Enter the Apocalypse

by Gondolfi, Thomas

  I felt better after Famine gave me that pep talk. I didn't even feel like raiding the snack machine and eating my feelings like I usually do after War would yell at me. But that's Famine for you. He's sooo nice to everyone—like a really skinny Italian grandma.

  And even though Famine takes the brunt of War's occasional outbursts, Famine knows when War's ready to boil over and tries to calm her down beforehand. Sometimes it backfires, though.

  I remember this one time, Famine made a delicious looking curry dish to try to cheer War up and she totally threw it on the ground.

  "Ugh!" War exclaimed, spewing out a mouthful of curry. "You put meat in this!"

  "Did not," replied Famine.

  "Did too," retorted War, hurling the dish to the ground. War stomped away, muttering that Famine was being disrespectful to her like he always was. I didn't know what that was about since Famine's been nothing but respectful and polite to everyone at NewCo.

  Turns out, War was pissed because—get this—War is a vegan! She loves animals! I found this out purely by accident when I took a wrong turn and ended up in the War Room instead of the Break Room. There she was: sniffling her little heart out and rewinding those sad commercials with puppies and kitties and horses with some female singer from the ’90s doing the voiceover. Well, after I brought War a box of tissues and showed her pictures of my Breyer horse collection, we totally bonded and have been hunky-dory ever since! She collects Breyer ponies, too!

  So, those are my "bosses" in a nutshell. Every day is an adventure here at NewCo. I'd love to stay and tell you more, but I've got to get back to planning this big event thingy for the Horsemen. It's not easy coordinating three separate Meet-and-Greets in three separate parts of the world—but I love my job!

  Famine…in his own words on: Why Death, Inc. Teamed Up with NewCo

  It seemed like a good idea at the time, I suppose. Pestilence, War, and I had been plodding along. For thousands of years we'd been in the business of death. Busy seasons came and went every few centuries. For the most part, these busy seasons were a thankless job. Basically, you kill off a lot of people in the same exact way for however long until it ended. It could be three years of a plague, a steady seven-planting seasons of starvation, or a whizbang of a war with severed limbs raining down for a year or two. Those long spells are pretty much paint-by-numbers deaths. Not a lot of room for creativity. Just a lot of destruction—and a lot of clean up.

  In hindsight, I think that’s why we decided to sign with NewCo when they approached us. We were eventually going to wind up wiping out a chunk of the population anyway, but at least with NewCo, we'd be getting something out of the deal instead of just mopping up pustule juice and playing Name That Fluid. (Believe me, Name That Fluid gets pretty boring after a few millennia.)

  We worked out a deal: Corner offices with a nice view. Hourly rate plus performance bonuses. (Salary is for chumps!) And a few other perks.

  Then they brought in likeness marketing and licensing to the table, which was where we figured we could really cash in. Besides, I always wanted an action figure of myself.

  The action figures were the high point, though. We probably should have read the fine print or gotten some legal counsel to review the NewCo contract before we signed on the dotted line.

  The 55-hour work weeks were a cinch. Truth be told, we always worked odd hours, so capping it at 55 hours with overtime pay was just gravy.

  But it was the corporate extracurriculars that sucked the high holy one—mandatory charity activities, public relations stunts, and the television series. None of these things were covered under our 55-hour work week. And they sure as shit didn't count as overtime.

  Right now you're probably saying to yourself, "Hey, Famine! You guys are the Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse! What do you need all that cash for?"

  Well, I hate to break it to you, but unless you happen to be a beneficiary in your wealthy Great Uncle Harry's will, a hired hit man, or an undertaker, death isn't all that lucrative.

  We Three Horsemen aren't angels and we aren't demons, either, so it's not like we can call either Heaven or Hell our home. We serve a purpose. And like any other working stiff, we're confined to a specific office space—that office space being Earth. Sure, we're supernatural beings, but it doesn't mean we don't need a place to hang our hats.

  So, NewCo provided us with housing. They were pretty sweet digs, too. The catch was that the Three Horsemen would have to share a house together and we'd be videotaped 24-7 as part of our own reality television series in the house.

