. I don’t know if you guys noticed, but Ukko’s kind of a dick. He was always making fun of me at lunch for putting mustard on my hot dogs. Like, way harder than you should make fun of someone about hot dogs, too.”
“Who doesn’t use mustard?” asked Catherine the Great LXIX.
“Right?”
“Kick his foolish ass, boy,” thundered Ra, clapping a hand on the dog-man’s furry shoulder.
“Thanks, great-gramps,” replied the Egyptian God of Disorder and Violence, returning the gesture, before turning and stalking towards the blonde men.
“OK, so that’s done,” said the corpulent clone, peering out past the plant. “I have no idea how we’re going to fight that robot, though.”
“Ted has that covered,” explained Ra. Then, turning and shooting the struggling media mogul a look, he added, “It’s just taking a while.”
“Why don’t you go see if he needs help?”
“That sounds agreeable.”
And off Ra went.
“So, that just leaves the three of us,” said William H. Taft XLII, clapping a hand on the back of Catherine the Great LXIX and nodding toward Jesus Christ, “and the entire rest of Walt Sidney’s army.”
“I like those odds,” replied the cloned empress, hopping up and down. “I haven’t fucked anybody up in a while and I’m getting antsy.”
“Yeah, I’ve still got a good amount of anger I’ve got to work through,” seconded the cloned president, balling up one of his fists and sort of weirdly clenching the one attached to the arm in the sling.
“What?” asked the Christian messiah, cocking an eyebrow. “What, and I say this with all due love and respect, the fuck is wrong with you guys, man? Why do you keep wanting to fight, like, all the time?”
“Genetics.”
“We are literally programmed to be this way.”
“Oh,” replied Jesus.
“Why?” said Catherine the Great LXIX. “You have a better idea?”
He grinned. “You better believe it, sister.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR
Thunder Cats
“UKKKOOOOOO!” roared Set, springing forward and tackling Thor knees-first. The gods slammed into the ground, sliding several dusty feet, until Thor’s back collided with a prickly pear.
“Why the fuck are these things just laying around?!” shouted the Norseman, twisting uncomfortably atop the cactus.
“Wrong one, Set!” shouted William H. Taft XLII as he hustled past the gods toward another appointment. “That one’s on our side!”
“Oh,” said Set, looking between the blonde man he was kneeling on and the blonde man coming toward him with a hammer. “Sorry. There was a lot of sun and, honestly, you guys look super the same.”
“We are nothing alike!” shouted Thor and Ukko simultaneously. Thor shoved Set to the side and the two thunder gods began thundering it out again.
As they fought, someone, or possibly a couple of someones, exploded off to the gods’ side, blood and guts and pieces of armor raining down over them. The hammering ceased as the three deities covered up from the incoming mess, Ukko taking the brunt of it.
“God damn it,” said the Finnish thunder god, throwing down his arms and shaking off a motley assortment of pulverized organs.
“Which god?” asked Set.
“Suonetar,” he answered, peeling off his canvas work shirt.
“Oh, OK.”
Ukko tossed his shirt to the side. The bearded blonde man was now standing before the other two gods wearing a white tank top and khaki-colored khakis. Thor, meanwhile, was also in a white tank top, with khaki-colored cargos. For some reason, they had also both lost their shoes at some point.
“What in the swollen gonads of Jörmungandr do you think you’re doing?” asked Thor.
“What?” replied Uk
ko.
“The shirt, man. Your whole outfit.”
“For fucking real, Thor?” countered the thunder god. “A solid nine-tenths of the office wears khakis, and I’m pretty sure that everyone in the world wears a white undershirt.”
“Prove it!”
“Prove it? Prove that everyone in the world wears a white undershirt? How hard did I hit you?”
“I don’t know,” answered the thunder god sincerely. “I really could not feel a lot of it.”
“What’re you, high?”
“Yes.”
“Oooooohhh.”
“Oh what?”
“Well, nothing, it just ... Knowing that, now beating you senseless almost feels like cheating, y’know?”
“So you’ll stop hitting me?”
