by Eirik Gumeny
Twenty: Business Ethics
“You want to live here, at the hotel,” repeated Mark.
“Yes,” affirmed Catrina.
“For free.”
“Also correct.”
“And you think I’m going to agree to this, why?”
“Because the hotel has, at best, five guests a month, and yet contains over eighty habitable rooms. Because there was an… incident at my apartment, and it is no longer a fit place for a person to live. And because despite your hideous, patchwork exterior, you’ve explained to me that you do, in fact, have a human heart, and therefore my situation must, surely, stir it.”
“Hmm…”
“Also, Thor is kind of useless and you’re extremely lazy and we’re down at least one porter and you know damn well that without me this place would have even fewer guests than it does now and that would be bad for everyone.”
“Well, that is quite the compelling argument, Catrina,” said Mark, “and my heart is most certainly stirred, as well as shaken, but I’m going to have to say no.”
“Aw, come on, dude!”
“Look, Catrina, I can’t just let people start crashing here without paying whenever they feel like it. I am trying to run a business, after all.
“Despite all those vaunted efforts of yours,” he continued, “the hospitality industry is pretty much obsolete. The only reason this place is turning any kind of a profit is because Holiday Inn went out of business two years ago and the lease holder on the building had already exploded back in… in…”
“No, please. Go on.”
Catrina crossed her arms and glared at Mark. Mark closed his eyes and groaned.
“Take your pick of the top floor.”
“Thank you, Mark,” lilted Catrina, before adding, “I moved my shit in an hour ago,” and skipping onto the elevator.
“Don’t tell anyone! Word gets out and I’m gonna have all manner of degenerates asking to stay here.”
Immediately upon the above sentence’s conclusion, Thor came barreling into the lobby, covered in blood and dirt and carrying a duffel bag.
“Holy shit, Mark, man…” explained Thor breathlessly.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” said Mark.
“Dude, holy crap, the fucking… the fucking Hollow Men took my apartment complex. A god damned sinkhole, man, took the whole thing! I woke up underground! Underfuckingground! In the Hollow fucking Earth! They’ve got a fucking sun down there, man! Jesus, shit, Mark, I had to… had to fight my way out, they were… they were everywhere, man, holy shit, and…”
“You need a place to stay.”
“Well, yeah. I mean, there was a lot more murdering and burrowing and whatever, but, yeah, that’s… that’s pretty much why I’m here.”
Mark rubbed his forehead. “Fourth floor.”
“Really? That’s it? No arguing? I came up with a list on the way over. It’s very compelling.”
“Just go, Thor.”
Thor walked to the computer behind the counter and quickly created a keycard for room 401. As he pocketed the card and hustled to the elevator, the ringing in his ears—caused by the Hollow Men’s borers—grew higher in pitch, drowning out the lecture Mark appeared to be giving.
Not that Thor particularly cared what Mark was going on about, anyway. He assumed it was about owing him one, or no free rides, or humping the toaster oven or something. Thor really didn’t have the patience for it right now. He stepped from the elevator and began walking down the hall, desperately in need of a shower, a nap, and everything in the mini-bar.
Instead, Thor opened the door to room 401 and found a naked Catrina standing before him.
“That’ll work, too,” he thought.
“Holy fuck,” exclaimed Catrina, grabbing a comforter and covering up her naughty parts.
Thor frowned.
“Jesus fuck, Thor, close the god damned door!” the naked girl shouted.
“Why would I want to close the door?” reasoned the fully-clothed former god, laughing.
Catrina threw a remote control at Thor’s head.
“Come on, there’s no need for hostilities.”
Catrina threw a lamp at Thor’s head.
“Christ, Catrina,” he said, ducking swiftly. “I didn’t know you were in here, OK? Why are you in here, anyway?”
“Because you befouled my apartment, jackass,” she said. “I called a cleaning service and two of them died. Then the landlord found out and now the building’s being razed. I needed a new place to live, cheap, since my security deposit’s being put towards the funerals.”