  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

  I think we first started to realize that we made a big mistake on the day The Powers That Be called us in for an image overhaul.

  Randolph Dempsey, Marketing Director for NewCo on: The Image Overhaul

  NewCo pulled off a huge win by recruiting the Three Horsemen. In fact, they were the lynchpin of our Global Reduction Initiative. Yet, in order to maximize their effectiveness on our campaign, it was essential to have the Three Horsemen win the hearts and minds of the very population that they'd be reducing.

  Reputation management is the key to any good marketing campaign. And let's face it, the Three Horsemen had several millennia of galloping around with a very negative reputation.

  We had to remedy that ASAP.

  In order for the Three Horsemen to be able to (literally) get close enough to touch the people, there needed to be a softening of edges. We had to make death sexy again.

  After a deep data dig, we learned that consumers respond most favorably to what they're familiar with. While it's practically hardwired in NewCo's company culture to encourage thinking outside the box, we thought it best to revamp Death, Inc.'s image with a twist on classic concepts.

  Sometimes, the most effective way to remedy a reputation problem is to completely reinvent and rebrand.

  Our original concept for the Horsemen was phenomenal. Really, really phenomenal:

  What better way to rebrand the Horsemen than to call them the Horsewomen?! Sex sells, baby!

  Mind. Blown.

  Two of the Horsemen, War and Pestilence, were already female. However, with some gentle prodding, we were certain we could convince Famine to rematerialize into a female form. With Famine's naturally slim build and high cheekbones in mind, we conceived an idea to repackage Famine as a supermodel.

  When we presented Famine with the idea, he pushed back and refused to alter his form.

  In the event that we met with some resistance from Famine, NewCo's marketing team came up with an alternate, masculine concept that Famine was actually quite pleased with.

  In hindsight, I think this was the right move for the Horsemen. Our concept of a homespun farmer image for Famine offered a nice contrast to the new looks we came up with for War and Pestilence.

  Playing off pop culture imagery—and to give the Horsemen's T&A quotient a boost—our design and marketing team came up with a form-fitting vinyl nurse's outfit for Pestilence. This worked nicely since we were able to incorporate one long rubber glove into the ensemble to camouflage Pestilence's withered arm.

  The rubber glove served a dual purpose, actually: For starters, it made what was a hideous deformity pretty damn sexy and alluring. Secondly, that arm is the one that Pestilence uses to administer her…"special touch," shall we say? To reduce the risk of accidental exposure for any members of NewCo's team, we decided to put a glove on that puppy. Sure, we've all signed waivers, but why potentially put essential personnel in jeopardy if you don't have to, right?

  We cribbed inspiration for War's new look from Xena: Warrior Princess. It was the only design that War even remotely liked. The camouflage pin-up outfit was a no-go. She rejected the medieval armor miniskirt and bullet bra, claiming it covered too little and wasn't practical. Eventually, we came up with leather chaps and a leather-and-chainmail mini dress with matching gauntlets. War finally approved that one.

  It's like pulling teeth to get non-marketing types
to see your vision.

  These new looks were the key to our merchandising plan. You're not going to move cases of action figures unless you have cool costumes—and variant costumes, too. Ditto for getting the Horsemen photo opportunities. Creating recognizable looks for the three was essential to the first phase of the plan.

  War…in her own words on: The Image Overhaul

  The "image overhaul." That was a fucking treat.

  It was a Monday morning when we got called into the office of The Powers That Be. Apparently, they crunched some numbers and felt that we could better "win hearts and minds" if we changed our image to something more "conceptual"—whatever the fuck that means.

  We soon found out just what the hell "conceptual" meant. For starters, they wanted Famine to change his gender so we could be three broads. That numb nuts image consultant Randolph kept going on and on that “It’d be like Charlie’s Angels—only edgier! Plus, with that gaunt look and your bone structure, you could do runway if you changed into a woman!” Famine is usually a doormat, but he finally grew a pair and said no way.

