Make the Apocalypse Great Again

Chapter 1

      A white minivan swung into the Denny’s parking lot, nearly running over a young man on a motorcycle. The guy on the motorcycle threw up a middle finger and pulled his bike into the spot next to the minivan, which bore a sticker proudly proclaiming “Proud Parent of an Honor Student!” The man on the motorcycle pulled off his helmet and waited for the woman in the minivan to finish fixing her lipstick in the mirror and get out of her car.

     “Nice driving,” the man said when she finally opened her door.

     “Sorry, D,” she said lightly, her voice devoid of the slightest bit of remorse. “I was trying to save you from that god awful motorcycle.”

     “What’s wrong with my bike?” the man asked, offended.

     “Seriously?” she asked. “That color is hideous. Couldn’t you have picked something like black? The Black Death was one of our better joint ventures. This . . . god, why did you pick that color?” she asked, wrinkling her nose as she leaned closer to examine the putrid, yellow-green color.

     “It reminds me of the color of a corpse,” he said with a shrug. “Think of it as a power color. Besides, I couldn’t pick black,” he said as he pointed to black Ferrari parking at the other end of the lot, as far away from the other cars as possible. “Famine would’ve thrown a shit fit.”

     The woman nodded and sighed heavily.

     “I can’t argue with that,” she agreed.

     The two watched as Famine, a tall, thin man with slicked back black hair, climbed out of the Ferrari. He buttoned his suit and, noticing the two, walked over to them across the parking lot.

     “Could you have parked any further away?” the woman asked.

     “What the hell is wrong with your hair?” Famine asked. “That short haircut on you is not flattering.”

     “Hey, I have to blend in,” she snapped, reaching up a hand to touch the swooping, overly styled hairdo. “Do you have any idea how popular this style is with soccer moms? It’s like they have a secret rule book they all pass around to each other that requires them to get this haircut or someone will take their minivan away.”

     “You look like you’re about to complain to a manager,” Famine said with a smug smile.

     “Oh, fuck off, Famine,” she said.

     “Do either of you know what this meeting is about?” Death interjected, not really wanting to listen to yet another argument between those two.

     “No,” Famine said, looking slightly uncomfortable for the first time. Pestilence shrugged nervously, shifting her purse to the other shoulder. “Do you?”

     “Nope,” Death said. An uncomfortable silence hung between them. “Should we go inside?”

     “I think we should wait for War,” Pestilence said, running a nervous hand through her hair. “Strength in numbers and all that.”

     At that moment, an H2 redder than a stop sign roared into the parking, nearly popping up on two wheels as it took the turn, heavy rock music blaring from the stereo.

     “Speak of the devil,” Pestilence said, rolling her eyes.

     “Ha,” Famine said tonelessly, acknowledging the joke.

     The H2 swerved around them and screeched to a stop at the other end of the parking lot, only inches away from the Ferrari.

     “Jackass,” Famine mutter, glowering.

     A moment later, a young man in a tank top and camouflage shorts hopped out of the SUV, adjusting his visor as he walked over to join the group.

     “What’s up, bitches?” he said with a grin.

     “You’re late, War,” Pestilence said.

     He checked his watch.

     “Nuh-uh,” War said, twisting his wrist to show her. “I still have one minute.”

     “Well we better get inside, you know what happens when you keep her waiting,” Pestilence said impatiently.

     War shuddered, the smile on his face leaving as fast as his Hummer had arrived.

     “Any idea what this is about?” War asked as the four of them started to walk towards the front door of the diner.

     “Nope,” said Death. “Your guess is as good as ours.”

     “Well,” Famine said as he pulled the door open. “Let’s get this over with.”

     It only took a couple seconds for the four to locate the devil in the nearly empty diner. She sat in a booth at the back of the restaurant, four large plates of food in front of her. Her hair was long and blonde and tied up in a perky ponytail, her skin tanned and unblemished. She wore a white tank top emblazoned with sparkly, hot pink Greek letters for the Kappa Kappa Kappa sorority.

