by Eirik Gumeny
“I did kinda promise Catrina I’d kill him,” countered the thunder god, rubbing the back of his neck.
“But you also promised her you wouldn’t kill anyone else, brother, and, well ...” The Son of God motioned toward the piles of bodies hidden beneath the piles of fishsticks.
“Hey, none of that was me. At worst, I severely maimed some dudes. I mean, OK, my hammer maybe took out a few once or twice, but not on purpose. That’s on them for not moving. Plus, y’know, didn’t we establish they were all super evil?”
“He killed Charlie,” said Queen Victoria XXX coldly.
“You killed Elizabeth,” said Set with a shrug. “And, you know, a lot of others.”
“She was a crazy murderer.”
“So are you,” said Jesus. “Y’know, technically.”
“And, I mean, look, Vicky ...” The thunder god put a hand on her arm. “Charlie was pretty much dead already,” he said gently. “That robot thing was not working.”
“Yeah ...” The cloned monarch deflated, then took a few steps away from the group and slumped to the ground.
“That’s not good,” said Artemis, looking after the queen.
“I vote we kill him,” said Amen-Ra. “He murdered my entire staff and burned down my factory.” Then, menacingly: “He killed Bambi.”
“OK, sure,” said a long-johned dragoon, stepping into the tightening circle, “but he did do a lot of great things too. He wasn’t evil evil, like you keep saying. He’s built orphanages and taco stands and brought joy to millions of people. You just all ended up on the receiving end of some of his more drastic actions.”
“I don’t know about that, Ash,” said Set, shaking his furry head, “slaughtering innocents is more than a ‘drastic action.’ And he’s totally slaughtered innocents. That’s literally why I was hired.”
“The blonde guy you’re all palling around with killed a bunch of kids,” added a Louseketeer, pointing at Thor. “Like, the day before yesterday. And not even for a good reason.”
“I said I was sorry! Benedict Cumberbatch ...”
“So there are good reasons for killing kids?” asked William H. Taft XLII, shoving the Louseketeer. “I don’t think you get to have an opinion on this anymore.”
“That’s not –”
“Ted,” rumbled the sun god, “what do you –”
“Hang on,” said Ted Turner, fighting with the harness inside his mech-suit, “I’m still trying to get out of this thing. Also, for what it’s worth, the homicidal douchebag sensor is going absolutely nuts right now.”
“Really, guys?” asked Artemis. “Are we seriously arguing over the moral repercussions of killing a horrible, terrible, no-good asswipe of a severed head like –” She pointed a finger at Walt Sidney. Everyone turned to follow it and found Catherine the Great LXIX hiking up her skirt and squatting over the frozen CEO.
“What?” said the cloned empress. “Do you have any idea how long a drive it was to get here? And then all that running around?”
She dropped a colossal deuce into the jar of preservation fluid.
“Look, let’s compromise,” she continued. “If he survives this, I vote we let him live. Trust me,” she said, grimacing as she squeezed another one down the turdpipe, “it’ll be punishment enough.”
CHAPTER DOES IT REALLY MATTER AT THIS POINT
The Diner America Deserves
Having bade farewell to the clones and Ted Turner, Jesus Christ and the blood-soaked gods – Thor, Artemis, Set, and Amen-Ra – had assembled at Denny’s to discuss some things. No one was happy about it.
“How many apocalypses has it been?” grumbled Ra as the waiter refilled his coffee. “And Denny’s is still in business.”
“Never underestimate Americans’ ability to underestimate what actual food is,” replied the slight young man.
“That’s awfully cyclical,” said Thor.
“Cynical,” corrected Jesus.
“That’s our motto.” The waiter pointed to a large placard mounted on the wall behind them.
“Oh, wow, look at that.”
“Well, if it’s all the same with you four,” began the Egyptian god-king, shooing away the waiter, “I’d like to get this conversation over with. With Walt Sidney dead –”
“That was one hell of a shit,” said Thor.