She adjusted the comforter.
“I was about to take a shower and try and wash that nightmare away. Right up until some mannerless tool barged in on me and made me rethink my need to deadbolt the door, that is.”
She adjusted the comforter again.
“Why the hell are you here?” asked Catrina. “You look like shit.”
“My apartment now has a lovely view of the Hollow Earth. I needed a place to crash.”
“Well, why the fuck didn’t you knock?”
“Why the fuck would I knock? This floor’s been empty since I started working here. Besides, I’m not exactly thinking about my fucking manners, OK? I woke up in a hole, Catrina, a fucking hole, and I had to kill so, so many fucking Hollow Men… I think I might’ve committed genocide, honestly. And then… then I had to ride a giant mole… to… to the surface…”
Thor drifted off mid-sentence and his eyes glazed over. He wobbled slightly.
“Yeah, OK, I got it. Sucks to be you. 401 is mine, OK? Go get yourself another room.”
She adjusted the comforter again. It was proving to be less comfortable than its name implied.
“Down the hall or something,” she continued, “so we don’t share any plumbing.”
Catrina realized Thor wasn’t paying attention. He was staring at the mirror to the right of her. Apparently, the last readjustment of the comforter had readjusted a little too much.
“Fuck!” she said. “You fucking son of a bitch!”
Catrina grabbed the coffee maker with both hands and threw it at Thor’s head, completely losing control of the comforter in the process.
Thor fell to the ground with a smile on his face.
Twenty-One: There Are a Lot of Dead Acrobats for Some Reason
Chester A. Arthur XVII and Queen Victoria XXX sat in the car without speaking, their charred and decimated surroundings becoming more and more familiar with every passing mile. The CD player made a stilted ka-chunk as it shifted through each empty tray, eventually settling on the same dollar-bin disc that had been playing in an endless loop for the last eight hours.
“You know, this wasn’t a bad CD for a dollar.”
“Yeah, I kinda like it.”
The music continued to fill the car at a pleasant volume, and the two went back to sitting in relative silence: Chester A. Arthur behind the wheel, bleary-eyed and determined; Victoria staring out the passenger window in a wearied daze.
Chester A. Arthur XVII cleared his throat.
“Hmm?” asked Queen Victoria XXX.
“Huh? I didn’t…”
“Oh. Sorry.”
The silence descended again, not lifting until the pair finally reached their apartment parking lot.
“Kind of an uneventful trip,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, shifting the car into park.
“Yeah,” agreed Queen Victoria XXX, stretching her back.
Chester removed the key from the ignition. The CD stopped playing. The engine sputtered and died.
“Made pretty good time, too.”
“We did,” said Queen Victoria XXX, “especially considering all the shit that went down after we got lost.”
“Ha, yeah,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII. “Man, those fucking…”
“Seriously. I can’t believe they made you marry…”
“I don’t… I’m really not ready to talk about that yet.”
“And then,
when we…”
“And you had to…”
“Oh, god!”
“Yeah.”
“That poor horse.”
“Dude,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, opening the door to the apartment and entering the kitchen, “we’re back. We got beer.”
“Lots and lots of beer,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “Get off your ass and help us bring it in.”
“My dear lady,” said William H. Taft XLII, walking into the kitchen from the living room, “my posterior has been aloft for quite some time.”
“That… doesn’t seem right,” said Queen Victoria XXX, tilting her head.
William H. Taft XLII was walking into the kitchen on his hands.
“OK, whoever’s controlling Billy needs to leave now,” ordered Chester A. Arthur XVII. “I’m not above injuring his body grievously.”
To reinforce his point, Chester A. Arthur XVII waved the two cases of beer he was carrying in a threatening manner.
“As you wish,” vibrated the vocal chords inside of William H. Taft XLII, “but I feel you should know, this was entirely his idea.”
