This was alarming to Timmy in a lot of ways, actually. The existence of pants, for one. And the sudden and overwhelming sense of shame due to not wearing pants, for another. Mind-blowingly simple, really, he thought, covering one’s junk with cloth. One’s junk should never be exposed! Unless, of course, one loves and/or lusts after the person to whom one is exposing one’s junk. Wait, what? Contradiction was also new to Timmy.
But, Timmy quickly reasoned, all that could wait. There would be time enough to ponder all the imponderables, to cover his junk and flash his wife, once he got out of this lab. Timmy stared at his restraints, trying to discern a way out of them, when, all of sudden, they started moving. What the crap? They stopped. That was weird. Timmy started thinking about removing the restraints again. The restraints started moving again. Wait. No way. Could it be? Telekinesis! Artificially induced cognizance was fucking awesome.
Timmy freed himself from his restraints and then his cage, and finally scampered across the desktop.
“Stop him!” said someone.
Timmy threw a scalpel at that someone’s face. With his fucking mind.
Timmy proceeded to butcher and maim the remainder of the scientists, taking out a lifetime of frustration in a matter of moments. Which was fitting, seeing as how Timmy had only actually been frustrated, or even aware of the possibility of frustration, for a matter of moments.
Timmy the squirrel bolted out of the lab, across the lawn and into the street. The street. Streets are things that go places. Oh, man, this makes life so much easier! Timmy decided to follow the street to wherever it was going.
But, wait. The street was vibrating slightly. What the hell? Timmy turned and looked around. There was something big and purple and pink barreling towards him.
It was, it was… it was a car. Timmy remembered cars. Cars sucked.
Forty-Three: Ka-Thunk
Ka-thunk.
“Jesus, Charlie,” said Queen Victoria XXX, her knees bouncing off her face, “what’d you hit this time?”
“Another squirrel, I think.”
“What’re you, aiming for them?”
“I’m not doing it on purpose, they just keep ending up under the tires. I think they’re committing suicide. They’re probably part of a cult.”
“Seriously? A suicidal squirrel cult?”
“Sure,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII. “It’s not nearly as far-fetched as it might sound. It’s well documented that, throughout time, all manner of cults have resorted to suicide as a final ritual, regardless of the various lines of reasoning that led there. And given the sheer volume of things that are gaining sentience that shouldn’t be these past few years, it only makes sense that similarly cognitively-enhanced members of a species would band together—at first turning to one another for companionship and a sense of understanding, but eventually entering into a similar mindset. Couple this with the animal kingdom’s heightened sense of danger and unrest and it’s safe to assume that those wild and untamed creatures are fully aware of just how fucked this planet is. With the only options open to them being trying to identify and fight an elusive and intangible enemy or attempting to flee from the all-encompassing nature of said invisible threat, it’s not hard to believe that their fight or flight instinct would reconcile itself to suicide. Hell, it’s amazing that they haven’t all hanged themselves already.”
“Well, no, not really,” said William H. Taft XLII. “I mean, you can’t seriously expect squirrels to tie a noose.”
“There’s bound to be an artificially educated chimp somewhere with the know-how and the thumbs to perform such a task.”
“You think there’s a monkey somewhere, just knitting nooses and selling them to squirrels?” asked Queen Victoria XXX.
“Well, not necessarily selling. He could be bartering for them, or giving them away. Chimpanzees are industrious. There’s bound to be at least one looking to capitalize on the misfortunes of his brethren.”
“Squirrels and chimps aren’t brothers,” replied William H. Taft XLII.
“They’re closer to each other than they are to us.”
“Wrong again, Charlie,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “Evolutionarily speaking, chimps are much closer to us than to squirrels. Everyone knows that.”
“Would you buy a noose from a chimp?”
“Why would I be buying a noose?”
“Just answer the question. Yes or no.”
“No.”
“Right. And the inhabitants of the animal kingdom know this. After years of trying to make them wear pants and play the accordion, or chasing them out of our attics with brooms, humans are undoubtedly despised by both chimps and squirrels alike. Physically, humans and apes may be related, sure, but, socially, spiritually, chimps would identify more with squirrels. They would be brethren in a fraternal sense.”
“Have you ever lost an argument?”
“Once. That guy’s not alive anymore, though.”
Forty-Four: The Same Thing We Do Every Night
Having given in wholly to the whims and wants of the woolgathering wastrels, Quetzalcoatl was finally able to enjoy his days, largely through excessive drinking, sleeping, and the occasional spouting of vague, usually insulting, witticisms.
Then he got bored.
Then he got an idea.
A wonderful, awful idea.
“Everyone,” called Quetzalcoatl loudly, “gather ‘round.”
“We can’t gather round, man,” said Gil.
“The room’s square, man,” said Lil. “It’s got, like, corners.”
“OK, not you two,” replied the former Aztec god.
“That’s not cool, man.”
“Yeah,” seconded Gil, “that’s, like, discriminatory and stuff.”
“Fine, alright,” relented Quetzalcoatl, “but no talking.”
Gil and Lil nodded. Phil, Bill, Will and the rest of the philosophers and liberal arts majors likewise gathered ‘rou… in a manner that filled the room but did not actually resemble a circle in any way.
“Gentlemen and ladies who look like gentlemen,” said Quetzalcoatl. “The time has come for us to make our presence known. For you to get off your asses and make this planet a better place…”
Quetzalcoatl was going to take over the world.
Forty-Five: His Name Was Sleepzor, He Was a Tiredmotron
“What the fuck is the new guy doing?” asked Thor.
“It looks like he’s taking a nap,” replied Catrina.
“But he’s a robot.”
“Yeah.”
“Robots don’t sleep.”
“Yeah.”
“Why is he sleeping then?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think we should wake him?”
“Well, given that he’s got a circular saw in his chest and the last guy that surprised him was the late, great pillow fetishist, I’d advise against it. Also—and this is important, Thor—why? There is no conceivable reason to wake him. We haven’t had a guest since he killed that guy.”
“Yeah, I know, but I want to know why he’s asleep.”
“That’s pretty dumb.”
“He’s a robot. Robots don’t sleep. And yet this one is asleep, snoring even. I want to know why.”
“So ask him when he’s awake.”
“What if he doesn’t wake up? What if he’s in some kind of robot coma? What if by waking him up I’m saving his life?”
“My money’s on that being even more unlikely than a robot napping in the first place.”
“I’m gonna do it.”
“You’re gonna get a saw through your chest.”
“You worry too much.”
“You’re an idiot too much.”
“Here goes.”
Thor approached the robot sprawled across the lobby’s couch. He was debating between tapping the robot’s shoulder and simply yelling in its face. Catrina, for her part, decided it would be wise to retrieve the first aid kit from the break room, as Thor was about to become grievously injured.