“– I’ve got to get back to Egypt and rebuild Heliopolis. And the sooner we’re out of this ... restaurant ... the better.” He slid the paper placemat advertising the Coronary Killer – a sandwich made out of fried pancakes, onion rings, bacon-stuffed Twinkies, and triple half-pound meat patties – toward the center of the table.
“All right,” said Artemis, crossing her arms over her chest, “then go ahead.”
“Oh. So, you just want me to ... OK, well,” stalled Ra, “as I’m sure you’ve all figured out by n–”
“So why Ra?” asked Thor. “Why not Odin?”
“Or, y’know, God?” added Jesus.
“Honestly, boys,” explained Amen-Ra, “I get severe seasonal affective disorder and having control of the sun helps considerably.”
“Yeah, man – dad – but, if you, y’know, went full God you could do that.”
“If I went ‘super saiyan?’ Is that what you kids are calling it now?”
“Until we come up with something less stupid,” added Artemis.
“What’s wrong with super saiyan?” asked Thor.
“Vicky told me you stole it from a cartoon!”
“So? Cartoons are awesome.”
“Benedict Cumberbatch,” mumbled the Greek goddess. “I cannot believe I am related to you.”
“Oh, so this is a family gathering?” asked the waiter, dropping off dishes and taking in the variety of ethnicities sitting around the table. “I take it some of you are adopted then?”
“Who fucking says that, man?” asked Jesus.
“Get out of here, dude,” added Thor, gently shoving the waiter away and into and over a nearby table. Salt shakers and silverware clattered to the ground.
“Look,” boomed Amen-Ra, “you’re right, with any of my other identities I could absolutely control the sun, eventually, but do you know how much effort that would take?”
“Yes,” replied Thor gravely, his mouth full of Coronary Killer.
“My ground level powers as Ra allow me to control the sun, and that’s all I wanted,” he explained. “And, I’ll be honest, I missed Egypt. It’s a lovely country.”
“Really, Pops?” asked Artemis. “Laziness? That’s your argument?”
“Yes,” the creator of the universe replied flatly. “I told you I was retired.”
“He is our dad, sister,” added Jesus, pointing a finger between himself and Thor.
“You’re just mad that my version of great-granddad won out,” taunted Set.
“I’m not mad,” said Artemis, “just confused. It really had nothing to do with who you were masquerading as during The Fall? You were powerful enough to choose who you wanted to be but not actually get your powers back?”
“I’ll be honest, honey,” explained Ra, “I really did not give it a lot of thought. I’d kind of checked out well before The Fall.”
“I’ll say,” said Jesus.
“It’s just, well, I would’ve went with Zeus is all,” Artemis continued.
“Well, of course you would’ve,” said Set.
“I still don’t see what was wrong with, like, just straight-up being God,” said Jesus.
“He is,” replied the Egyptian God of Chaos flatly.
“He means Zeus,” replied the Greek Goddess of the Hunt.
“No, I mean God.”
“So, like, Brahma?” offered the waiter from where he was painfully righting the other table.
“Stop fucking interrupting,” said the Greek goddess, flinging a butter knife dangerously close to the waiter’s neck. The young man made a face and then turned and limped slowly to the kitchen.
“Thor,” said Amen-Ra, putting a hand on
the thunder god’s shoulder, “you’ve been awfully quiet, son. Do you have anything you’d like to add? Thor?”
“Sorry,” said the former Norse god, “this sandwich is amazing.”
“The coffee’s pretty good too,” added Jesus.
“You guys are still high, aren’t you?” asked Artemis.
“God, I love Denny’s,” exclaimed the thunder god, shoving the rest of his fried pancake sandwich into his mouth.
The preceding chapter has been paid for by Denny’s.*
Denny’s: “If you’re stoned and starving, and manage to avoid the food poisoning, we’re actually not that bad.”