“No, of course not,” explained Ukko, hefting his hammer onto his shoulder. “I said ‘almost.’”
“Well, you can’t say I didn’t give you an out,” replied Thor, lowering his eyes. Lifting Mjolnir into the air, the Norse God of Thunder called down a tremendous amount of lightning into the hammerhead and then clobbered Ukko with the electrified weapon, sending him sprawling to the ground.
“So we’re doing this now?” said the Finnish God of Thunder, shaking his head and sitting up. “If that’s how you want it.” A thunderbolt like a convoy of semis crashed headfirst into Thor, knocking him to his knees.
“Oh, you dick.”
“Yeah? What’re you gonna –”
Lightning ripped through the sky and straight through Ukko.
“You cow-fucker!”
“Who told you?!”
Another thunderbolt came tearing down, right into Thor’s crotch.
“That was a low blow,” whined the Norseman, pressing his hands between his thighs.
“So’s your mom.”
“You corn-riddled piece of shit!”
The two gods, sitting across from one another in the dirt, continued calling one another names and throwing lightning back and forth a few more times, before, suddenly and unexpectedly, the lightning dried up and the storm clouds receded.
“Was ... was that ...?” began Thor, looking confusedly at the sky.
“No,” replied Ukko, doing the same. “Did you ...?”
“No.”
“That was me, guys,” explained Set, crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head at the thunder gods like the disappointed headmistress of a school for wizards. “I’m also a god of storms.”
“Are you fucking serious?” said Ukko. “Is everyone just a thunder god now? Is that how we’re playing this?”
“Actually, man, I was talking with Jesus,” began Thor, “and there’s ... Well, there’s a good chance we’re all –”
There was a tremendous sound, everything went white, and then Ukko, the Finnish God of Thunder, was obliterated.
“Whoa,” said Set.
“Nevermind then,” said the Norse God of Thunder, staring at the smoking crater that used to be Ukko.
“That was Thor, right?” asked Walt Sidney, peering through his arrow-pierced enclosure, his arm cannon raised into the air, strangely-colored smoke twisting into the sky.
“Uh, yeah, totally. Boss,” lied the thunder god.
“OK, good. You guys looked so much alike I wasn’t sure.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE
Prince of Peace
William H. Taft XLII, along with Jesus Christ and Catherine the Great LXIX, walked out toward the head of what was left of Walt Sidney’s amassed army, which was still kind of a shitload of soldiers. The dragoon at the head of the horde – a red stripe down his helmet and deep scratches across his armor – unsure of what was going on, held up a hand, stopping the stormtroopers where they stood. Jesus Christ, sort of on his tip-toes, crept unstealthily to the side of the armored people trying to kill him, grabbed a cooler from their supply tent, and then dragged it over in front of the cloned president.
William H. Taft XLII, stepping onto the cooler and cupping a hand over his mouth, said: “Look. None of us wants to be here. I’m sure that’s a given. You’re just trying to collect a paycheck, and I get that. But, as I’m sure you are all also well aware, we, the three of us here and the two ladies over there –” The president pointed toward Queen Victoria XXX and Artemis, mid-ravaging of the army’s co-workers. “– are almost certainly going to dismember you, with extraordinary violence and speed, or we may set some of you on fire. Or your own boss might blow you up. I don’t know. What I do know is, your death benefits can’t possibly be worth the trouble and heartache to your families and friends, and –”
“Actually,” said a Louseketeer, raising his hand timidly, “they’re, uh, they’re pretty great. The benefits are why I was willing to put on the armor in the first place. They make the paycheck we get look like the allowance of a crappy child with strict parents.”
“Like, how much are we talking, man?” asked Jesus.
“My wife and kids – hell, my grandkids – could retire to a brand new mansion, in the heart of New Hollywood, and never have to work another day in their lives,” said the armored employee.
“My husband actually hopes that I die out here,” said another Louseketeer. “For the money.”
“That seems really shitty,” said Catherine the Great LXIX.
