Around noon, the clouds parted to let in a piss-yellow ray of sunshine. It was quickly replaced by a rippling blast of darkness that left a heavy pallor covering the city.
A section of sky over Hollywood opened up, and a burst of flame leapt across the sky. Surfing this line of fire rode four figures on horseback.
People looked up, but others trudged to their jobs and ignored it, figuring one of the studios was just making a new movie. Gee, aren’t the special effects nowadays marvelous?
The four rode the flames until they hit the freeway at a gallop. They leapt over cars and trucks, trailing smoke. The four riders stayed close together but managed to remain aloof, as if they were a family of dysfunctional siblings on vacation.
They left the freeway by leaping off the I-5 and hit the road in a cacophony of noise that resulted in car crashes and general mayhem. A bus ran off the road and smashed into one of the pillars at fourty-five miles an hour. It struck a fire hydrant, spun to the right, and wrapped around a long concrete pillar.
One of the Horsemen, a man with a giant sword poking over his shoulder, pointed to the west. The others veered that way at his lead. They went pounding up the street, chasing screaming pedestrians into the alleys along the way.
The four came to a roaring stop at the gate to Sodomy Studios and waited impatiently for someone to let them in. When the gate didn’t open, the man with the large sword ripped it off its hinges with one swing of his gleaming blade. They walked the rest of the way to the set.
“It’s the afternoon show with Kayla Mangabbler!” A hyper woman yells into the PA, voice rising and lowering until it punctuates the host’s name at a hundred and thirty-three decibels. The audience has been boisterous, but now they amp it up to a new level, the ones who don’t get immediate ear bleeds.
They milled around during the break. The crowd inhaled coffee, caffeinated water, and the goodies that advertisers left under their chairs. Little red bags with the studio name on them along with the logos from the forty-seven things crammed in the package. Chunks of high-fructose corn syrup, energy drinks, and even a batch of chocolates from the Ostergroup Corporation filled with a curious combination of guarana and high-grade cocaine.
The host perches on her seat demurely. Across from her sit four people dressed like vagabonds. The audience is crowing at the top of their lungs like they expect them to start beating the shit out of each other at any second. Welcome to Hollywood. Welcome to the big show; have a nice fucking day—if you survive.
She has questions for each of her guests prepared from their submitted profiles, although War’s handwriting was hard to make out. He would have been better served by using a crayon on a large sheet of paper.
Death’s read like a serial killer’s.
Cue the camera. Cue the sound. Cue the ultra-bright but energy efficient LED lights that make the place as bright as daylight in the Caribbean. Cue Kayla to sit back and look hot.
“And we’re back. My next guests are the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Are they a motorcycle gang? A rock band? The beginning of the end?” She has to pause here, because the word on the teleprompter reads harbinger, and she is not about to unleash that intellectual bombshell on her audience. They might string her up and piss on her corpse Mussolini-style.
The camera pans across the four guests. Two on a couch, large one on a padded seat, and the last on a metal chair. They tried to put the girl in that one, but she unleashed a string of profanities so long it made the audience actually shut the hell up for a few seconds. Besides, if her wide ass took that seat, it would probably collapse like a house of cards hit by a stiff wind.
The producer points, indicating she is back on camera. Kayla leans forward and takes a sip of her drink, then slowly sets it down. The camera takes this moment to pan across the robed figures. It stops on the one directly across from her.
He has a tattered cowl over his face. It hangs limply, and when he breathes, strings flutter from the sides. Strips of cloth dangle from his sleeves, and torn ends of his robe cover his black boots.
“So Mr. War. Or do I simply call you War?” Her smile is in full effect. It is mocking in its severity. Her lips curl up in a smirk. The viewers at home have seen this look a thousand times. She is about to start some shit.
“War is fine.” His lips are visible. One sneers down when he speaks, like half of his face has been left numb by a stroke. If he wore glasses, he would be the spitting image of Dick Cheney.
“What do you bring? Why are you here? Do you have a message for the viewers?”
