“Yeah, don’t…”
“I got a little caught up…”
“Yeah…”
“I thought…”
“Don’t do that again.”
“OK.”
“Thanks.”
Twenty-Eight: Bad Pun! Bad Pun!
“You know,” said Queen Victoria XXX, “Munchkins really don’t respect
“Can you blame them?” replied Chester A. Arthur XVII. “Even in death they were pigeonholed by the limited perspectives of the so-called ‘normal’ population.”
“No kidding,” said William H. Taft XLII. “I had no idea there were that many Ewok fansites out there.”
“You’re telling me, man. The internet’s fucked up.”
“Yeah, that’s great,” said Queen Victoria XXX, “but no part of that really addresses the fact that the entirety of the cast of the Wizard of Oz is currently thrashing our apartment.”
“Well, actually, Vicky, it does,” countered Chester A. Arthur XVII. “The munchkins were constantly treated as second-class citizens during their lives. And, as we mentioned, even during their afterlives. It’s only natural then that, freed of their previous physical limitations and given a second chance, they’d see themselves as a kind of superman, and either act on this newfound power or simply lash out, losing all regard for their previously held inhibitions and what they had considered right and wrong.”
“You do realize that it’s Judy Garland inside the corpse that’s humping the couch, right? Not a midget and, in fact, one of the more treasured actresses of her time?”
“I was actually not aware of that,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“Yeah… Don’t have a speech for that one, do ya?”
“I do not.”
“Didn’t think so,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “Now, back to the matter at hand… Does this deeper understanding you have of the midget oppression allow you any kind of, I don’t know, insight into how we un- hostage ourselves from the Lollipop Guild?”
“I’m working on it.”
Chester A. Arthur XVII looked at the trio of undead construction workers surrounding the trio of regenerated politicians.
“We represent the Lollipop Guild,” growled the fellow in overalls holding a knife.
“The Lollipop Guild,” parroted the one with the crowbar.
“The Lollipop Guild,” echoed the one wielding a toaster with a fork in it.
“And in the name of the Lollipop Guild,” continued the first.
“We wish to welcome you… TO HELL,” concluded the third undead gentlemen, brandishing the toaster in what could only be assumed to be a hostile manner.
Chester A. Arthur XVII sighed and tried to hang his head in disgrace, only to remember that it was duct- taped to the wall behind him.
“How the fuck did we let them capture us anyway?”
“You know,” said Queen Victoria XXX, “I have no idea.”
“It just seems really unlikely.”
“I know, right?”
“Oh, man. Guys, guys,” said William H. Taft XLII, “I totally just realized the irony of this whole thing.”
“Huh?” inquired Queen Victoria XXX.
“’Cause they’re all blue-collar guys and we’re all politicians and royalty or whatever.”
“Yeah, that’s… that’s great, Billy,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“They’re rising up! Taking their vengeance against the aristocracy!”
“I’m pretty sure they’re not thinking of it like that,” replied Queen Victoria XXX.
“A couple of them are playing hackysack with a cat,” added Chester A. Arthur XVII, futilely attempting to point his head in their direction.
“Where the hell did they get a cat?”
“Oh, come on,” continued William H. Taft XLII. “You don’t think accidentally inciting a Communist revolution is funny?'
'Not really, no,” answered Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“You think they’re related?”
“What?”
“You know,” explained William H. Taft XLII, “like the Marx brothers.”
“Dude.”
“You’re the reason some animals eat their young, Billy,” said Queen Victoria XXX.
Twenty-Nine: Torsos-a-Go-Go
“Look, I’m telling you,” said Thor, sitting atop the Holiday Inn’s concierge desk, “Steve McQueen would win in a fight.”
“And I’m telling you,” said Catrina, sitting in a chair behind the desk, “Burt Reynolds’ mustache is more of a man than Steve McQueen ever was.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Oh, come on, admit it. McQueen was just a spoiled pretty boy. Burt Reynolds was the embodiment of badassedness in the seventies.”
“That owed as much to the Trans Am as it did to him.”
“Burt Reynolds’ mustache would kick Steve McQueen’s ass.”
“How, Catrina? It’s hair!”
“That’s just how fucking awesome it is.”
“That’s absurd,” argued Thor. “You know what, we’re gonna settle this right now.”
“Yeah?”
“Might even be able to make some money off of it, too,” continued Thor. “I read about some dude somewhere who’s renting out zombies to ghosts. Apparently ghosts’re getting tired of being the internet’s bitches and actually dumb enough to pay to be corporeal again.”
“Dumb enough? You saying you’re too cool to drop a couple dollars to live again?”
“Hell yeah, I am. Ethereal immortality is the way to be. I have had nothing but issues with this meat suit since I got it.”
“Oh, right, yeah. I forgot Mr. Big Bad Norse God is really just a whiny little bitch.”
Catrina pouted her lips and proceeded to mock Thor, her approximation of his voice a spot-on mix of him and a pissy six-year-old girl:
“Oh, I’m a human now, boo hoo. I keep having problems because I’m stupid and dumb and too stubborn to listen to Catrina, wah.”
“Instead of insulting me,” said Thor, “you should be tracking down the ghosts of Steve McQueen and the Bandit’s mustache and convincing them to fight each other.”
He hopped off the desk.
“I’m gonna go rustle up some bodies for ‘em.”
At precisely that moment, a pair of torsos was hurled through the glass doors of the hotel and into the
