by Eirik Gumeny
Hector nodded and shoved off an armchair, floating gently toward the front door, changing lenses as he went.
Outside, the sky turned black with roiling clouds. The last of the helicopters began twitching as the growing electromagnetic forces in the air started messing with all the parts that make helicopters fly. A colossal lightning bolt ripped through the sky, pulled a sharp ninety-degree turn, and cannonballed horizontally in between the careening choppers, through the broken wall and straight into the jury-rigged bomb – as well as the two avian assholes standing over it.
There was a blinding flash, thunder that shook the entire block, and then the walls were splattered with chunks of penguin scientists.
Harley Brochovich, floating along the ceiling, vomited at the sight.
Things did not end well for her.
“Gross,” said Thor, looking up.
“Uh, hey, buddy,” said Queen Victoria XXX, floating past and pointing a thumb toward the whirring doomsday machine. “That thing’s still working.”
“Not for long it’s not.”
“Please hurry,” choked Harley.
Tossing Mjolnir and holding onto the handle, the God of Thunder glided across the room, the hammer – and then Thor – slamming hard into the pile of electronics. Nothing seemed to break. Furrowing his brow, the Norseman grabbed the bomb and, counterbalancing himself with his magic cudgel, hurled the bomb with everything he had, through the hole in the wall, through the crack he had years ago made in the sky, and into outer motherfucking space.
“And now it’s gone forever,” said Thor, wiping his hands clean.
Everything collided with the ground at once.
“Can I ... can I get a paper towel or something,” mumbled Harley, rolling onto her back. “Maybe, like, a lot?”
“Oh, come on, it’s all over the carpet now!” scolded Queen Victoria XXX.
“So,” said the thunder god, covered in shit and penguin guts and lifting up Alfredo Trabaverga by his armpit, “you still want to ask us those questions for your Exponential Apocalypse show or what?”
“The Exponential Apocalyps-es,” the director croaked.
Thor made a face. “Pretty sure mine’s better, man.”
“What did you do to your clothes?!” screamed Kelly Squatchson.
In Their Own Words
On the screen: Harrison Christopher, an unaging half-angel, half-man, is dressed in a bespoke dark blue suit. Every crease is perfect. The camera tightens on his golden-hued visage, head tilted at the exact right angle to indicate deep wells of compassion and curiosity, but also leaning forward just enough to let everyone know that he is the one asking the questions, that he can make or break a reputation with a single word. His eyes twinkle, like stars above an endless desert.
“So, Thor, former Scandinavian Lord of Thunder,” the host begins, smiling genially, “the man who cracked the sky to save the world, but then did nothing to stop Nikola Tesla’s earthquake machine, but then reinvigorated the continental grid and saved us again, but also killed beloved children’s entertainment icon Walt Sidney, tell us: Why?”
“What?” asks the thunder god, raising an eyebrow. He’s classically handsome, like a statue from antiquity come to life, only sexier and paler. His golden hair is pulled back into a half-ponytail, his beard looks like that of a lumberjack winning an award. His dark blue chambray shirt is tight, threatening to explode off of him.
“Why did you kill Walt Sidney?”
“Are we really doing this again? I already told you –”
The subtlest of cuts. Thor’s head shifts positions ever-so-slightly.
“– I killed Walt Sidney because he pit Satan, your Judeo-Christian Devil, against Loki, the Norse God of Being a Dick – and, also, my half-brother – to see who could kill my friends Mark and Timmy first. In the process, Catrina ...”
Thor pauses, looks away. His eyes unfocus.
“Catrina ...” leads the host.
“You know what?” says the Norseman, squinting his eyes and shaking his head. “Fuck this.” The big man stands up, his big crotch, barely contained by his sweatpants, taking up most of the frame. “I’m out of here.”
“You can’t ...” stammers Harrison from off-screen. “Is he allowed to do this?”