  Unfortunately for us, they had already anticipated that Famine would tell them to fuck off and had an alternate look for us as a trio. The “look” the image consultants dreamed up for us wasn’t much better.

  Poor Pestilence found herself shoved into a one of those “naughty nurse” ensembles straight off the rack of Eldred’s Erotic Emporium.

  “This is ridiculous!” she cried. “I’m not supposed to be sexy! I’m Pestilence, goddamnit! Pestilence!” She enunciated each syllable of her name so that each became its own word. (I’ve heard her use this same voice on her kids before when she was really pissed: “Boo! Bonn! Nick!” “Muh! Lair! Eee! Uh!” “Rue! Bell! Uh!”)

  I won't even begin to describe my outfit. Okay. I will. I looked like a refugee from Game of Thrones as interpreted by Larry Flynt.

  That shit heel Randolph piped up, insisting that “tests from our sample audience show people respond more favorably to images that they’re already familiar with. They don’t have to think too hard to get a visual impression of what you’re all about.”

  “I like my outfit,” said Famine, admiring the baggy flannel and denim farmer overalls that hung loosely over his skeletal frame, making him look like a scarecrow with the stuffing taken out.

  “Eat shit, Famine!” I spat.

  “I can’t eat,” he smiled. “I gotta stay under one hundred pounds. It’s in my contract. Shit is actually very high in calories and saturated fat.”

  “See, what we were going for with Famine’s look with the plaid is something that appeals to the heartland in NewCo's stateside sector. I call it 'Salt-of-the-Earth meets Salted Earth.'” Randolph smiled at his little joke.

  “It was so hard getting just the right plaid, too. Nothing too denominational for when Famine makes appearances outside the U.S. Some of the old Brits and Scots have some residual tribal sensitivities dating back centuries. So, we didn’t want to pick anything too close to older clan tartans and risk alienating anyone.”

  "Of course not," I muttered. Maybe I wasn't seeing the "forest for the trees," as Randolph liked to say, but I kept wondering how there could be any friction or, you know…war…with so much hypersensitivity flying around. Call me kooky, but I loved my job and I liked to earn my paycheck. The spoils of War.

  But this was junior high cupcake shit, as far as I was concerned.

  I was starting to get second thoughts about this whole NewCo business. And I was wondering if Famine and Pestilence were thinking the same thing.

  Pestilence…in her own words on: The Horsemen's New Home

  "Wheeeeee!" I screamed, jumping on the king-sized bed in my own room. My own room!

  I ran up to War, grabbed her by the gauntlet, and dragged her over to the antique apothecary cabinet that displayed tiny samples of my children in beautiful glass vials.

  "Look at this!" I squealed. "And they're alphabetized!"

  I ran over to the wall opposite the one with the huge, flat-screen TV and noticed it was covered in spores. Not just faux finish, painted-on spores. Real spores!

  I heard a clanging coming from the front of the house followed by a sharp wheezing from Famine.

  "Have you seen the kitchen!?" he cried.

  War and I ran to the room and saw a beautiful marble kitchen island with an array of copper pots suspended above it.

  "There's a cherry wood butcher's block and cutting board!" Famine exclaimed.

  War walked over to the humongoid, gigantous stainless steel refrigerator.

  "Go ahead," Famine nudged. "Try the icemaker. Push one of the little colored buttons on it. Go on. Try it!"

  War eyed Famine suspiciously. I grabbed a glass and pushed the red button and a handful of ice cubes with pretty little chunks of strawberries embedded inside emptied into my glass. I pressed the green button and another flurry of cubes plopped into my glass, this time with sunny slices of kiwi peeping out from their icy windows.

  "This. Is. Awesome!" I yelped, jumping up and down, ice cubes bouncing from my cup. I bent down, picked them back up and threw them back in. "Five-second rule."

  Suddenly, a pleasant female voice sounded over the mansion's intercom. "Would the Three Horsemen gather in the living room, please? The Three Horsemen to the living room, please. Thank you."

  "Well, at least it's polite," said War, striding toward the living room.