“Prepare for the end, for we have arrived.”
“The end of what, exactly?” She stares at the madman and lets a hint of concern quirk up her tweezed eyebrows.
“The end of the world. We are here to beak the seals and usher in the Apocalypse. The Antichrist awaits the savior. When he arrives, you,” he points at the crowd and then at the cameras. He points and points, and at last his finger points directly at her nose, “are all kitty chow.”
He sits back with a smug look on his face. The crowd is going nuts, laughing at the madman in the cowl.
“You all know me! I’m War and I bring it!” He jumps to his feet and pumps his fist in the air as the crowd goes nuts. They scream and holler like he is a celebrity. Kayla shakes her head at the spectacle.
“We are the four baddest mother fuckers to ever step onto the Earth. We are going to break the seals and trigger Armageddon. Where we go, cities fall and nations crumble. People die by the million. We bring pain, we bring misery, and we bring death.”
“I bring death,” the man in the hoodie interjects. He doesn’t speak loudly, but his voice cuts through the air like a twelve-inch razor-sharp knife.
Kayla shifts her gaze to the man in the hoodie and considers the apparition. He is just as scary as the others, but his face is a nightmare of tattoos that form some sort of spiral patterns. She feels … drawn to him like she is being sucked inside the shadows around his eyes.
“We all bring death. Just because you are Death doesn’t mean you get all the credit.” War yells while turning, hands in the air. The crowd of men and women scream louder at the circus performers.
“Without me, there is no death.”
“Look, Death old pal. If I take this fucking chair and bash this pretty lady into the fucking ground, she WILL fucking die.”
“Not if I don’t take her soul.”
Kayla looks between the two and then at the massive chair. For a split second, she considers bolting from the room.
“War, if you could take your seat we … “
“Don’t listen to that pussy. He’s losing his nerve. Doesn’t want to reap the slaughter like the old days.” Death turns his sneer on the man next to him. “Come on, Death. We used to follow the angels and paint the cities red with blood! We used to rile up the armies of the world. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I will do what is necessary when the time comes,” Death says and tugs the hoodie over his face so it is hidden in shadow. “It doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“Dude! Once upon a time we took down most of the world. Remember all the water? People screaming? How many on that one day?”
“Two million, six hundred and seventy-two, give or take.”
Kayla watches the strange exchange. This can’t turn into a philosophical debate at the loony bin. She needs to regain control. The big one does the job for her by jumping to her feet.
“I’ll change your mind. Why don’t you hop on me, and I’ll help you find your balls!” she screams in a voice that sounds like glass breaking.
“Sounds like there is some tension between you and this woman. Care to elaborate on your relationship?” Kayla seizes control once again. She is on her feet, hands out as if she were shrugging.
“There is no relationship, you stupid twit! I am Death. I bring death. I kill, not just a few, but scores. When I lower my scythe, cities tremble and fall. I have taken entire countries and leveled them.
I have no time for women or love. Especially not with her skank ass. You mock me at your own peril!” He stares daggers at the big girl.
“Some temper you have there. Do you talk to your wife like that?” Kayla puts her hands on her hips to admonish him. The audience loves it and roars their approval.
“Are you fucking stupid?” Death shakes his head and folds his hands across his chest.
“No wife? Did she leave you because of your temper?” Kayla presses.
Her head buzzes with pleasure again. It’s the drink that does it. Makes her feel like she can take on the world. But something is off today, and she can’t help but wonder if they didn’t tell her everything before they brought these four mental hospital rejects in. People are freaking out about the end of the world, but it is all bullshit. She also can’t help but think about the massive sword War carried when he entered the room. The producer had to come out and ask him to leave the big blade off to the side. They wanted to lock it up at first, but he said in a very deep voice, “That would be a bad idea.” And everyone in the room nodded like they knew it was a bad fucking idea. After a look from Death, War relented and stowed it offstage where he could see it but the cameras could not.