As Thor’s midsection stomps past the edge of the armchair, a blurry Queen Victoria XXX can be seen walking out of the bathroom at the other end of the room, waving her hand behind her. The camera focuses as best it can.
“Nobody go in there for a while,” she says. “I think that Thai I had for breakfast went bad. Like, a couple days ago.”
***
“So, you and Thor,” continues Harrison Christopher, that twinkle in his eye becoming downright lascivious. “You’ve been sharing a home together for the better part of two years. What’s that like?”
“What’s what like?” asks Queen Victoria XXX, her voice like dragged concrete. She looks like she was genetically engineered to simultaneously be the most beautiful and most dangerous woman alive – because she was. Multi-ethnic to the point that it doesn’t matter anymore, her skin is dark and flawless. She has the face of a model, the shoulders of an Olympic swimmer, and the glare of a lion tamer that left her bag of fucks-to-give at home.
“I assume there have to have been some ... misunderstandings?” continues the host.
“Never.”
“After the death of your husband, Chester Arthur Arthur the –”
“He wasn’t my husband,” she says. “And the A wasn’t for another Arthur.” A pause. “Did you seriously think it was Chester Arthur Arthur?”
“With him gone,” continues Harrison, “you must have felt ... well, lonely, right?”
“Not right.”
“Come on now, Vicky –”
“You can call me Your Majesty.”
“– there had to be certain things that you missed about him?”
“Did I miss things about the man I loved?” The queen looks off camera. “You’re actually paying this asshole?”
“What kind of things?” the host presses, unabated.
“Well, Thor and I are terrible with money for one thing.” She sneers. “And neither of us can cook –”
“Of course, of course, but what about certain ... bedroom things?”
“Oh, we have a maid for that now. We broke the washing machine on, like –”
“Maybe I’m not making myself clear.”
Queen Victoria XXX smiles at the man sitting opposite her, her mouth not matching any other part of her. “No,” she says, “you’re making yourself very clear.”
Her eyes flash. At the bottom edge of the screen, the queen, almost imperceptibly, moves her arm, dropping it along the side of the armchair.
“Let me be more direct, then,” says Harrison Christopher, tenting his fingers and leaning forward. “What I’m asking is, did you and Thor ever – Fuck! Where did you –”
An abrupt camera switch.
“Let me show you how I interview people,” says the clone, rising from the chair, an enormous hunting knife in her hand, the blade reflecting the lights into the camera.
Smash cut to black.
***
A scene already in progress. The image is shaky and blurry as the cameraman tries to get everything into focus.
“– not good enough for you, man? Huh?” shouts a scrawny, Middle Eastern hippie. He looks like he’s auditioning for the lead in Jay & Silent Bob: The Musical. “They get all the glory, all the screen time?”
“Jesus Christ,” mumbles a redheaded woman behind him.
“What?!” roars the skinny man, turning on her.
Tom Petty’s “You Don’t Know How It Feels” starts playing, then stops almost immediately, abruptly, almost as if the docudrama couldn’t secure the rights.
“Yo,” says Jesus Christ into his phone, eyes like the sky after a hurricane locked on the assistant director.
“Uh-huh,” he continues.
His brow creases i
n concern. He breaks contact with the redhead, looking toward the ground, and starts pacing absentmindedly.
“Laced with what?” he asks.
“And? What d’you mean ‘and?’” he asks again.
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, damn. OK.”
“Thanks?”
The Judeo-Christian Savior of Mankind slides his cell phone back into his pocket.
“Uh, sorry,” he says, turning, in turn, and then back again, to Harley Brochovich and the camera. “Sorry. Truly. That wasn’t – I gotta – Look, I gotta go take care of something real fast. Do you guys have, like, a medic on hand?” He stumbles behind a nearby trailer. “Are they down here?”
“How in the fuck did these guys save the planet?” grumbles Alfredo Trabaverga, pulling off his ballcap and rubbing his forehead with his one working hand.
