by Eirik Gumeny
“Phil?” asked Catrina, facing the other direction and backing up into the center of the group. “When did you guys get killer robots?”
She pointed to the dozen truck-sized automatons marching in from the other end of the street.
“We didn’t,” said Phil, eyes growing wide.
“Oh, this won’t end well,” said William H. Taft XLII.
Seventy-Five: Five Weeks, Tops
After the world was ended for the sixth time—back when the occasional society-decimating cataclysm was still considered a problem—a team of Army engineers set out to end the end of the world once and for all. After performing several months’ worth of math in several days, and drinking several dozen gallons of military-grade coffee, they concluded the most effective way to stop any future Armageddons was to hunt down and kill the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
To do this, the engineers created twelve Horsemen of their own, each the size of a large Army personnel transport and resembling a Minotaur—assuming the viewer was either an eight-year old with an overactive imagination or eating mushrooms.
The Horsemen were over-armored, loaded with two of every weapon known to mankind, and programmed with a stripped-down, African-warlord version of the standard murder-drone programming. They were put through a rigorous, dedicated training regimen, but kept veering off-program and targeting live kittens instead. A few of the more even-headed engineers considered scrapping the program entirely prior to launch, but they were all mysteriously set on fire.
“I think I can… talk the philosophers out of this,” said Phil. “I don’t know what you’re going to do about… them, though,” he continued, indicating the walking war-crimes.
“I can take ‘em,” said Timmy.
The Horsemen were successful in murdering the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. After a meteor strike ended the world for the seventh time, it became apparent that they had been significantly less successful in actually stopping any apocalypses. This made the Horsemen mad.
“Are you fucking crazy?” asked Catrina.
The Horsemen weren’t actually supposed to be capable of anger, but, due to a misplaced one in the Horsemen’s coding, they were able to work themselves into a rage on the same level as an old-money douchebag with an overdeveloped sense of entitlement forced to wait in a line of perfectly reasonable length.
“Nope,” replied Timmy. “Just awesome.”
The Horsemen went on a rampage and murdered half the world’s population. They were only stopped after Japan built a team of brightly-colored robots shaped like jungle cats. The Japanese robots actually failed to stop the Horsemen the first three times, but then they were reconfigured to connect into one other and given a great, big sword and then the world was saved. Well, eventually it was. The battle actually sank Japan and ended the world for the eighth time. But then, then the world was saved. For, like, a month.
Seventy-Six: It’d Take a Miracle
“OK,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII. “Billy, you take the scientists and go with Phil.”
“Sure thing,” said William H. Taft XLII.
“I don’t know what good… scientists are going to do against… righteous, riled-up writers and poets,” replied Phil.
“That’s why I’m sending Billy,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“I… fail to see how that adds anything to the mix.”
“Let me clarify: That’s why I’m sending Billy and his rocket launcher.”
“Oh,” said Phil. “Right, then.”
“Hey,” said Judy, putting her hand on Chester A. Arthur’s shoulder and spinning him to face her, “who says you get to call the shots?”
“I do,” replied Chester A. Arthur XVII coolly.
“OK, then,” she replied, removing her hand from his shoulder and nodding her bag.
“Let’s go ‘talk” to these assholes,” said William H. Taft XLII, hoisting his rocket launcher.
“Can you try… not to kill them… if you don’t have to?” asked Phil.
“No promises.”
“Some of them… are my friends.”
“Man, that’s your problem.”
The president, the philosopher, and the scientists left the other president, the queen, the god, and the girl, and walked towards the encroaching horde of liberal arts majors and drug dealers.
“Alright, now, Timmy…” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, turning his attention toward the Horsemen.
“Already gone, bitch,” replied the telepathic squirrel from half a mile away.
“Right, well, good luck then,” thought the president in return.
“I don’t need luck, chump.”
“If you say so. When you’re getting stomped on by ten foot tall robotic sadists, don’t blame me.”
“Says the non-scientifically-enhanced human tasked with taking down an ancient, insane, robot-smashing god.”
“I was trying not to think about it in terms quite like that, so, you know, thanks for that,” answered Chester A. Arthur XVII. “Get out of my head.”
“With pleasure,” replied Timmy.
“Why is he just standing there?” asked Thor, pointing a thumb at Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“Maybe he’s strategizing or something,” offered Catrina.
“That’s not his strategizing face,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “That’s his ‘I can’t believe I’m being taunted by a rodent’ face.”
“He has a face specifically for that?”
“Yeah,” replied the queen with a sigh. “There’s also one for particularly contentious cacti.”
“This happens so much more than it should,” she added.
After a few more moments of arguing with the genetically-modified squirrel, Chester A. Arthur XVII spoke aloud again.
“OK, there are four of us and one of him…”
“That’s his strategizing face,” said Queen Victoria XXX.
“…so if we spread out, each take a compass direction, we should be able to track him down with a fair amount of ease.”
“Although,” he continued, “the giant robots aren’t his.”
“The giant robots blowing the living crap out of everything,” added Catrina.