     “Ready?” Death murmured, taking a deep breath.

     “I guess,” Pestilence said as they made their way around the empty tables and chairs to reach the booth. When they arrived at the table, the four of them stood there, unsure of what to say or if they should sit down. The devil didn’t look up from her pancakes and the four began to shift nervously in the awkward silence.

    “Well sit down already, you look like fucking losers,” the devil said before she took a sip of her black coffee, still not looking up from the table. All four of them quickly slid into the booth. They sat silently as the devil took another bite of pancakes.

     “Are these for us?” War asked tentatively, cautiously reaching for a piece of bacon. The devil quickly lashed out her hand, quick as an asp, and smacked War’s hand away.

     “No,” she said. “I’ve been busy working, so I get to eat. You four, on the other hand, are just here to listen.” She swallowed her bite and set down her fork, wiping the syrup from her hands with a paper napkin.

     “Okay,” the devil said, looking up at them for the first time. “Christ, your current forms look stupid.”

     “We have to blend in,” Pestilence said timidly, self-consciously reaching up to touch her hair.

     “No, I get it,” the devil said. “But humans look especially stupid at the moment, so therefore you look especially stupid.” She took another sip of coffee. “Okay, enough small talk. You four are on my shit list.”

     No one said anything in response.

     “You have had so many opportunities to usher in the apocalypse and destroy the world. I mean, come on, between the four of you, it should be a no brainer. You starve the people,” the devil said, pointing to Famine, “you infect them,” she said, pointing to Pestilence, “you make them fight each other,” she continued, pointing to War, “and you kill them,” she finished, pointing to Death. “How hard are your jobs? I mean, for fuck’s sake, you should’ve finished this centuries ago.”

     “These things can take time,” Famine said hesitantly.

     “Yeah, I know the rule,” the devil said impatiently. “You have to work within the constraints of humanity to give them a fair chance to save themselves. But even so, it seems a little ridiculous that you haven’t made any significant progress.”

     “What about World War II?” War asked, brightening a little. Pestilence swiftly kicked him in the shin under the table. War grunted, but didn’t say anything further.

     “How many more times are you going to bring that up?” the devil asked, narrowing her eyes at War. “Yes, you convinced Hitler to exterminate millions of Jews. Yes, you got the United States to drop the atom bomb on Japan. But then what happened? The humans made the fucking Geneva Convention and now there are fucking Holocaust remembrance museums to try and prevent something similar from happening again.”

     “Plus they published that girl’s diary,” Pestilence added.

     This time, it was War’s turn to kick her in the shins.

     “Yes, exactly,” the devil agreed.

     “Well, what have you done lately that’s so great?” War demanded, glaring at Pestilence.

     “I’m bringing back preventable diseases!” Pestilence exclaimed. “Do you think it’s easy to get parents to compromise their kids’ healthcare? It took ages for me to get them to believe that MMR vaccine-autism bullshit!”

     “Can you get a vaccine to prevent war? No!” War exclaimed.

     “I’m sorry, are we forgetting AIDS?” Pestilence asked. “Where’s the vaccine for that?”

     “Meh, that’s not as effective as it once was,” Famine interjected. “It’s still killing people, but infection rates aren’t what they were.”

     “And what are you doing that’s so effective?” Pestilence demanded. “How is being a banker like that time you wiped out half of Egypt with a drought?”

     “I still do droughts!” Famine protested. “California doesn’t have any water!”

     “And yet they still all have swimming pools and bright green lawns,” Death said, rolling his eyes.

     “To answer your question, I’m doing plenty on Wall Street,” Famine said. “By slowly raising prices, I’m driving people into poverty so they can’t afford food.”

     “Enter school lunch programs,” Death said. “Fixed.”

     “Not all schools can afford those, haven’t you heard about all the cuts to education in this stupid country?” Famine asked. “I’m creating so many food deserts that foster poor nutrition!”

