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
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.”
