The End of Everything Forever

by Eirik Gumeny

  “But this time I said literally!” He slammed his fist into the desk hard enough to splinter the wood. The veins on the president’s neck looked like a slow-motion pipe-bomb, bulging and fractions of moments away from tearing apart.

  “Look, don’t get your panties in a wad, Billy, all right?” said Queen Victoria XXX. “We’re here. What do you need us to do?”

  “You don’t do anything,” said the BDSM of FARTSSS, suddenly exhausted and crashing down into his chair. “I just wanted to yell at you in person.”

  “What? What do you mean, nothing?”

  “I didn’t – I didn’t actually say ‘nothing’ ...”

  “There’s got to be something, though, right?” continued the queen. “Some crackpot with a crazy whatever-or-other in his basement? I mean, aren’t we Renaissancing? Didn’t you reinstate the mad scientists of Las Máquinas?”

  “‘Reinstate’ is a little strong,” said the president, leaning forward. He began rifling through papers and swiping through touch screens on his desk. “But I did issue a large number of grants for independent research on some pretty weird shit.”

  “Well, there you go,” said Thor. Then: “So is this something we stay here and talk to you about? Or do we have to go to the Department of Science or something? Because there’s a hot dog cart outside and –”

  “We are not legally allowed to have that.”

  “The hot dog cart? That seems strict.”

  “We literally just saw it outside, man,” added Jesus Christ.

  “No, the Science Department,” explained the big man, still searching. “The government is legally barred from having one.”

  Thanks to President Donald “Junk in the Trunk” Trump’s recently unearthed Greatest Amendment You Ever Seen™, scientists (or anyone with more than a GED) were not permitted to work for or be funded by any iteration of any government presiding over any part of the land that previously housed the United States of America. The last president that America had ever had had had the U.S. Constitution reprinted on a sheet of solid gold and hand-carved the new amendment into the metal himself.

  The addition was horribly misspelled and kind of super racist, but, still, somehow, it was law. As a result, scientists became entirely privately funded, through large corporate donors ... and viewers like you.

  “But you are the government,” said Queen Victoria XXX.

  “It’s a long story,” said the president, pulling open drawers, “but give me five minutes and I can point you in something resembling the right direct–”

  Suddenly, everyone was standing two feet farther forward than they had been less than a moment earlier. Thor had a hot dog in his mouth and two in each hand.

  “What the shit,” he mumbled, spewing bread chunks.

  “Damn it,” said the president, leaning against his desk, his arms crossed over his chest. “The hole’s getting bigger than I thought.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “This isn’t a joke.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said the thunder god, “but what I said was.”

  “Black holes don’t just affect space and physics, idiot, they can fuck with time too. And this one? I don’t know if it was the bomb itself or the energies from the other dimension or what, but this one’s acting all kinds of bananas – and it looks like we’re all about to learn the specifics firsthand.” William H. Taft XLII handed them the index card he was already holding in his hand, apparently. “Here. Go. Now. Try and fix this before we all die.”

  “So we can fix this?” asked Jesus Christ, his mouth also full of hot dog.

  “No, that’s why I said ‘try,’” he replied. “Are you guys even listening?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Too Ra Loo Rye Aye

  Thor Odinson, Queen Victoria XXX, and Jesus Christ stepped off the bus and stood marveling at a repurposed multi-level warehouse in one of the trendiest sections of the gleaming metropolis of New New York, D.C. The exterior of the building was painted, meticulously and thoroughly, in yellow-and-black plaid. Old Halloween and Christmas decorations hung in the windows, even though it was April, all holidays had been rolled into a single Holiday Day Week mega-event years ago, and Santa Claus had been presumed dead for decades.

  “This is a science facility?” asked Queen Victoria XXX.

  “This doesn’t look like a science facility,” answered Thor.

  Thick vines of fairy lights surrounded the entryway, illuminating the glinting metal sign proclaiming this to be the home of Dexy’s Midnight Astrophysicists.

  “I think I sold these guys drugs once,” said Jesus Christ.