Twenty-Two: The Hobo State
Will and Quetzalcoatl pulled up in front of a run-down bookstore in the middle of a bombed-out section of an abandoned town in a once-quarantined county in the middle of a state that was disowned by the government and handed over to hobos in the hope that they’d either stop being hobos or die.
Neither one had happened.
“This way,” said Will, leading Quetzalcoatl into the building. “Mind the broken glass.”
Instead, hippies, philosophers, English majors, and all manner of unemployable or otherwise destitute types flocked to the Hobo State. Some came to liberate themselves from the shackles of authoritarianism, others to peddle various illicit wares. Some simply adhered to more bohemian ideals. A few had gotten lost. None of them paid rent.
Will led Quetzalcoatl past empty, broken bookcases and across a floor covered with stacks and stacks of books and papers.
“This is our theater, our arena… our home,” he said. “Well, ‘ours’ in the sense that our collective resides here most often. We do not own the building, per se, but then ownership is such an… ethereal thing.”
The hobo state was also home to a large number of communists.
“Everyone is downstairs.”
Will and Quetzalcoatl walked into what appeared to have once been the break room of the bookstore. Will continued straight through the room, to a set of stairs leading down to the basement. Quetzalcoatl followed, admiring the asymmetrical distress of the room. There was a broken table, a ratty couch, two microwaves blinking different hours, and a corkboard still covered in safety notices and employee incentives dated three years ago.
Due to this acute and totally precedented fascination with the disarray of the room, Quetzalcoatl’s skull collided violently with the drop-ceiling above the stairway.
“Watch your head,” said Will.
Quetzalcoatl responded to Will’s advice by collapsing and falling down the stairs.
“Oh shit.”
Will ran down the stairs after Quetzalcoatl, only reaching him after the former Aztec god’s body had stopped tumbling and lay on the cold concrete floor of the basement.
“Mr. Sausage King!” said Will, lifting Quetzalcoatl into a sitting position. “Mr. Sausage King… are you alright?”
Quetzalcoatl stood up slowly and dusted himself off.
“Please,” said Quetzalcoatl, shaking his head and getting his bearings, “call me Quinn.”
“You’ve got a nasty bruise on your head, Quinn,” said Will. “And I doubt the fall… helped remedy the situation. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Biscuits and gravy, colonel,” said Quetzalcoatl. “Biscuits and gravy.”
“Wonderful,” replied his host, trusting entirely the medical assessment of the crazy man with potential head trauma. “Then I’d like you to meet some of our members.”
From the shadows of the dimly lit basement emerged a trio of amorphous shapes. Stepping into said dimly lit light, they revealed themselves to be three nearly identical, amorphous men. Judging by the flannel and the facial hair, Quetzalcoatl assumed they were all liberal arts majors.
“Quinn,” said Will, “meet Bill, Syl, and Phil. They are the senior most advocates of our… aggregate of minds.”
“Bawdy jewelry, gentlemen,” said Quetzalcoatl, curtsying.
“Bill, Syl, Phil,” continued Will, “I’d like you to meat Quill—I mean Quinn. I… discovered him this afternoon, lecturing to a family of more… conventionally minded folks. The exchange took a slightly… violent turn, but that, my fellow fellows, is precisely why I recruited him. Our collective has been… less than forthcoming with any… tangible results.”
“How” asked Syl, “can one expect to grasp an idea, though? By definition, our… assemblage is one of… minds and ideas, not actions.”
“Do not be snide,” said Phil. “You know full well the… intent of Will’s statement. Let the man continue with his introduction.”
“Of course, Phil” said Syl, “my apologies, Will.”
“It’s all right, Syl,” said Will. “And thank you, Phil, but, truly, who am I to… commandeer anyone’s right to speak as they see fit.”
“Please, Will,” said Syl, “continue.”