“That’s also assuming he hasn’t just bailed entirely,” said Queen Victoria XXX.
A trio of burning prostitutes ran past.
“Shouldn’t he be holed up in a castle or something?” asked Thor.
“I think you’re thinking of Super Mario Bros., Thor,” replied the queen.
“No,” said Thor, “I’m pretty sure I read something somewhere about how they always made their lairs in castles or something.”
“They?”
“You’re thinking of a dragon,” said Catrina.
“Right…” said Thor, failing to see her point.
“He’s not a dragon, Thor.”
“Yeah, I know, but, he’s like a dragon.”
“OK,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, “anyone who isn’t Thor have a suggestion?”
There was a loud bang from the side of the street—specifically, from a direction that did not appear to involve giant robots or a philosopher/scientist showdown and, in turn, probably should not have been making loud banging noises. Catrina, Chester, Thor and Victoria turned toward the source of the sound simultaneously, just in time to see Quetzalcoatl fly through the dust of a collapsing hotel and alight on the highest turret of the Excalibur casino. A casino that just happened to be shaped like a castle.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“Not unless Satan decided he was tired of not existing, too,” replied Catrina.
“That motherfucker just took down an entire building by himself,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “We are so screwed.”
“Probably,” said Thor, grabbing a flamethrower from the helicopter. “Let’s go find out.”
Seventy-Seven: Olive Branch
“Gil,” said Phil, approaching the militant crowd of philosophers and poets, “what are you
doing?”
“Honestly,” said Gil, looking at the two-by-four he was carrying, “I don’t even know anymore, man.”
“Quetzalcoatl, like, he told us to kill you, man,” said Lil.
“Well, actually,” clarified Hil, scratching her head with the tire iron she was holding, “he told us that he already killed you and that we were supposed to kill him,” she pointed the tire iron at William H. Taft XLII, “and his friends.”
“Or else he’d kill us,” added Jill.
“It was just bad juju all around, man,” said Gil.
The writers and stoners and assorted other nouns standing behind the conversing members appeared to just be milling around, staring at their feet or otherwise looking confused and sad.
A few had taken the halt in marching to mean it was time to sit down and stare off into space. A few others had been doing that even before the group had stopped walking.
“Seriously?” said William H. Taft XLII, looking over the crowd. “This was your philosopher army?”
“Yep,” said Phil.
“I can’t believe you guys actually took over half the country,” said the president. “Honestly. How’d he get you guys out of your parents’ basements?”
“My mom doesn’t get around so well, man,” said Gil, a downhearted look on his face.
“Yeah,” said Lil, putting an arm around Gil, “That’s a little harsh, man.”
“We were just trying to do some good,” said Jill.
“It’s not our fault we picked a dormant Aztec god as our spiritual leader,” added Jack.
“Actually, it kind of is,” countered William H. Taft XLII.
“Well, yeah, OK,” said Hil. “But he seemed less evil earlier.”
“In our defense,” added Phil, “he was a pretty good liar.”
“Alright, well,” said William H. Taft XLII, “if you promise to drop your weapons and not kill me and my friends, I’ll apologize.”
The members at the forefront of the group acquiesced immediately, while the remainder only did so when the offer was passed back to them. Eventually, the entire philosopher army dropped its weapons, a slow-moving wave of clanks and thuds and sighs of relief.
Also, they did not kill William H. Taft XLII or his friends.
“OK, then,” said the president. “I’m sorry. I guess.”
“It’s alright, man,” said Gil.
“Yeah, it’s OK, man,” said Lil. “We forgive you.”
She took a step closer to the president, opening her arms and saying, “C’mon, let’s hug it out.”
“Do we have to?” said William H. Taft XLII.
Lil hugged him ferociously.
“See,” she said, squeezing the fat man, “doesn’t that feel good?”
“I feel so dirty.”
Seventy-Eight: A Tiny, Steaming Load
Timmy was a squirrel. An atypical, extraordinary, preternaturally intelligent, telekinetic, cape-wearing squirrel. Gifted with artificial sentience and a super-powered mind, he swore an oath to make the world a better place.
The Horsemen—engines of pure destruction born from the folly of mankind—marched down the avenue in four rows of three, firing missiles and lasers and large rocks indiscriminately. Flames spouted from their metallic nostrils. Death followed them like a fine, dark mist.
Well, to be fair, Timmy never really swore anything. He just kind of did it. There was certainly no oath, anyway.
Although he did tell the reconstituted genetics of a former president that he was going to stop the Horsemen single-handedly. And that is a promise that simply cannot be broken.
Seriously, death followed the Horsemen like a fine, dark mist. Everything behind them was broken, vaporized, and reduced to subatomic dust.
Well, OK, it could be broken, but that wouldn’t really be cool. If nothing else, Timmy was a squirrel of his word.
Everything in front of the Horsemen was exploding. Even the air. Individual molecules were screaming in agony, praying in vain for the sweet release of nonexistence.
But what are words, really…
No. No. He was doing this. Timmy was doing this.
A cockroach scuttled in front of the Horsemen’s path. The lead Horseman whinnied—an awful, terrible sound—and reared up on its back two legs, before bringing its full weight down on the cockroach.