  “I think you might’ve sold them too many,” said the queen.

  “So do we knock,” asked the thunder god, “or is this a –”

  The automatic door before them opened automatically.

  “Nevermind,” he mumbled dejectedly.

  The trio entered, walking through the wide, unguarded lobby, past topiaries of unicorns and frogs and trees, then took the freight elevator up a floor. The doors opened. A frenzied flurry of folks in lab coats were running around with their hands over their heads, like a bunch of post-doctoral Kermit the Frogs.

  “This probably isn’t great,” said Queen Victoria XXX.

  Thor grabbed the arm of the nearest person racing past and spun the man around to face them. The guy was young and reasonably attractive, except for his ridiculous high-fade pompadour. The name tag on his coat said Dr. Vanilla Ice II.

  “Culsu’s cooooch,” groaned the queen, throwing her head back.

  “What,” said Thor, “you know this guy?”

  “You don’t? You love shitty music.”

  Following the gratuitous murders of the scientists of Las Máquinas by Loki Laufeyjarson, Norse God of Sucking Real Hard, and because of the success and popularity of Queen Victoria XXX, William H. Taft XLII, and their fellow faux federal friends, a huge number of the world’s greatest scientific minds were cloned and uploaded into the also-cloned bodies of celebrities, in an effort to make science sexier and more appealing to the young folk.

  Unfortunately for everyone, however, several teams of lawyers got involved and society’s hopes for an actually intelligent Matt Damon were dashed. Because of the fear of litigation, only C-list or lower celebrities were used in the scientific experiment, since there was less chance they’d sue – or, more accurately, since they wouldn’t be able to afford the good lawyers that were already up in the cloning company’s business.

  In the end, Xerox[liii] sold off the artificially apt actors and musicians and Kardashians to the highest bidders, the facsimile famous people now toiling away for corporations and special interests, slaving over test tubes and overclocked computers and remote weather stations, desperately looking for ways to improve the human condition, to understand the mysteries of the universe, and to make a massive profit off the results.

  “We’s all gonna die, yo!” explained Dr. Ice, trying – and failing – to pull free of Thor’s grip. “There’s a black hole, son! And it’s expanding right at us!”

  “Yeah,” said the thunder god, “no shit. That’s why we’re here.”

  “How do we stop it?” asked Queen Victoria XXX, grabbing the man’s other arm.

  “Stop it?” said the imitation one-hit-wonder. “Bitch, I don’t –”

  The queen slapped him, hard, right across his stupid face.

  “Motherf–” said Vanilla Ice II, stretching his jaw, his cheek red and already swelling. “I mean, sorry, yo. Residual misogyny from the cloning and all that.”

  “Yeah, no, I get it. Took me forever to stop wanting jellied eels.”

  “Then why’d you hit me?”

  She shrugged. “I wasn’t gonna not hit you.”

  “Can we get back to the black hole thing?” asked a visibly tense Jesus Christ. Around him, scientists continued to run and scream and cry and poop themselves and desperately make out with one another on top of desks. “There’s a weird energy in here, brot
her, and it’s starting to freak me out.”

  “Man, what’s there to know? Black holes is bas’c’lly super deep gravity wells, right? Sucking up all light and matter and what-nots. Only the hyperbolic trajectory is replaced by the event horizon, meaning none of what’s sucked up can escape back out.”

  “Obviously,” said Thor.

  “This one, though,” continued the scientist, shaking his head. “We’s reas’ably sure there’s a huge, diseased asshole of a quasar on the flip side of the dimensional rift. Prolly why we ain’t been able to identify nothing yet ‘bout what it really is. Short version? This honkie’s growing faster than black holes is supposed to grow, and with augmented and uncharacteristic effects. We –”

  In less than a fraction of a fraction of a second, several more scientists-slash-washed-up-musicians were standing behind Dr. Ice. Jesus Christ, meanwhile, was outside, already half a joint deep into his relaxation exercises.

  “Shit, yeah, just like that, yo,” said Vanilla Ice II. “I guess.”

