should this interaction of ours come to blows.”
The atomic mutant raised his gigantic eyebrow incredulously.
“An’ how ‘xactly you figger that?”
“You remember about a half dozen Armageddons ago, when the gorillas hijacked all those satellites and Washington, D.C., was evaporated? How there was a mad scramble to reinstate the government?”
“Course.”
“Well, one of the possibilities floated about was to fill the seats of the United States government with clones of assorted previous leaders. The greatest political minds working together for the greater good and all that. Now, while that particular plan ultimately wasn’t implemented, there were still several football stadiums full of presidents and kings created in preparation. Clearly, there was no way they could let that many clones out into the world—it would cause far too much confusion. But killing us all, well, that would be genocide, which, as we all know, is an ethical no-no. The geneticists in charge, in their infinite and heartless wisdom, figured one of each clone would be more than generous. So they had each leader fight himself to the death.”
Chester A. Arthur XVII rolled his shoulders and stood up at his full height.
“I killed sixty-two other Chester A. Arthurs that day. With only a tire iron,” he continued. “You’re not getting my wallet.”
“Ah was not ‘ware ah that,” said the atomic mutant, spreading his open hands in a show of submission. “Please ‘cept my ‘pologies for this inconvenience then, and you go on an’ have yerself a fine day.”
“And you as well,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, raising his plastic bag. “Slim Jim?”
Nineteen: He’s Pretty Well-Spoken for the Guy Who Founded Kentucky
“With utmost sincerity, Mr. Taft, I am not above possessing you in order to obtain your silence.”
“Man, look, I’m sorry, but, this… this is disgusting,” said William H. Taft XLII.
“Disgusting?” asked the ghost of Daniel Boone. “How exactly did you think steakhouse meats were obtained?”
“I honestly did not give it much thought. But I was fairly confident that it didn’t involve covering my kitchen in blood and chunks of cow.”
“I put forth the request that you throw down a tarp. I also suggested you actually kill or otherwise restrain the cow. Many times.”
“I tried, dude, I tried! But it’s a fucking zombie! It doesn’t die!”
“Yes, yes. I am well aware. And while I do agree that the cow’s continued existence certainly makes our task more difficult, it does not make it an impossibility. The meat is still on the cow, the knife is still in your hand. The process is entirely the same.”
“It keeps moving!”
“Mooooooorrr,” said the bovine.
“And that. It keeps doing that. My dinner should not be talking to me.”
William H. Taft XLII began hyperventilating. He dropped into his chair with tremendous force.
“Oh man oh man oh man this is so weird.”
“Mr. Taft,” said the ghost of Daniel Boone, “I have numerous other appointments today, and your continued whinging and general girlishness is becoming increasingly trying. If you are, as I suspect, of the belief that I am going to complete this task for you, I am going to need the use of your appendages…”
“Please! Yes! Go ahead!”
“Right then.”
And with that, the ghost of Daniel Boone—summoned at an hourly rate via an online grilling site—possessed the last remaining clone of William H. Taft, with the sole purpose of converting an undead cow into a pile of flank, chuck, and other assorted cuts of steak.
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