War sits after a moment of catcalls. There are two other ‘Horsemen,’ so she shifts her attention to them. Directly to War’s left is the hefty woman in a dark brown robe. Her hair is curly and wild, and it frames her round face. Her cheeks are so chubby they make her angry brown eyes seem like beads, and they force her small mouth into a frown. She scowls at the host with no effort to hide her disdain.
“His pair are all shriveled up like raisins because he never uses them!” the woman screams.
Kayla smiles at the woman nonetheless and introduces her. "As you just heard, this is the only female of the crew, Fatmine!"
The crowd claps and catcalls.
"It's FAMINE! Get your facts straight, you scrawny mattress of a girl," Famine shouts over the roar of the crowd. She scans the still-clapping idiots and breathes deep. It sounds like sucking spit through a straw. The man next to her chuckles out loud. His face is completely hidden in the shadow of his gray hood.
Famine turns to him and growls, "Fuck you, Pestilence!"
He raises one hand, and his sleeve falls away, exposing a rail-thin wrist and a hand with long slender fingers. He gives her the bird and then scratches his unseen face. The hostess smiles at him and says, "Thank you, Fatmine, for introducing our next guest. Pestilence!"
Famine yells, "MY NAME IS FAMINE, YOU TINY LITTLE WHORE!"
Pestilence laughs at Famine again before waving his spindly fingers at the camera. He leans back a little, and his long chin and thin-lipped mouth become visible. He smiles, and the camera pans to the side after catching a close-up of his train wreck teeth.
“We will get back to you both. I have a few more questions for Death if that is okay.”
“Be my guest. And enjoy it while you can. Not many get to meet Death and talk about it.”
“Got that right. His nethers are so shriveled he has to ask the big guy for permission to take a piss,” Famine howls. The crowd gets a good laugh, but Death scowls at her without blinking.
“Tell us more about being Death. Do you have a regular day job? Do you go after every person who is about to die? I mean, people must be dying now, so why aren’t you there to collect their souls?” She smirks at her impeccable logic.
“I get to them. Sometimes I have a backlog, but I get to everyone in the end.” He fingers the circles under his chin and sighs. “But there are special occasions.”
“I see. And this occasion is what exactly?” Outwardly she is calm. In control. Inside, her mind is going crazy. One of the producers slipped something in her drink. Something that is going to perk her right up. Her mind feels like it is under assault from bumblebees. They buzz around her noggin and make her want to shout crazy stuff. It’s the speed and the absinth. But this is how she puts up with the crazies and does the best interviews. High as a frigging kite.
“It is everywhere. The signs. The end is here.”
“The only sign I have seen is a billboard. Is that what you mean? Or is this something deeper? Something you need to prove to your brothers and sister? Some deep-seated need to show them that you are in charge? No disrespect, of course.” She adds the words that make any question she asks safe. It’s her get out of jail free card. She uncrosses her legs and leans forward to put the microphone right under his chin like a bulbous cock.
“I don’t need to show them I am in charge. They already know. These three have been with me since the beginning. But they are not as clever as I. Not by far.”
“Here we go with the darkness bullshit,” War mumbles.
“The only two things you are in charge of are Jack and shit,” Famine screams then jumps up and spins around while slapping her wide ass. The crowd goes wild. “And Jack just left town!”
“You will learn of the dark soon enough, you ancient twat.”
“So will you, you cock-swilling foul-breathed demon. You will learn of it when I punch you in the fucking teeth,” War says with a wicked grin.
“I come for everyone, and soon enough I will come for you. And when I do, I will skullfuck your soul straight to the abyss myself.”
War roars to his feet. Death is there at the same instant, and the two tussle for a moment, but neither seems very good at it. Famine screams like a banshee, which gets the audience out of their seats for the first time. They shout and scream for blood, but these gladiators are anything but warriors. Pestilence remains seated and continues waving at the crowd with those long fingers. He still has the smile plastered to his face like he is as high as a kite.
“Punch him in the balls!” Famine screams at no one in particular.