*The preceding chapter was not actually paid for by Denny’s.
However, if Denny’s would like to pay for the chapter retroactively ...
... well, it would have to be a lot of money.
Like, a lot a lot.
We’re talking the GDP of a small island nation, OK?
CHAPTER HOLY CRAP IS THIS STILL GOING?
Dun Dun DUNNN
“They’re all dead,” said the goblin.
“All of them?”
“Well, the important ones anyway. Sidney definitely. There were some dragoons and Louseketeers that made it through, but all the survivors have fled, per the terms of their survival. And, I mean, Cthulhu and Set are still technically alive, but they both made it exceptionally clear that they were quitting, so ... ”
“OK.” Ah Puch, the smiling Mayan god of death and acting CEO of the Walt Sidney Company clicked the window closed. He narrowed his eyes. “This cannot stand.”
CHAPTER THE LAST ONE I PROMISE
Waa Waaaa
“Actually, no,” said Ah Puch, shaking his head, “what am I talking about?” The death god began scrolling through some spreadsheets, mumbling to himself. “I am totally OK with letting this stand. It was idiotic, petty revenge that got Sidney killed in the first place. What was the practical value of going after those guys? Nothing, that’s what.”
Ah Puch opened a folder labeled Secret Projects.
“Benedict Cumberbatch, Walt,” said the CEO, “you can’t just label something ‘Secret Projects.’” He began going through the files within. “We are spending far too much on our security and acquisitions teams. And who needs this large of a nuclear arsenal? If we’d do things legally, people wouldn’t constantly be trying to kill us.”
“Honestly,” he continued, looking at more numbers, “they did this company a favor getting rid of Walt. We’ve got more money than we could –” He hit a few buttons. “Yup, wow. More money than we could even quantum theoretically spend. I’m going to send them a fruit basket. And who has this many vice presidents? I didn’t even know we had an office on Easter Island. That’s getting closed ...”
The smiling god hit the intercom button on his desk.
“Cynthia, get Makemake on the phone. And prep him for some terrible news.” Ah Puch looked around the all-white, retro-futuristic office, then hit the intercom button again. “And then get our interior designers on the line. This office is atrocious.”
THE END IV
(only one more book to go – and it’s the shortest one!)
(there are some stories first, though; sorry if that was misleading)
(I still believe in you!)
HOLD ME, THRILL ME, KISS ME, KILL ME
a Vicky & Thor sexcapade, in four parts
1.
Thor Odinson, the resurgent Norse God of Thunder, and Queen Victoria XXX, the thirtieth and last-standing clone of the ancient British monarch, were sitting in a booth – their booth – at their recently reopened local diner. The table was littered with plates and mugs. Neon glowed through the blinds of the window beside them.
“You gonna eat your pancakes?” asked the god with the glorious golden mane.
“I didn’t order pancakes,” answered the clone with the tumbling hair as dark as night.
Thor made a face, stopped chewing. “But I’m eating the pancakes I ordered ...”
“Are you sure,” Queen Victoria XXX asked, “that you didn’t order seconds –”
“Thirds.”
“– ‘cause, I mean, we’re both pretty high.”
“Trust me,” he said, “I’d remember ordering pancakes.”
She furrowed her brow. “Then ...”
The god and the clone looked around the diner. Across the dining room, a couple – a man and a woman, human, in their twenties, most likely – was waving at them. But, like, waving waving. Provocatively. With their hands and their eyes and, somehow, their genitalia, like lusty handmaidens in Renaissance times or something.
“Did they ...?”
“Are they ...?”
“No way.”
Through no fault of their own, word had been spreading about what had gone down in the Texas desert months earlier, between the Norseman and the mercenary and their friends, and famed entertainment icon Walt Sidney and his army. Across media platforms and in hair salons everywhere, the onetime mogul was, correctly and at long last, being outed and vilified for his litany of terrible deeds – as well as some things he’d had nothing to do with. Thor and Queen Victoria XXX, meanwhile, were – also correctly and at long last, as far as they were concerned – being lauded for their actions, despite some of them being almost as terrible as Sidney’s.