  Famine and I eyed each other, knowing exactly what the other was thinking. We hurdled the cutaway divider that cordoned off the kitchen from the living room.

  The three of us sat on the couch as the 70-inch TV turned on by itself. Garth Reed appeared on the screen.

  Garth Reed. The head honcho. The big cheese. The Grand Poobah Deluxe. Of all the Powers That Be in NewCo, Garth Reed was the Most Powery-est of Those That Be'd.

  "Good morning, Horsemen," Reed spoke.

  War elbowed me in the ribs. "Confirmed. Someone's got a Charlie's Angels fetish."

  "I heard that," sighed Reed. "That was funny, though. And yes. I've always fancied myself something of a John Forsythe type." He smoothed a hand with a ginormous obsidian ring through his perfectly-quaffed silver hair. He sat up straight behind his shiny ebony desk, decked out with an even shinier gold nameplate that said "G. Reed—NewCo CEO."

  He was super fancy.

  "All joking aside, I'd like to welcome you to your new home. NewCo wanted to make sure you have everything you need right here, all under one roof. I really hope you like your rooms. We tried to fill them with all sorts of goodies we thought you'd enjoy."

  "I really like the kitchen," spoke Famine.

  "Very happy to hear that, Famine," Reed replied warmly. "You'll be spending a lot of time there. We saw you had such a talent for cooking. And we absolutely loved what you did with Paula Deen."

  "Aww, it was no big thing, really," said Famine with a wave of his hand. "Besides, Pestilence helped."

  I smiled over at my buddy and gave him a high five.

  "Well, you may have teamed up with Pestilence to give Paula Deen diabetes, but that whole Bobby Flay-ed alive incident was all you. Kudos." Reed reclined pensively in his leather wingback chair, fingers steepled in front of him. "That said, how would you feel about your own cooking show? Or possibly your own cooking channel?"

  "Oh, Christ!" yelled War, hurling one of her metal gauntlets to the floor. "Are you fucking kidding me?! This goof gets his own TV show?!"

  "Now, War." Reed's voice took on a calming tone, gently chiding War for her sudden outburst. "This is precisely why we can't offer you your own solo show. Outbursts like that don't go over well with the FCC."

  War's mouth formed a thin red line as she simmered on the couch. Garth Reed turned his blue-gray gaze back to Famine.

  "Before we were interrupted, I wanted to know if you would be interested in hosting your own cooking show?"

  "I'd be honored," exclaimed Famine, shyly staring down at his weathered tan boots. "Does the show have
a name?"

  "It's called Feasting With Famine. You'll have your own test kitchen and everything. It'll air weekly on network television and there'll be different themes each week: Dishes from around the world. Bites on a budget. Love those leftovers…You get the idea. You'll have an opportunity to exhibit some of your own creative control, too."

  Famine's eyes grew wide.

  "And we have something planned for you, too, Pestilence."

  And that's when my eyes grew wide.

  "Famine tested really well with women in the 25–55 demographic, but you tested through the roof with children, young lady. That’s why we wanted to give you your own show, too." Reed beamed like a proud grandfather, ready to dole out a pocketful of Werther's Originals. "Children really seem to take to you—especially the children of anti-vaxers. We think it's the perfect way for you to connect with that segment of our target audience. How does Pestilence's Playhouse sound?”

  I couldn't contain myself. I started jumping up and down! Then Famine started jumping up and down with me!

  And then War got up from the couch and stomped off to her room.

  After Famine and I finally composed ourselves enough to sit back down, Garth Reed filled us in on the details of our production schedules. This was going to be a blast!

  War…in her own words on: The Snub Heard 'Round the House and Her Longstanding Beef with Famine

  I was wondering if anyone else was having second thoughts about this sudden and total immersion in all-things NewCo. I sure got my answer.

  Apparently, I was the only one of us Horsemen who wasn't blinded by the promise of TV shows or nonstick cookware.

  I couldn't take any more of that smiling butt-nugget Garth Reed staring back at me from the big screen and doling out more free shit than Oprah. I clomped up the stairs to my room, slammed the door, and flopped down onto my bed.