“Honestly,” said Thor, still laughing, “it might just be easier to move.”
Fourteen: Bring the Shotgun
After the world ended for the third time, only a handful of corporations around the globe remained functioning in any useful capacity. Realizing just how precarious the continued existence of capitalism was, these stalwart companies banded together to pioneer the creation of a limited artificial intelligence and quickly produced a robotic workforce of startling efficiency.
With this automated army in tow, the corporations were able to pick up the pieces of a shattered society and rebuild a better world, one free from strife, economic turmoil, and workmen’s compensation claims. The rapid assimilation of smaller companies and the altogether astounding profit margins were simply a side effect of the corporations’ unceasing hope and compassion for humankind.
“Looks like there’s a rest stop up ahead,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“Please tell me there’s a coffee place,” replied Queen Victoria XXX.
“They’ve got a Starbucks.”
“Damn it.”
After the world ended for the fourth time, the United States government decided it was no longer able to sustain itself and, following China’s example, auctioned itself off in lots. Canada purchased the majority share, while Starbucks and Walmart, the two largest corporations on the planet, vied for the remainder.
The resulting bidding war turned literal, destroying the cities of Seattle and Atlanta, as well as indie rock, rednecks, Santa Claus, magicians, and the internet.
“At least they’ve got free Wi-Fi out here. You can check in with Billy.”
The internet eventually recovered.
“But it’s a fucking Starbucks!”
So did the rednecks.
“Come on, Vicky, they’re not
Well, ideologically, anyway.
“You don’t know that.”
“Fine,” relented Chester A. Arthur XVII. “Bring the shotgun.”
Fifteen: Rusty Nails
“I’d like a medium coffee please,” said a fairly intimidating Queen Victoria XXX.
“We don’t have medium,” said the fairly intimidated girl behind the counter.
“How can you not have medium?”
“We have short, tall, grande, venti, and collegiate.”
“Well, give me the one in the middle.”
“Which one, ma’am?”
“Whatever it was you said, the one that means medium.”
“Short, tall, grande, venti, or collegiate?”
“You’re really going to make me say it?”
After the First Robot Uprising ended the world for the ninth time, a number of the previously “pioneering” companies—having long since freed themselves from the burdens of human rights, and spoiled by the unparalleled growth, efficiency, and employee obedience that resulted—found themselves staring down legions upon legions of pissed-off automatons. The corporations that weren’t burned to the ground or vaporized by super-lasers outright were left hurting for a workforce.
“If you don’t say it and I respond anyway, I get whipped.”
Due to the complete and utter lack of a relevant operational policy, this pain was passed on to the new employees.
“I don’t want to get whipped, ma’am.”
Some companies handled it better than others.
“The whip is three belts, taped together. Three belts with nails in them.”
Sixteen: Quetzalcoatl Also Hates Children
Quetzalcoatl stood upon the picnic table and began singing.
“Row, row, row your kayak, gently up the tree, hairily, fairily, bearily, life is but soup.”
The family situated around the picnic table stared up in disbelief.
Quetzalcoatl, garbed in a kilt and very little else, stood upon the picnic table with legs spread wide, braced against the gusting wind, and continued to sing at a significantly higher volume.
“Stow, stow, stow your crack, deeply in a nun, hairily, fairily, bearily, life is but a cup of minestrone and some oyster crackers!”
The adult members of the family situated around the picnic table—covering the eyes of the children situated around the picnic table—began ushering the younger members away from the picnic table, all the while continuing to stare up in disbelief.
Quetzalcoatl, garbed in a kilt and very little else, stepped in a bowl of potato salad.
“What the cheetahs?”
With his foot lodged firmly in the bowl of potato salad, Quetzalcoatl hopped off the picnic table and chased after the fleeing family.
“Hey! Hey, hey, hey, hay. You,” he said, pointing at the mother. “You there. Can you tell me where to buy stamps?”
The mother halted her flight just long enough to scrunch up her face and look confused.
“What?”
“Stamps,” repeated Quetzalcoatl, “I need stamps. Also, I seem to have put my foot into the squishy part of a plastic creature’s cranium. Was this your plastic creature? Have I killed your dingo?”
The mother’s face relaxed slightly. The confusion was still readily apparent, though.
“Uh, no. We don’t have a dingo. You did not kill our dingo.”
Quetzalcoatl suddenly leapt forward and grabbed the youngest child. He lifted the boy into the air and shouted, “Tell me why monkeys eat my cheese, small thing!”
The mother’s expression changed from confusion straight into horror. She resumed her fleeing, hastily ushering the remaining children across the park and into the family minivan. The father, meanwhile, charged at Quetzalcoatl, throwing around his fists and no end of unsavory language.
“Your roses smell unquestionably like donkey turds, sir,” replied Quetzalcoatl, still holding onto the boy while being punched repeatedly.
In an effort to end the beating, Quetzalcoatl tossed the child into the air, grabbed him by his ankles, and swung him at the father like a baseball bat. The boy’s back collided with the father’s head. The father was knocked to the ground. The boy wet himself.
Quetzalcoatl returned the boy to the ground and then knelt down, lining up his eyes with the child’s. He stared at the boy. He stared hard.
“I hate you, small thing,” he said.
The boy wet himself again.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” said the father, picking himself up off the ground and collecting his child.
