“Yet,” replied Will, “we have no choice. To quell an uprising… that hasn’t even risen…”
Between the absinthe, the flavored tobacco, everyone continually pronouncing Proust correctly, and all the god damned tweed, Quetzalcoatl was about ready to clobber someone.
“Jesus fuck, guys,” said Quetzalcoatl, “don’t you stop? Like, ever?”
A basement full of heavy-lidded eyes turned to Quetzalcoatl.
“I’m sorry, Quinn,” said Syl. “I… we don’t understand.”
“You guys honestly believe you can change the world? Just by sitting on your asses and thinking about it. Don’t you?”
“I understand,” said Phil. “He’s testing us, trying to… gauge our answer to the… inevitable questions that will be asked of us.”
“I… buddy, I don’t even remember which one you are.”
“Quinn,” said Will, “it is not about changing the world… not about turning views to match our own.”
“Rather,” said Bill, “we are trying to suss out the extraneous distractions… to pare down that viewpoint.”
“We do not need to change the world,” said Phil, “merely discover it.”
“But all you’re doing is throwing around the same bullshit ideas. Over and over and over.”
“Only if you believe that they are bullshit, Quinn. It’s all about… perception, about how one chooses to view things and his belief in that conviction.”
“Ideally,” said Will, “if you’ll pardon the pun, we are aiming to discern the hidden meaning behind life, a perspective that cannot be… disputed, at which point everyone and everything will surely fall in line.”
“OK, OK,” said Quetzalcoatl, “I think I get it now.” He stood up. “You guys are just dumb as fuck.”
Quetzalcoatl hadn’t stood in a day or so. He was having issues remaining vertical.
“Are you… all right, Quinn?”
“Just peachy, thanks. That ill-advised drop-ceiling on your stairs seems to have cleared a few cobwebs.”
“Are you sure your brain isn’t just hemorrhaging?”
“Not even a little.”
“Well,” said Bill, “if Quinn’s little charade is over… I suggest we get back to the matter at hand.”
“Christ,” said Quetzalcoatl, “you’ve got all the vision of a toaster with one setting.”
Phil, Will, Syl, Bill, and all the others in the room paused to reflect on the statement, taking in all the possible connotations.
“Guys, no. Stop that,” said Quetzalcoatl. “I was insulting you.”
Twenty-Seven: Probably Really Itchy
Doctors Meola, Ramos, and Lalas stood in a darkened lab room, crowding together around the glow of a computer monitor.
“You’re sure we can track it?”
“Uh, yeah,” said Dr. Alexi Lalas. “In fact, we’re doing that now. We’ve been doing that for the last twenty minutes. That blinking light? On the map? The one we’ve been following around with our finger? That’s 37-E.”
“Oh,” said Dr. Meola, “right, yeah. I knew that.”
“Christ. You fucking girl,” said Dr. Lalas, “I can’t believe you’re still rattled. You weren’t even mauled!”
“It was a psychological mauling. There was, you know, trauma… and stuff.”
Dr. Lalas held up his shiny new cybernetic forearm.
“You’re a fucking pansy.”
“Yes, it certainly appears so.”
The surviving interns entered the room, pushing a hand-truck laden with various weapons and the coordinating ammunition. The interns were equal parts robotic implants and bandages, both terrified and terrifying. Judy, the one with half a face, was wearing a burlap sack with eyeholes cut out over her head. There was a crude smiling mouth drawn on it with marker.
“Judy,” said Dr. Ramos, “that seems a little…”
“No,” she said. “It’s not.”
“OK, maybe, but why a burlap…”
“That was all I could find.”
“I’m pretty sure I saw…”
“I’m fine.”
“Why would we even have a burlap sack in a state-of-the-art gene research facility in the first place?”
“I don’t know.”
“You look ridiculous.”
“I am well aware, thanks. Fucktard.”
“That’s Dr. Fucktard to you.”
“Yes, sir,” said Judy sheepishly.
“Enough!” barked Dr. Lalas. “We started this… and we’re the only ones who can end it.”
He pumped his shotgun, the sound resonating dramatically throughout the lab.
“It’s hunting season.”
The interns were barely able to stifle their laughter.
“Seriously?” asked Dr. Ramos, raising an eyebrow. “’Hunting season?’”
“Well, yeah, I was, uh, I was just trying to, you know, fire us up…”
“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 anyone.”
“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.