“As you wish,” said Will, turning his attention to Quetzalcoatl. “As I have previously mentioned to you, Quinn, the… machinations of our group have been somewhat… less than effective, all things considered. While we by no means harbor doubts that an idea can change the world… can save it from itself, even… we have come to realize that said idea requires… implementation… of a sort we are incapable of. Our ideas, sadly, must be converted into action… into a… result that can be seen, touched, tasted… into something less ethereal, that is, if it is to have any hope of being reflected within society at large.”
“And that,” said Phil, “is our failing.”
“We are not able to… instill our ideas,” continued Bill, “upon the common man. Our… designs are too many, our scope is too vast. We have, so far, been unable to… distill these notions into a single plan, a single stratagem.”
“And it is my hope that you, Quinn,” said Will, “with your… unique perspective on the world… will be able to… descry the more visceral components of our ideas… and effect them to the varied masses.”
“Are you sure,” asked Syl of Will, in front of Bill and Phil, “that he is up to the task? That any one person could truly hope to…”
“Up, up and away, ladies,” interrupted Quetzalcoatl, holding up his hand and bowing his head. “I’ll fuck your mothers.”
The leaders of the clandestine cabal of philosophers smiled almost giddily, taking tremendous satisfaction from the statement.
Quetzalcoatl broke out laughing.
Twenty-Three: For Science!
“Do we have results on subject 37-E yet, Dr. Ramos?”
“Same results as subjects 37-A through 37-D, Dr. Meola. It broke free from its restraints, damaged the holding cell door, assaulted three interns, then killed the intervening security guards and wore their entrails as clothing.”
“Only three this time?” he asked, writing the number on his clipboard. “Either this one is slower than the others or the interns are finally getting smarter.”
“There were only three interns left, Dr. Meola.”
“Oh.”
“This subject seems especially vicious, actually. Faster, stronger, smarter than the others.”
“Smarter?”
“It, uh…” Dr. Ramos cleared his throat. “It talked, Tony.”
“Talked? It shouldn’t be able to… What did it say?”
“It, uh, well… it said, ‘I’m a pretty, pretty princess,’ while dancing around in the guards’ intestines. It managed to fashion them into a, uh, dress.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It also shaped the damaged shackles i
nto what Judy said appeared to be a tiara.”
“Judy?”
“One of the interns. You’ll see her at lunch. She’ll be the one with half a face.”
“Well,” said Dr. Meola, “this is certainly less than heartening, Dr. Ramos. I’m beginning to think we may have to scrap the program entirely.”
“Maybe man wasn’t meant to play god after all, Tony.”
The two doctors looked at one another with grave repentance on their faces.
They immediately started cracking up.
“Seriously, though,” continued Dr. Ramos, catching his breath and wiping a tear from his eye, “it probably wasn’t the best idea cross-breeding a werewolf and an atomic mutant, engineering it to be excessively belligerent, starving it, and then insulting its mother repeatedly.”
“No, probably not,” said Dr. Meola. “Hindsight and all that.” He sighed. “Might as well get George over here and have him put it down. We’ll perform the autopsy after lunch and then bury it with the others.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dr. Ramos began walking to his desk to make the call.
“Dr. Ramos,” said Dr. Meola, “before you do that… you want to get Alexi drunk and make him wrestle it?”
“Oh, hell yes.”
Twenty-Four: The Exposition in the Machine
After Starbucks obliterated the internet in its bidding war with Walmart, society tried its damnedest to maintain some kind of a hold on the economy, while simultaneously rediscovering the basics of social interaction.
Society failed.
Oddly enough, this collapse of commerce and basic human decency was not considered an apocalypse. The resulting riots, the swift and drastic increase in crime, the burning down of Sweden and Norway and the ensuing Torrent War, however, ended the world for the fifth time.
Some historians lumped the whole string of events together, but some historians were idiots.
“I can’t believe you rented your own body out to the spirit world,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“Why the hell not?” replied William H. Taft XLII. “They were paying well.”