“We’ve technically still got the reenactors for –” Harley scrolls through the tablet on her arm. “– another two weeks, if you want to –”
“Yeah. Call ‘em. I’ll get in touch with the studio, have them get in touch with Taft. I think we got ten minutes of useable footage with these clowns.”
“There wasn’t a medic back there,” says Jesus Christ, reemerging from behind the trailer. “Can, uh, can one of you give me a ride to a hospital? Or something?”
CHAPTER THREE
Can You Spot All the Marvel Comics References?
Four-and-a-half hours after the docudrama started, the episode’s end credits finally rolled, intercut with bloopers from the production, most of them involving the mostly-naked British Indian reenactor and some version of Chris Pratt.
“I have a lot of issues with what we just watched,” said Queen Victoria XXX, fully-clothed in pink flannel pajamas, on the floor and leaning against the bottom of the sofa.
“Why’d they make me a fat white guy?” asked Jesus Christ, also on the floor, also in pink flannel pajamas, and reaching for his bong.
“British is literally the one nationality that I’m not,” continued the genealogically-muddled clone. “I mean, yeah, there’s some Queen Victoria in there, but just the German stuff.”
“I don’t think I’m fat,” said the Prince of Peace, holding his breath. “Am I fat?”
“And, look, I get that the Chris Pratts are contractually obligated to be in literally every film production across the globe, but, come on, Charlie was not a Chris Pratt type. A Chris Evans, maybe. Mixed with, like, a John Cho.” A shiver, the good kind, ran through her. “I need to remember that one for later,” she mumbled.
“That’s the Chris Pratt you have an issue with in that thing?”
“I don’t know, I liked it,” said Thor Odinson with a shrug, sprawled in a bathrobe on the couch behind them.
“Then you,” said the Judeo-Christian Son of God, exhaling and returning the now weedless bong to the coffee table, “can get the rest of us more beer.”
“And whiskey,” added the queen.
“And a couple of Cokes.”
“And maybe make some coffee.”
“Also, we’re out of Bugles.”
“The rest ...” repeated the Norse Son of Odin, scrunching his face. “It is just you two, right?”
“I bring one invisible woman home,” said the queen, “and all of a sudden –”
Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” starting blaring from Thor’s terrycloth pocket. The beefy blondie fished for his phone.
“Hello?” he said, his giant fingers accidentally putting the call on speaker.
“Why in the ever-loving fuck did you throw it into space?!” shouted the voice on the other end, roaring like an arachnophobic newspaper editor. “And why, in the ever-loving-er fuck, did you throw it into the scientifically-impossible dimensional rift you created five years ago?!”
“Oh, so it’s my fault you haven’t fixed that yet?”
“Hey, Billy,” hollered Queen Victoria XXX.
“Couldn’t you have just smashed it?!” continued the president, his roar degenerating into a whine. “What happened to ‘Thor smash computery thing?’”
“Man, I tried,” said Thor. “Didn’t you watch the docuwhatever?”
“We’re fucked, Thor. The entire world – and possibly more – is fucked.”
“How fucked?”
The man on the phone grumbled. “Just meet me at the White House.”
“The original or the fake one that sells waffles?”
“Oh, shit, we’re getting waffles?” asked Jesus. “Forget the Bugles then, man. Where are my shoes?”
CHAPTER THREE-AND-A-HALF
Horsehoes and Hand Grenades
Wei Zheng pulled his car into the parking lot of his ex-wife’s apartment complex, found a spot near her door, and let the engine idle. He exhaled, trying to calm his nerves. It had been a journey, a struggle, to get even this far, he knew, and he didn’t want to screw it up. Not now. Not when he was so close.
“OK ...” he said, starting to talk himself through what he was going to say. He looked into the rearview mirror, found his own eyes. “OK. Shannon, I know I wasn’t always ...”
Wei tilted his head. There was something in the mirror, behind him, something –
He turned frantically in the driver’s seat. His eyes went wide.