“He’s ... he’s not a great guy,” he replied. “That’s kind of why I’m willing to be out here and away from home so much.”
“That’s terrible, brother,” said Jesus.
“Yeah ...”
“OK, so,” began William H. Taft XLII from his cooler, “trying to speak to your wants and needs collectively was probably a bad idea. You’re all beautiful butterflies –”
“I am,” said a dragoon having an epiphany.
“– and here for your own individual reasons. But, back to the point, if those reasons don’t actively involve dying painfully, please put down your weapons and go home.”
“We don’t want to fight you guys,” added Jesus.
“But we absolutely, totally will,” said the cloned empress, “if you want us to. And you absolutely, totally will lose that fight and, quite possibly, a limb or two in the process. Definitely at least a finger.”
“So, you know, think that over,” said William H. Taft XLII. “Pass the word to the guys in the back, I don’t think they heard us. And, for what it’s worth, if you’re worried about your boss’s retribution or punishment or whatever, we have every reason to believe Walt Sidney won’t be making it out of this fight alive, so, there’s that.”
The crowd of battle-wearied Louseketeers and special ops dragoons began murmuring and mumbling, heads turning, helmets lifting, chins being scratched. A few had already begun walking away.
“But, again,” said Catherine the Great LXIX, slightly desperately, the army becoming less homicidal before her very eyes, “if you are here for the violence, we’re OK with that too.”
“But, like, also again,” added Jesus, “if that is the case, we are going to have to assume you’re, like, one hundred percent evil, right? So that way if we kill you we won’t feel terrible about it.”
“When we kill you,” corrected the cloned empress. “I cannot be more clear about that.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIX
How Artemis Got Her Groove Back
Set and Artemis and Thor and Jesus Christ and Catherine the Great LXIX and Queen Victoria XXX and William H. Taft XLII were getting their asses kicked. Jesus literally.
“There were a lot more assholes in that group than I figured on, man,” said the Son of God, rubbing his butt with both hands.
“Well, look, you tried,” said Catherine the Great LXIX, hopping around on one leg. Her other foot was on the chest of a dragoon, while her hands were wrapped around his elbow, trying to tear his arm out of its socket. The dragoon, meanwhile, was punching her repeatedly in the ribs. “That counts.”
“That’s of less comfort than I had hoped for.”
Jesus got
kicked in the rear again. He turned around and was immediately clocked by a Louseketeer. Thor stepped over and punched his friend’s assailant, sending the riot trooper rocketing backwards into three other stormtroopers. Six more took their place.
“How the hell were you making more than me when we were hero-for-hiring?” asked the thunder god, holding off the frenzied Louseketeers as they attempted to club him in the head.
“You’d be amazed at what you can talk your way out of, brother,” explained Jesus. “Plus, y’know, I’ll fight if I have to, man. Learned that one the hard way.” The Prince of Peace turned a few helmets into record-breakingly-sized carp. The soldiers, their heads now very familiar with the innards of a freshwater fish, began stumbling around, smacking the sides of the carp, trying to lift it off, before eventually running out of air, losing consciousness, and falling to the ground. “I just don’t like doing it.”
“I thought we decided you went super-saiyan,” said William H. Taft XLII, backing up and wrestling a stun baton free from a Louseketeer. “Shouldn’t you be, y’know, better than this?”
“I will be honest,” said Thor, ripping the forearm gauntlet off a dragoon and whaling him in the face with it, “I’m still a little spent from wrecking up toy stores and hammer-fighting Ukko. And we’re both a little drunk.”
“A lot drunk,” burped Jesus. “And a little high.”
“A lot high,” corrected Thor.
“Seriously?” The cloned president grimaced as he took a knife in his already wounded shoulder. “The hours of fighting haven’t sobered you up any?”
“Well, they did ...”
“But then ...”
“And, yet again, you didn’t invite me?” asked Queen Victoria XXX, lifting up the helmet on a set of dragoon armor she had stolen. “You selfish pricks.”
“How long have you been wearing that?” asked the president.
“It’s not our fault, Vicky,” explained Jesus.