  “OK ...” said Queen Victoria XXX, looking around and making sure all of her parts were still there, “but, again, how do we stop it?”

  “Man, wasn’t you listening?”

  “Apparently not,” said Thor.

  “Look, homegirl,” said Dr. MC Hammer IV, “we don’t know, y’dig? We’ve only been hired to study black holes for their potential effects on weight loss. And this one ... Well, ‘wack as shit’ has been coming up a lot around the office.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Dr. Ice, “but we’s gonna be rich as shit after the bonus for this clears, though!”

  “You, uh, you know we’re all going to die, right?” asked Queen Victoria XXX.

  “Didn’t you just tell us that?” added Thor.

  “Nah, man. You, yeah. But me? I’mma be too rich to die.”

  “That’s not how money works.”

  “Says you.”

  “Says anyone with even a modicum of financial, or common, sense,” explained the queen. “I’m beginning to feel like we might need a second opinion here.”

  “Beginning?” parroted Thor.

  “Here,” said MC Hammer IV, placing a flash drive in her hand, “take this. This is all our documentation. We don’t have the resources to do anything other than prove this is happening. If you want results, or options, or ... hope, you’ll have to take our research elsewhere, somewhere that’s too legit to quit ... on doing the requisite investigatory steps into finding a viable solution.”

  “Ooh! Ooh!” hooted Thor, jumping up and down.

  “What? No. Whatever you’re thinking,” said Queen Victoria XXX, “no.”

  “What if I go into space and electrocute the black hole?”

  “Fuck no, man!” added Vanilla Ice.

  “But it might work!”

  “It absolutely will not work, son. That’s not how black holes black hole!”

  “Besides,” added Queen Victoria XXX, “we’re not going into space, Thor.”

  “But I wa-nna,” he whined.

  “Look, I’ve been there, buddy. It’s not great.”

  The scientists behind the other scientists began behaving in a much more X-rated fashion than previously. Tables and counters were being knocked clear; red lace was being thrown over the lighting fixtures.

  “You guys should, uh, you should probably leave,” said Dr. Hammer, eyeing his co-workers and sliding off his lab coat. “None of us know how to panic correctly, and, well, things’re about to get real dirty up in here.”

  “Hey,” replied the queen, putting a hand on his shoulder, “orgies are completely acceptable responses to panic, OK? Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  “You’s two’s more than welcome to join us, then,” said Vanilla Ice II, hopping on one foot as he pulled off his shoe.

  “Let’s not go that far,” she countered.

  ***

  The god, the queen, and the demigod sat on the curb outside the research facility, passing a joint between them. Multicolored lights strobed in the windows behind them, while bass thumped loud enough that they could feel it from the sidewalk.

  Queen Victoria XXX fiddled absentmindedly with the flash drive in her hand.

  “We need scientists,” she said.

  “Those were scientists,” said Thor.

  “We need good scientists.”

  “Aren’t all the good ones dead?” asked Jesus Christ.

  “Yeah, but can’t you ...” The queen groaned, then put her arms out straight, mimicking a Frankenstein, despite thinking she was mimicking a zombie.

  “The time for that was a couple years ago, sister,” he explained. “Now? You’re only gonna get a lot of gross and not a lot of helpful.”

  “Well, that’s –” began the dark-haired clone, cutting herself off and hopping to her feet. “Wait. Good might be off the table, but good enough is still an option.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Thor. “Are we going to another nerd orgy? ‘cause that one –” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “– got weird, fast, and that’s coming from me.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Meet the Jetsons

  “Hi!” said Judy Lin, Scientist-in-Chief at Consolidated Phukital, opening the door to her office. She poked her head into the hallway. “Where’s everyone else?”

  “Dead,” said Queen Victoria XXX grimly.

  “Oh. That’s a bummer,” replied the scientist. “So it’s ... just you two?”

  “Yeah,” said Thor. “Well, us and Jesus, but he’s not –”

  “Are you guys ... y’know ...” The woman in the white lab coat made some very confusing motions with her fingers.

  “Uh, no ...?”

  “Why does everyone keep asking that?” asked the cloned queen.