There was, unmistakeably, undeniably – and, unless his doctorate in theoretical astrologonomy was completely useless, impossibly – a supermassive extradimensional black hole forming in the purpling sky.
“... son of a bitch,” he said. “I mean, come on.”
CHAPTER FOUR
It’s Just a Jump to the Left ...
After the Las Vegas Massacre reduced the world’s most prosperous city to rubble, a burning, itching desire for a new, centralized government spread across the globe like a particularly virulent strain of gonorrhea – in no small part because the city-state of Las Vegas had, in fact, being doing almost all of the heavy lifting for the entire planet, sending supplies and money and people wherever they were needed, and keeping society afloat all by its lonesome.
With the city now destroyed – and much like a toddler with a handgun – humanity quickly proved that it couldn’t be left alone without supervision.
With fires still firing and disasters still disastering – albeit in significantly less planet-ravaging ways – it didn’t take long for every extant nation and territory on the planet to unite, voluntarily and enthusiastically, under the firm and calloused – yet tender and dexterous – hand of William H. Taft XLII. The forty-second and only-surviving clone of the twenty-seventh president of the former United States of America was unanimously elected Benevolent Dictator of Situations and Mankind, with everyone agreeing that, even though the Las Vegas Massacre had occurred under his watch, he clearly must have learned a thing or two about not allowing vast swaths of people to die gruesomely.
Unified for the first time, a massive rebranding effort soon swept across the globe like a curler on speed. The island of North America,[li] a motley collection of city-states and independent territories and truck stops, became the united country of New Springsteen – named after the singer-songwriter and hero of the Third Robot War – and was quickly chosen to be the presiding nation of the Federation of All Residents of Terra and Surrounding Space Stations.
The city of Washington, D.C., meanwhile, was selected as the planet’s capitol and rebuilt,[lii] right down to the historic monuments and the White House – except this time all the statues of slaveholders and sexual predators were left out, the White House was given a more inclusive coat of paint, the city was relocated to the newly-constructed junk island of New New York, and it wasn’t actually called Washington, D.C. anymore.
Similarly, the rechristened Rainbow House – also being rebuilt from scratch, the original White House having been gilded during, and then melted down after, the disastrous presidency of Donald “Jerkface” Trump – was updated with a host of modern settings, including laser fences and a dinosaur garden, because there was a time to
stand on ceremony and tradition, and there was a time to install a holographic fantasy dome in the basement.
“Mark, Timmy,” said Thor Odinson, nodding toward the two squirrels scampering across the floor and up a potted tree as he entered the Rainbow House’s Octagonal Office. Behind the burly blonde man were Queen Victoria XXX and Jesus Christ, all three of them looking as though they’d just been disturbed from a lengthy nap. Doritos crumbs were falling out of both sons of gods’ beards, while Vicky had simply thrown a leather jacket over her pajamas. All of them were wearing slippers.
William H. Taft XLII, meanwhile, was standing behind his desk, his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up, his tie half undone. His close-cropped hair, his Rooseveltian mustache, were going grey. A big man by all definitions of the term, he was resting his sledgehammer fists atop the desk and leaning his gorilla shoulders forward.
“Do you,” he rumbled without looking up, “have any idea how bad you just screwed us all?”
“Nope,” replied Thor.
“That thing you threw into space?” continued the president, now glaring at the trio. “That was a black hole generator. And you hurled it into a crack in the you damned sky! Do you know what it did when it got there? Do you? Do you know what the black hole generator did when you threw it into an extradimensional hole?”
“Explode ...?” replied the thunder god.
“No, Thor, it did not explode. Want to try again?”
“Not really, no.”
“The black hole generator, Thor, generated a black fucking hole.”
“That’s bad, right?” asked Thor.
“Sounds pretty bad, brother,” said Jesus Christ.
“You literally sentenced the entire planet to death!” explained William H. Taft XLII.
“OK, sure,” said the Norseman, “but you’ve said that before.”