     “Okay, that’s enough,” the devil finally interjected. “There’s no use in fighting because you’re all fuck ups as far as I’m concerned. Which is why I called you here.” She began to stack her empty dishes on top of one another, neatly clustering her silverware on the top. The four waited until she was finished, wiping up a few stray drops of syrup from the table with a napkin.

     “I’ve had enough of your incompetence,” the devil said finally, tossing the balled up napkin on the stack of plates. “I have decided to give you one more chance to fulfill your duties as the Four Horsemen and usher in the apocalypse. One more big plan to destroy humanity and the world. If you fail, you’re fired.”

     The four stared at her, dumbfounded.

     “Fired?” Death asked.

     “Yes, fired,” the devil said. “So get your shit together. I’m going to check in on you soon and you’d better have a good plan in place.”

     The devil waved her hand, motioning for War and Death to scoot out of the booth so she could leave. They moved quickly, with War nearly falling on the diner floor. The devil pulled a wad of cash out of her pocket and tossed it on the table.

     “That’s not for you to order lunch, that’s for the server,” the devil said, pointing to the dollar bills. “I’m the embodiment of evil and even I think servers get fucked over.” With that, the devil turned and left the diner, her blonde ponytail swinging behind her, leaving the Four Horsemen alone to face her ultimatum. War and Death sat back down in the booth, but no one spoke at first. The waitress came by to collect the stack of plates.

     “Anything else I can get for you?” she asked brightly, her blue eyes tired.

     “No, thank you,” Famine said. He put his hand on the stack of bills and slid them towards her. “The lady who was here before left this for you.”

     “Oh, thanks,” the waitress said, her face brightening a little with a genuine smile. “Are you sure you all don’t need anything?”

     “We’re fine. But thanks,” Death said, flashing a brilliant smile at her. The waitress blushed and left.

     “Was it necessary to make yourself look like James Dean?” War asked, annoyed.

     “What?” Death asked innocently. “He’s not using this face right now.”

     “I bet that’s why you offed him,” War said, narrowing his eyes.

     Death shrugged.

     “So what if I did?” he asked.

     “Okay, that’s enough,” Pestilence interrupted. “You heard what she said. We have to bring about the apocalypse or we’re fired.”

     “Can we be fired?” Famine asked, confused. “I sort of thought we were it for the Horsemen.”

     “I don’t know, but she seemed pretty sure that we could be replaced,” Pestilence said.

     “Do you really want to find out?”

     “No, of course not,” Famine said, his tone testy.

     “Alright then,” Pestilence said. “We need to come up with some sort of plan.”

All four of them lapsed into silence, thinking.

     “I could create some kind of new super virus,” Pestilence offered.

     “Maybe,” War said slowly. “For this to work, we have to utilize all four of our skills. A new virus could work with Famine and Death, but I’m not sure where I’d fit in.”

     The table sank back into silence.

     “Could we blow something up?” Death asked War.

     “Technically yes, but working with the people currently in charge of the biggest bombs aren’t really all that likely to shoot off enough firepower to do real damage. I mean, that idiot in North Korea is, but his technology is so crap that everyone thinks he’s a joke.”

     “Could you help him with his technology?” Pestilence asked.

     “Sure, but I don’t think that’d be enough,” War replied.

     Famine stared intently at the table, thinking deeply.

     “You’re unusually quiet,” Death commented.

     Famine sat up a little straighter in the booth and looked up at the other three.

     “I was thinking about what War said about how the people currently in charge of the biggest bombs aren’t likely to use them. What if,” Famine said, the wheels visibly turning behind his eyes. “What if we got someone else in power? Someone who would be likely to use those bombs? If we could start another world war, the technology is strong enough to not only kill enough people, but the fallout could infect people and cause all sorts of nasty diseases.”

     “Where would you fit into all that?” War asked.

     “Well,” said Famine. “I might know a guy who could be perfect for president.”

     “President of . . . the United States?” Pestilence asked, her face agog. “Seriously?”

     “Seriously,” Famine said, his confidence growing in his idea.

