“Death, it has been too long,” said Pestilence in a gurgling, biting voice. “Lately I’ve been long gone before you come around. Not like the plague days, eh? We have to bring that back sometime. I’ve never had so much fun—or been so drunk.”
The memory put a smile on Death’s face, but he was too preoccupied with Pestilence having found him in his retirement home for it to last very long. “I suppose you’ve heard of my resignation,” he said warily.
Pestilence also put away his grin. “I did. I have to admit, Death, the higher ups aren’t too happy. There’s been a lot of talk about how much this is going to throw everything off. You know how close the Apocalypse was approaching.”
“I know, I know,” said Death quietly, stroking his chin with his hand and staring out his window, his eyes fixed on a billboard for Shellock Aspirin. “Why don’t you come in? I have some beer for us.”
Death and Pestilence walked into the kitchen and Death cracked open two beers. Pestilence took a sip and cringed. Death let the liquid slide to the back of his throat to avert his taste buds. “Wow, awful,” said Pestilence, holding it up to the light as though inspecting for a forgery. “I love a good drink, but I’ll stick to War’s gin, thank you. Humans don’t know what they’re doing.”
“Seriously,” said Death. They set the bottles on the kitchen table and sat down.
“Alright, Death, I really think we need to talk about this,” said Pestilence, folding his hands together. “This isn’t going to look good if you retire. You have way too much responsibility. I mean, don’t tell him I said this, but we could probably deal with Famine’s resignation. You’re much too essential, though.”
“I just can’t do it anymore,” said Death in a pitiful voice that made Pestilence feel a little awkward. “I’m so bored of it all. Aren’t you?”
“No, not really,” said Pestilence. “I love it, actually. It’s a lot of fun.”
“Well yeah, at least you get to be creative with it,” said Death. “You’re a regular artist with that stuff.”
“You’re not too bad yourself,” said Pestilence, resting a hand on Death’s shoulder. The touch was dry, almost course. “Remember the woman who got the two-by-four through the windshield? We’re still talking about that one.”
“That’s not really me, though,” said Death. “All that sort of happens by chance. I just decide what happens afterwards.”
“Hm,” said Pestilence, retracting his hand and folding his fingers together again. “Well, life here can’t be all that much better. Humans are weak, and they have no idea what is going on around them. They’re too caught up in such petty little things.”
“No,” said Death, standing up and wheeling around the table to face the window. “Most humans are super nice, like my friend Tim. And there are cafes with nice waitresses, and men and women go on dates, and you can slice meats as a job and then give your paycheck to someone nice. Being in the city is plenty of fun.”
“More fun than spreading disease everywhere?” asked Pestilence with an eyebrow raised.
“Of course,” exclaimed Death. “Yes, yes, of course! Why don’t I show you how much fun it can be?”
“I don’t know, Death, I really should get back to business.”
“Just for the day, then you can go right back to what you were doing.”
Pestilence considered for a moment, placing his chin down on his fists and peering at a stain on the wooden tabletop. “I guess it couldn’t hurt, for one day.”
“Great,” said Death, a wide smile breaking across his ancient face. “Let’s go fetch War and Famine and I’ll show all of you around the city.” He was so happy that he was nearly dancing across the house as he went to his bedroom to change into his suit. When he was finished, he turned around to see Brian standing in the doorway.
“Oh yo,” he slurred. “I got some friends coming over today. I figured you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all,” said Death. “So do I.” Brian nodded and walked back in his room. Death met Pestilence in the kitchen and they took off.
War was easy to find; he was in Sierra Leone stirring up civil unrest. He, too, had been confused by the significant lack of death in the area as the rebel uprising raged on for weeks. Death and Pestilence recognized him immediately; believe it or not, War is a short, wide little man with a chubby face and tuxedo, complete with top hat. Famine was less easy to find in Uganda, but the other three Horsemen ended up discovering him in a hut by the Nile. He donned his usual burlap sack and appeared thinner and paler than the Horsemen remembered. “You look great,” said War, for he had not seen the rather evasive Horseman in quite some time.
They all returned to 55 Macci Street a little before noon. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse stood in Death’s kitchen, all agreeing to take the day off but disagreeing on what to do with it. Famine was quite adamant about getting ice cream, but Pestilence disagreed, stating his great desire to go to a record store, buy some Blue Oyster Cult albums, and get drunk. War was being generally unpleasant and ornery, but thought that a peaceful day at the beach was in order. Suddenly, the sound of the doorbell silenced them.
Brian bounded out of his room. He stumbled into the couch and limped forward shouting obscenities as he opened the door. Five men stood in the threshold. As Brian turned to show them in, he jumped in fright at the sight of the four entities in front of him. “Oh, yo, Derek,” he said hazily. One of this friends peered around him, crossing his arms and trying to look intimidating. When Pestilence waved, the man took a few steps back. “These are my friends: Dino, Basey, Chando,
