“Oh, no, my dear, sweet Empress Victoria,” said the Indian woman, stepping closer and revealing a large knife, forcing Queen Victoria XXX back to the ground, “you’re not getting off that easy.”
“For fuck’s sake, lady. Seriously?”
“Now see here, mister President,” continued the decomposing cowboy, “I had a good thing going, bringing in the Chinese and puttin’ ‘em to work on the lines a’fore they knew better. Then you, you had to go and outlaw Chinese immigrations and dry up all my profits.”
“That wasn’t me, you fucking half-wit,” countered Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“An’ this ain’t me,” replied the zombie, grabbing the stitching of his garishly embroidered vest. “Among numerous other things, I wouldn’ta been caught dead in this ridiculous outfit. It’s fuckin’ embarrassing, not ta mention uncomfortable.”
“You do kind of have a stripper vibe going on with that,” added Queen Victoria XXX.
“I know, right?” he said. “I feel bad fer the poor bastard that died in this get-up.” The cowboy shrugged. “But that’s just the shape a’ the world now, I ‘spose. I ain’t me and you ain’t you and things ain’t even close to how they was… but I’m gon’ kill you all the same.”
“And I…” said the sari-clad corpse, addressing Queen Victoria XXX.
“Yeah, I get it,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “Queen of England, colony in India, lots of shit went down, not me, you don’t care.”
“Oh, well, yes.”
“Glad we cleared that up.”
“Seriously, though,” added the queen, “all this time and you’re still pissed? How uneventful were the rest of your lives?”
“Pretty boring,” said the cowboy.
“Oh, god, you have no idea,” said the Indian.
Forty-Nine: Emotional Resonance
“Look, if you’re going to stab me, just fucking do it,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “All this chit-chat is getting annoying.”
“How the hell did you find us in the first place?” asked Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“God damn it, Charlie…”
“It wasn’t hard,” said the cowboy.
“You used your full names when you advertised your rental service,” said the Indian.
“Way to go, Charlie,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “The one time you don’t think something through to a completely unnecessary extreme and now I have to die for it.”
“Hey, you said it was a good idea,” replied Chester A. Arthur XVII. “You argued for a cut of the profits!”
“I didn’t tell you to advertise my involvement so some obsessive, homicidal ghost could track me down and slice my god damned head off!”
“I’ve got my own psychopathic spirit to deal with right now, OK? We can argue about this later.”
“Later? What later? We are at a remarkable disadvantage here.”
“Christ,” said the cowboy, cocking the revolver, “Nevermind that grudge shit, I’m ‘bout to shoot ‘em both just to shut their asses up.”
The cowboy, however, shot neither the president nor the queen. Instead, the cowboy exploded. So did the Indian.
“What the fuck?” inquired Chester A. Arthur XVII and Queen Victoria XXX, in unison and with much incredulousness.
Still on their backs—and now covered in bits of burning, decaying flesh—Chester and Victoria turned their heads awkwardly until they could see William H. Taft XLII standing behind them, shouldering a smoking rocket launcher.
“Left it in the trunk,” said William H. Taft XLII, patting the weapon lovingly.
Fifty: He’s Referring, Of Course, to the Great Sewage Floods of Iowa
“Sir,” said a completely nondescript bureaucratic drone whose fortune-telling mother hadn’t even bothered to name him due to his fated role in the world, “it appears that Pennsylvania has been taken by the Hobo State.”
“Riiiiiight,” said the President of the Amalgamated Provinces and States of Canada, America and Mexico.
“No, seriously,” said the man with no name. “They sent us a fax.”
“So?”
“On letterhead.”
“Oh, shit. Sounds serious,” said the president. “What’s it say?”
“Dear Sir or Madam. We regret to inform you…” began the drone.
“I’m imagining this guy as more of a baritone. Can you read it deeper, you know, with some authority?”
“We regret to inform you,” continued the drone, an octave lower, “that your capitalist stranglehold on society is at its end. We—the proud, compassionate, and intelligent members of the Hobo State—have annexed the parcel of land you previously referred to as the state of Pennsylvania. It is now a part of the Hobo Empire, and shall no longer be burdened by any designation of state, nor troubled by the imaginary boundaries you imposed upon it. The Hobo Empire is a collective of people—all people, regardless of race, creed, or mutagenic blood level—and will not be portioned out like a Christmas ham. Or, you know, pudding on a Thursday, since the Hobo Empire does not wish to exclude anyone who may not celebrate ham or is allergic to Christmas. Our point is, you suck. Are you sure we should add that, Quinn? Yes. It’s not very professional. Neither is your face; keep typing. If you say so. I do. OK. Where were we? Our point is, you suck. Oh, right. You suck. And we don’t. You will notice that the Hobo Empire, in both its current and previous incarnations, has made not a metaphorical sound, has never stirred up animosity or created any kind of global calamity, while you, the rest of the world, seem to be drowning in new crises every morning. Quite simply, this is because you’re all fucking retarded. Quinn. Right, fine. This is because we have divined the true meaning to this life and are doing things they way they are meant to be done. And when you do things the way they are meant to be done, you don’t have problems. Like us. We don’t have problems. Because we’re doing things right. The residents of Pennsylvania saw this, and they joined us. Not by force, not by coercion, but through common sense and free will. And now, nations and villages and assorted fax machine owners of the world, we are offering the same offer to you. Join us. Or don’t. Although joining us is clearly the more intelligent option.”
“They sent that to everyone everywhere, sir,” added the nameless guy.
“We have no choice but to take care of this. The Hobo State is within our borders and it’s our problem. We can’t have China thinking we can’t shovel our own shit. Not again.”
“What are you suggesting we do, sir?”
“They same thing we always do, son,” replied the President of the Amalgamated Provinces and States of Canada, America and Mexico. “Kill them all.”
“But there are innocent people…”
“Not anymore they aren’t. And, besides, Pennsylvania was mostly an atomic wasteland, crawling with mutants. Fuck ‘em.”
“May I suggest a slightly more tactful approach, sir? Pennsylvania may be a state of mutants, but mutants do, actually, make up a solid third of what remains of humanity. Why don’t we send the robots in first and try to take out this ‘Quinn’ before we go slaughtering one of the more prolific contingents of voters that we have.”
“That’s a solid enough argument,” replied the president, leaning back in his chair and reflecting on the proposal.
“OK, fine, we’ll do it your soft, fuzzy way,” the president continued. “Release the murder-drones.”
Fifty-One: Economic Stimulus Shovel
“OK, guys,” said Mark. “There’s no easy way to say this…”
“Sheila’s pregnant!” guessed Thor.
“No.”
“You used to be a woman!”
“No.”
“You’re going to be a woman?”
“Amazingly, Thor, while not actually helping in anything even resembling a useful capacity, you are, in your own unique way, making it easier for me to continue.”