     “America the ‘melting pot’?” Pestilence asked.

     “Oh yeah,” Famine said. “It’s diverse, but everybody hates each other.”

     “It’s true,” said War. “Even the so-called ‘hippies’ can be massive dicks to each other and blow up shit as eco-terrorists.”

     “Eco-terrorists?” Pestilence asked. “Nicely done.”

     “Why thank you,” War said, bowing slightly with his hands clasped in front of him.

     “Okay, enough about you,” Famine said. “Like I said, I think I know a guy.”

     “Who?” Death asked.

     “A businessman in New York,” Famine said. “He’s a billionaire who likes to pretend he’s a real estate mogul.”

     “If he’s only pretending, how did he get to be a billionaire?” War asked.

     “His dad was the real businessman,” Famine explained. “This guy inherited everything when his dad died and has driven himself into corporate bankruptcy six times.”

     “So then how is he still a billionaire?” War asked, still confused.

     “Tax evasion, offshore accounts, lots of corrupt deals overseas,” Famine said. “All the usual shit those rich guys always pull.”

     “Alright, so who is this guy?” Pestilence asked. “And why would Americans vote for him?”

     “His name is Oswald King,” Famine said.

     “Wait, didn’t he have a reality show?” War asked.

     “Yes, yes he did,” Famine agreed.

     “Which one?” Pestilence asked.

     “That one where they pretend like he’s the best businessman ever and people compete to be his protege,” War explained. “It sucked, so they turned it into a show where celebrities embarrass themselves for charity.”

     “Oh, right, I remember that one,” Pestilence said. “Is King the guy who overdoes it on the fake tan and dyes his hair that horrible bright red?”

     “Yeah, he looks like a burnt french fry dipped in ketchup,” Famine said.

     “Isn’t he kind of overweight?” Death asked.

     “Fine, a deep fried tennis ball dipped in ketchup, are you happy now?” Famine asked, annoyed.

     “Yes, very,” Death said.

     “Anyway,” Famine continued, “I think King could be our guy. He’s made some offhand comments in the media about running for president, although I suspect those statements were more for attention than anything else.”

     “What makes you think he’d really want to run for president?” War asked.

     “The guy’s a complete narcissist,” Famine explained. “He loves power and there’s no more powerful position on the planet than being the president of the United States.”

     “And you think he could win? He sounds awful,” Pestilence said.

     “Oh, he is. And yes, I do. He appeals to the insane fringe groups by running his mouth on social media sites like ChitChat and I think he’d create such a media circus that he’d be impossible to ignore during a campaign.”

     “So say we get him elected,” Death said. “Then what? You think he’s actually volatile enough to start a war?”

     “Oh, definitely,” Famine said. “He has the thinnest skin imaginable and his reaction to negative criticism is always volatile. Usually, he just threatens to sue everyone, but with the nuclear codes, he’d just bomb the shit out of everyone. Plus, because he’s an idiot, he’s very easily swayed. Especially when hungry.”

     “And you’re sure this will work?” Pestilence asked.

     “Well, no, of course not. I don’t think we can be sure of anything,” Famine said. “I’m open to suggestions, but this might be our best bet.”

     The table was quiet for a moment, considering this.

     “This plan is insane,” Death finally said.

     “Yup,” Famine agreed. “Completely.”

     The four of them lapsed into silence again.

     “Did I mention he’s an anti-vaxxer?” Famine asked.

     “Alright, fine,” Pestilence said. “But this better work.”

     “It does seem like this guy might be our best bet,” Death said. “But what happens if he loses the election? What then?”

     “I guess we can’t let him lose,” Famine said with a shrug. “It’s either that or we get fired.”

     “What exactly would that entail?” Pestilence asked.

     “Do you want to find out?” Death asked.

     Pestilence shook her head.

     “Do you think they’re still serving breakfast?” War asked suddenly.

     The other three stared at him.

     “What?” War asked. “Planning the apocalypse always makes me hungry.”