  “Because of the Global Repopulation Effort,” answered Judy severely.

  “I thought that was voluntary.”

  “OK, sure,” she scoffed. “If you want humanity to end.”

  “Hey, funny story ...” said Thor.

  ***

  “Well?” asked Queen Victoria XXX. She was standing behind Judy, who, in turn, was standing in front of a computer, hunched over and waaay too close to the screen.

  Judy Lin was on the smaller side – though most women were, compared to the part-Amazonian Queen Victoria XXX – and appeared to have undergone some kind of plastic surgery since the last time the clone had seen her. Or maybe she’d simply healed. At any rate, the scientist, formerly of the Amalgamated Provinces and States of Canada, America, and Mexico’s Department of Science, was no longer wearing a bag over her head to hide her massive disfigurement at the hands – and feet, and at least one elbow – of an atomic werewolf that she’d helped create.

  Turned out, she was kind of plain-looking.

  “We won’t know for sure for another day or two ... We need to compile some more of this data, double-check our opportunity windows, but ...” The scientist paused for an unseemly amount of time.

  “But?”

  “Preliminarily,” she said, standing up straight, “we could shoot Thor into space.”

  “Yes!” shouted Thor, raising his hands over his head.

  “No!” shouted the queen. “How would that even –”

  “We have a rocket in the warehouse,” said Judy, pointing a thumb toward the back of the laboratory. “We’ve been working on a time-quickening quantum core to counteract the effects of a black hole, you know, for fun. But we haven’t been able to come up with a strong enough power source to make it go boom.”

  “I understood most of that ...”

  “You can’t stop a black hole. The only thing you can do is wait one out. Over time, a black hole will fill up and evaporate, like spaghetti in a sink drain. Though, obvs, we don’t have that kind of time – or the ability to not get absorbed in the meanwhile. I mean, unless we do. You guys have been jumping through time, right?”

  “We have,” said Thor.

  “Well, maybe, if we wait long enough ..
. the extradimensional energy ... will ... speed us up to a point ... where ... we’ve already figured all of this out?” The scientist looked around the room. “No? What about ... backwards? To give us more time?” She looked at her watch. “Hm. What about ... now? ... Now! ... No? OK, what about –”

  “Judy, I feel like we’re getting off topic,” said Queen Victoria XXX.

  “Oh, really? ‘cause I don’t.”

  “You want to send Thor into space because ...”

  “Because if he can detonate the quantum core, we can speed up time around the black hole and force the singularity to disappear, without destroying the planet,” explained the tiny woman. “Even better, Thor’s an ageless god, so he won’t grow super old and die and decay if he gets caught up in the blast radius.”

  “What was your plan before me?” questioned the god in question.

  “A dangerous amount of hydrogen bombs. And Owen.” She glared across the lab toward another scientist. “He’s a dick.”

  “Huh.”

  “Well, shit,” said Queen Victoria XXX, suddenly feeling heavy. She sank into a nearby rolling chair. “I guess you are going into space.”

  “I mean, unless that Jesus guy you keep going on about figures out something better,” said Judy. “The math on this is wildly theoretical.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  God Only Knows

  Jesus Christ knocked on the d–

  Jesus Christ was standing in his father’s living room.

  “I am really starting to dislike that,” he mumbled.

  Amen-Ra, former Egyptian God-King of the Sun, a.k.a. Odin, former Norse All-Father, a.k.a. God, a.k.a. Zeus, a.k.a. Jupiter, a.k.a. everyone else, was sitting on a well-worn recliner in his bathrobe, heart-adorned boxing shorts, and threadbare slippers, watching the Weather Channel. On the screen, an ancient Jim Cantore was placidly explaining that he was getting word that there appeared to be a black hole just beyond the earth’s atmosphere, and that that wasn’t good. There was probably going to be a lot of rain for one thing, along with unpredictable tides. Strong winds and earthquakes were also possible, depending on how fast the planet’s rotation slowed. And – obviously this went without saying, he said – but all of humankind was probably going to die horribly, and soon.