“You took her damn eye, Thor.”
“I’ll give it back.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“It’s a lot heavier than it looks.”
“She’s an older model.”
“Warm, too.”
“It’s probably radioactive or something,” said Catrina, swatting Thor’s hand. “Stop playing with it.”
“It’s just radiation.”
“Radiation equals bad.”
“They wouldn’t let her near food if she was radioactive.”
“She’s probably got dampers in her head or something,” replied Catrina, swatting his hand again. “Seriously, Thor, stop it. You’re gonna break it.”
The waitress returned with their food.
“Your pancakes, sir.”
“And your eye. As promised.”
The waitress took the eye from Thor’s outstretched hand and placed it into her skull.
“Damn it,” she said, blinking furiously. “It’s all smudged.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re a dick.”
“Don’t lie about my pancakes.”
“Fuck you.”
“Now you’re only getting a ten percent tip.”
Four: Chester A. Arthur Picked Up His Axe
Chester A. Arthur XVII sat on the front steps of his apartment building, cigarette in hand, watching the oncoming zombie horde.
“Braaaaiiiinsss,” said one of the zombies.
“Mrrroarrrgh,” said another.
They shuffled across the parking lot of the complex. Slowly.
Chester A. Arthur XVII, cigarette between his lips, continued to sit on his steps and watch the oncoming zombie horde.
“Guuuuurrrgghhh,” said a zombie.
“Murrrrrrr,” said a different one.
The lead zombie’s arm fell off.
“Buh?”
Three other zombies fell down for entirely unrelated reasons.
Two more turned to the left and lumbered toward a squirrel. Then they fell down, too.
“Moooooooorgh,” said the re-animated corpse of a cow.
“OK,” said the seventeenth clone of assorted residual genetics of the twenty-first President of the United States of America, raising an eyebrow. “Fuck this.”
Chester A. Arthur XVII picked up his axe.
“Look,” he said, approaching the approaching horde. “As I’m sure you are all well aware, I am going to dismember you, with extraordinary violence and speed, and then I am going to set you on fire. However, what you may not know is that I am exceptionally tired this evening and I would prefer not to exert myself physically, if at all possible. I think it would be in everyone’s best interests if you were to simply turn around and stumble away, relocating your ungodly marionette show to some other apartment building.”
The horde quickened its pace.
Well, kind of.
“Grrraaaaaaaagghghhghh!” shouted several of the zombies.
“Blllarrgggh,” said a few others.
“Faaaaaakkkkkkk groooooo,” said one particularly contentious zombie, raising the stump of his right arm.
“That was just uncalled for.”
The zombie in question waggled its stump in reply.
Chester A. Arthur XVII shrugged, then looked at his watch.
“…and, go!”
Chester A. Arthur XVII charged at the horde, beheading the three lead zombies with a single swing of his axe. He took the legs off four more with the next slice. The following three arcs connected with a skull, a face, and a jaw, respectively.
It went on like that for another few minutes, until the parking lot was nothing more than an unsightly heap of assorted zombie pieces.
“Moooooorrrk.”
And one very confused, undead cow.
Five: The Internet is for Porn
“New record, lady and gentleman.”
Chester A. Arthur XVII walked into the kitchen and leaned against the doorjamb.
“Three minutes and twenty-six seconds.”
“I don’t understand why you can’t just use the flamethrower like a normal person,” said William H. Taft XLII. “I mean, that’s why we bought the damn thing.”
“Because, Billy, my boy,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, “that’s simply not a very sporting endeavor.”
“They’re walking fucking corpses, dude.”
“Hell,” added Queen Victoria XXX, “they’re barely even that. They’re like scarecrows made of balsa wood and phlegm. I think they’re beginning to decay more rapidly than they used to.”
“There was a cow out there with them this time,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“A cow? Why the hell was there a cow?”
“Don’t know, but we’re going to be eating steak for a week.”
“Dude,” said William H. Taft XLII.
“It’s cool, I checked it out,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII. “No discernible craving for human flesh, no gaping wounds or missing parts. Hasn’t been dead that long, either. There’s plenty of edible meat on there.”
“Man, we don’t know how to turn a cow into steak.”
“That’s what the internet is for.”
“More importantly than that, gentlemen,” said Queen Victoria XXX, staring intently into the open refrigerator, “we’re out of beer.”
“Then it looks like you and I are going for a drive,” replied Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“You guys can’t be serious,” said William H. Taft XLII.
“Sure are,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII. “Fire up the grill, fatty.”
“The nearest functioning liquor store is four hours away.”
“Then Charlie and I ‘ll be back in eight hours,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “Give you time to carve that bitch up.”
“That’s the spirit,” said the cloned genetics of Chester A. Arthur.