This, though, was the first time that someone had felt the need to express said praise and regard physically.
“Fucking finally,” said the thunder god, standing up so enthusiastically that he actually rocked the mounted table, sending coffee spilling. “This is amazing.” He shoved one of the pancakes into his mouth and started across the dining room.
“This is literally all I’ve ever wanted,” he said, eyes moist and crumbs spewing.
2.
Thor Odinson and Queen Victoria XXX were sitting in a booth – their booth – at their local diner. The table was littered with plates and mugs. Neon glowed through the window beside them.
“You gonna eat your pancakes?” asked the god.
“I didn’t –” answered the clone.
The stoned twosome looked around. Across the dining room, a couple – man, woman, human, thirtysomething – was waving at them. But, like, waving waving. Suggestively. With their hands and their eyes and, somehow, their genitalia, like horny teenagers in a PG-rated movie.
“Yeah, all right,” said the queen. “Which one do you want?”
“The dude?” said Thor. “I think I’m feeling like a bottom tonight.”
“Are you sure you’re just not feeling lazy?”
“I don’t really want to make eye contact either?”
“Oh,” she replied. Then: “You do know ladies can top, too, right?”
“Well, yeah, but it’s not the same.”
“I mean, it can be if – Have you never been pegged?”
“Never been what?”
“By the all-seeing eye of Odin,” she clone said, genuinely taken aback. “All this talk of you being a ‘fucking god’ and you – you’ve never been pegged.”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about, but ...” He lifted an eyebrow. “... maybe a demonstration’s in order? After these two inevitably fail to impress.”
“Yeah, why not?” said the queen, shrugging small. She looked at the couple again and shook her head. “I do not have high hopes here.”
“I just hope we don’t kill one of them.”
“No kidding,” she replied. “I do not want to deal with that again.”
3.
Thor Odinson. Queen Victoria XXX. Diner. Booth. Table. Plates. Mugs. Neon.
Pancakes.
Both the god and the queen exhaled, with a resignation not seen since the Nixon administration. If they were being honest with themselves – and that, admittedly, wasn’t always a given – all the rampant sexing was getting old, and exhausting, both physically and emotionally. Not to mention, everyone always telling them how great they were all the time and constantly a
sking them to “say something heroic” in bed was starting to get annoying.
They looked to the table in the far corner – it always seemed to be the table in the far corner – and found a trio of scorpionoids. Waving waving. With their claws and their eyes and their genitalia. Like something from a letter to Kafka’s Penthouse.
“Are we allowed to say no?” asked the queen. “I mean, I want to say no, but ... it seems rude. And maybe speciesist? And wildly out of character.”
The god shrugged. “I’ve never done it with a scorpion queen, so ... that’s something, I guess? Right?”
“Unless we die.”
“Hodr’s scrote,” Thor mumbled. “That sounds amazing.”
“I know,” Queen Victoria XXX agreed. “I am so tired.”
4.
Diner.
Pancakes.
Sighs.
“Which one do you ...” The queen flopped her hand through the air, hoping that was enough of a gesture to fill in the rest of the sentence.
“I don’t even ...” said the god, shaking his head, his eyes closed. “Flip for it?”
“Does this place deliver?” she asked, desperately, looking at the placemat in front of her for a phone number. “There’s got to be an easier way to get breakfast.”
“What are you guys talking about?” asked Jesus Christ, pulling the waffles closer. “Which what? What’s going on?”
MY WHISKEY WITH SIMON
or, A Heart in Darkness: One Man’s Personal Apocalypse
“Uh, hey,” said Wei Zheng, leaning over the bar and calling to the man reading a book at the other end. “Can I get a Jack and Coke? No ice?”