Then the other eleven horsemen did the same thing.
Then they all fired lasers at the insect, not stopping until the pavement beneath what used to be the cockroach was boiling itself away into the ether.
Timmy was a squirrel. An atypical, extraordinary, preternaturally intelligent, telekinetic, cape-wearing squirrel that just dropped a load in the middle of the street.
Seventy-Nine: Boss Fight
Thor, Catrina, Chester A. Arthur XVII, and Queen Victoria XXX, heavily armed and more or less determined, walked down the street, stepping over the occasional dead tourist or twitching brochure-hawker, and made their way to the casino.
Quetzalcoatl saw their approach and waved from his perch.
“He seems nice,” said Queen Victoria XXX.
“What, uh, what do we do now?” asked Catrina confusedly. “Call him out? Throw a rock?”
“I’ve got a better idea,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, shouldering a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. The president aimed at the Aztec god and pulled the trigger. The projectile hit Quetzalcoatl in the face and exploded.
“Aren’t you supposed to add some kind of witty taunt to that?” asked Thor.
“I thought I did.”
“Well, that was kind of oblique, you know? I was thinking something more direct, like, ‘knock, knock, bitch.’”
“That doesn’t really seem like something I would say, though.”
“I don’t know. I think you could pull it off.”
“You sure? I’m really more of a speech guy.”
“Uh, guys,” said Catrina, pointing toward a swooping and pissed off Quetzalcoatl, “shut up and do something.”
“Fuck.”
Quetzalcoatl slammed into the ground with tremendous force, shattering the sidewalk beneath him. The shockwave knocked the girls to the ground, while the reborn god’s whipping tail caught Thor at the knee and spun him face-first into the pavement. Chester A. Arthur XVII, however, managed to remain standing. He raised his RPG, only to remember it was unloaded.
“Fuck!”
Quetzalcoatl slammed his fist into Chester’s face, breaking his nose and sending him sprawling across the sidewalk.
“Knock, knock, bitches,” said Quetzalcoatl.
“Oh, come on,” said Thor, picking himself up from the ground. “That was ours! It doesn’t even fit what you’re doing.”
“I was knocking you guys on your asses, it totally fit.”
“That’s stretching it, man,” explained Thor, pointing the igniter of his flamethrower at Quetzalcoatl and pulling the trigger. “See, right now, I’m setting you on fire. So what I’m going to do is make some kind of crack about the heat. Or grilling. Something like, ‘I hope you like your gods well done.’ Or maybe, ‘I don’t know where I’m going to find a tortilla big enough for this,’ since you’re Mexican and all. Although that might be a little too racially insensitive, I’m not really sure.”
“I’m cool with it,” said Quetzalcoatl, shrugging and being doused in flames.
“Oh, good,” said Thor. “I kind of like that one.”
“You mind terribly if I tried again?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“OK,” said Quetzalcoatl, still being bathed in a jet of flame. “How about, ‘Tell the electricians I said “hi.”’”
“Well, no, see, that’s actually worse. There’re no electricians here, it makes even less sense.”
Quetzalcoatl pointed toward the building on the far side of the casino’s property, specifically the marquee stating “West Coast Construction Workers Conference” in tall, bright, easily-read letters.
“Crap,” said Thor,
extinguishing the flamethrower. “Nice one.”
“I thought so.”
In a single, astoundingly quick motion, Quetzalcoatl slid his way to Thor’s side, grabbed him by the face, and pushed, sending Thor sailing over the Excalibur’s entranceway and through the window of the neighboring convention hall.
Eighty: With a Cool, Dry Wit Like That…
“So, with that out of the way,” said Quetzalcoatl, making his way toward Catrina and Queen Victoria XXX, “who wants to get eaten first?”
“Oh my god, you eat people?” asked Queen Victoria XXX.
“I don’t want to get eaten,” said Catrina.
Quetzalcoatl laughed.
“I don’t eat people, it’s OK.”
He grabbed a chunk of broken cement from the ground before clarifying, “I am going to kill you, though. Probably with this piece of sidewalk. Please don’t be mistaken about that.”
“Well,” said Catrina, pulling two .44 Magnums from behind her back, “you can certainly try.”
She unloaded twelve rounds directly into Quetzalcoatl’s face. Quetzalcoatl’s head snapped back. Then it snapped forward. The he blinked a few times.
“Really? A fucking handgun?”
“No,” said Queen Victoria XXX, also pulling two .44s from behind her back, “a number of fucking handguns.”
She likewise unloaded twelve rounds directly into Quetzalcoatl’s face. Once again, Quetzalcoatl’s head snapped back, then forward, and then he blinked.
“What is wrong with you people?”
A rocket-propelled grenade exploded in Quetzalcoatl’s face.
“Clearly not our aim,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“Seriously, fucking stop. You guys are not Bruce Willis.”
Quetzalcoatl’s lip was bleeding slightly. He put his finger on the cut, pulled it away, and then looked at it so he could verify this fact for himself.