The security staff take to the stage to separate the loons, and the Horsemen sit down in a huff, arms crossed. More dark looks ensue.
“Punch him in the cock!” Famine screams again even though the two have settled down.
“I won’t lower myself to fighting by hand. I have armies to do my bidding. Minions to do my killing,” War spits.
“These are not as clever as I.” Death turns to fix Kayla with a stare that sends shivers up and down her spine. “All I have to do is swoop down and lower the scythe, then all their precious armies of shit monkeys fall like toy soldiers. Well, toy soldiers with gaping wounds.”
Pestilence leans forward in his chair and scoffs, "We aren't as clever as you?"
His long fingers disappear in the shadow of his hood and scratch his unseen face. He turns to Kayla and tells her, "He is clever because he doesn't have to do shit!
We do all the hard work." He nods first to Famine and then to War. "We’re the ones who commit genocide. We’re the ones who ravage the worlds with plagues and starvation. We kill you puke-fuck humans by the millions. Death just collects the souls."
“Collecting souls is exhausting!” Death sighs.
“Blah blah blah. I’m the dark one blah blah BLAH!” Famine yells the last word. Death gives her the finger.
“So, Death doesn’t pull his share of the load, is that what you are saying?” Kayla asks.
“You really are dumber than a shit stain!” Famine yells. A glob of spit flies out of her mouth and smacks across Kayla’s lap. Kayla stares at it in shock for a moment before shifting her gaze to the large woman.
“Pardon me, Fatmine. I do not appreciate your hostility.”
“I don’t give two rat rips what you appreciate. This whole place is going to be in the abyss in a few days.” Famine is on her feet again. She gestures for the crowd, but they boo her. Some get to their feet and shake their fists at her.
Kayla smiles and gestures for the crowd to settle down. Famine finally takes her seat, but she has a huge smirk on her face.
“If I could ask you a personal question, Fatmine.”
“FAMINE, You fucking twig. I’m about to come over there and smother your face in my ass!”
&nbs
p; “Famine, I apologize. I do have one serious question … If I may?”
Famine crosses her arms over her chest and stares.
“Are you under the care of a doctor for the delusions? Any of you, for that matter.”
Famine leaps to her feet, a truly frightening sight. The woman jiggles here and there, and Kayla is sure the studio shakes. Her chair shoots back, and Pestilence holds on for dear life. She waddles toward the host, but security intervenes. They are only a few feet from the stage when they step between the large woman and the tiny host. Kayla gets to her feet with her hands out to placate the crowd, but they are roaring with laughter.
“Get your hands off me, you fucking apes. I’ll shart you into next week, see if I don’t!” She gasps and squirms, but they hold on. After a moment of screaming profanities, she stills and stares at the two.
“Let her go,” Kayla says softly, and the men do. Famine looks at her, and Kayla suddenly doesn’t feel right. In fact, she feels like she has just eaten something very very bad.
The two men drop to the floor, first to their knees, then they sprawl out as their bodies unfold. Then like twin geysers, they both open their mouths and spew furious streams of vomit across the carpeting. The larger of the two, an older man who used to be a marine and has seen more combat action than most platoons, curls up in a ball and then throws up again.
“Fuccckkkk …” he manages to gag before more vomit spews out. It splatters the floor and Kayla’s very expensive shoes.
“I’m gonna dock your pay you goddamn son of a fucking …” she trails off as her eyes go as wide as stoned saucers.
Kayla gasps as her own stomach is assaulted by something that feels like it ate its way into her gut and took up residence. Then the thing does this mean little circus act where it jumps up and down with razor blades. She falls next to the men and stares at Death’s sandals, which look older than the fucking desert itself. They look handmade, and for one mad moment she wonders how she can get a pair. Then her stomach tightens, and she throws up forever. She can’t even catch her breath. She gasps and waits for someone to pound on her back to help her, but when she opens her mouth to scream, the puke blasts out of her nostrils.
Wacktards of the Apocalypse Page 2