“Catrina and I are skipping out early,” said Thor. “You good with the guests?”
“Yeah, sure, we’ve got what, two?”
“Three. Some cheap-ass pillow fetishist came in a couple hours ago.”
“Alright, no problem.”
“Thanks.”
Thor turned to walk out, but heard Mark’s eye refocusing again. Thor turned sideways and ran, closing the door to Mark’s office behind him.
“I wonder what Jesus’ wang looks like,” said Mark to himself quietly.
The phone on his desk rang. He answered it.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, hi, this is room 218. Can I get a few more pillows sent up?”
Three: Thor’s Kind of a Dick When He’s Hungry
The diner ran out of pancakes shortly before Thor arrived. It always ran out of pancakes. All things considered, it was a pretty terrible diner. Thor wasn’t sure why he kept going there. Well, other than convenience, laziness, and steel-reinforced walls.
“The guy next to me got pancakes,” said Thor. “And he ordered after me. I think the waitress might be lying to me.”
“Give it a rest, Thor,” said Catrina.
“Excuse me, miss?” he said, flagging down the waitress.
“Christ…”
“Yes?” said the waitress.
“Are you sure you’re out of pancakes?” asked Thor.
“Yes.”
“But that guy got pancakes.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“He’s eating them right now. Look. He’s got maple syrup on his chin.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Thor stared at the woman. The woman stared back. She had a powerful gaze. Thor felt like she was staring right through him. Her eyes flicked red and Thor heard a motorized humming coming from the waitress’s skull. She was staring right through him. That bitch.
“Can you at least look at me while you’re denying me breakfast?”
“No.”
“Seriously, lady? What’d I ever do to you?”
“What haven’t you and your people done to…”
“Really? My people?”
“Three years ago I was revered! I was feared! Back before your kind…”
“Ha!” said Thor, pointing a finger at the waitress. “I’ve only been on this plane of existence for two years! I didn’t do shit to you! Now give me my damn pancakes.”
“No.”
“That does it.”
Thor reached up and plucked the waitress’s left eye out of its socket. There was a mild shock, but nothing the former God of Thunder wasn’t used to. The waitress didn’t even blink.
“What the fuck, sir?”
“You get your eye back when I get my pancakes.”
“Fine.”
The waitress walked away.
“Fuck, man,” said Thor. “Fucking cyborgs. Fucking Oklahoma Treaty. Just because the robots decided they didn’t want you anymore and the humans wouldn’t take you back is no reason to give me shit. Especially about my damn dinner.”
“Wow,” said Catrina. “Now who’s a racist?”
“I was under duress.”
“I’m pretty sure a lack of pancakes doesn’t equal duress.”
“I’m pretty sure it does.”
“You took her damn eye, Thor.”
“I’ll give it back.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“It’s a lot heavier than it looks.”
“She’s an older model.”
“Warm, too.”
“It’s probably radioactive or something,” said Catrina, swatting Thor’s hand. “Stop playing with it.”
“It’s just radiation.”
“Radiation equals bad.”
“They wouldn’t let her near food if she was radioactive.”
“She’s probably got dampers in her head or something,” replied Catrina, swatting his hand again. “Seriously, Thor, stop it. You’re gonna break it.”
The waitress returned with their food.
“Your pancakes, sir.”
“And your eye. As promised.”
The waitress took the eye from Thor’s outstretched hand and placed it into her skull.
“Damn it,” she said, blinking furiously. “It’s all smudged.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re a dick.”
“Don’t lie about my pancakes.”
“Fuck you.”
“Now you’re only getting a ten percent tip.”
Four: Chester A. Arthur Picked Up His Axe
Chester A. Arthur XVII sat on the front steps of his apartment building, cigarette in hand, watching the oncoming zombie horde.
“Braaaaiiiinsss,” said one of the zombies.
“Mrrroarrrgh,” said another.
They shuffled across the parking lot of the complex. Slowly.
Chester A. Arthur XVII, cigarette between his lips, continued to sit on his steps and watch the oncoming zombie horde.
“Guuuuurrrgghhh,” said a zombie.
“Murrrrrrr,” said a different one.
The lead zombie’s arm fell off.
“Buh?”
Three other zombies fell down for entirely unrelated reasons.
Two more turned to the left and lumbered toward a squirrel. Then they fell down, too.
“Moooooooorgh,” said the re-animated corpse of a cow.
“OK,” said the seventeenth clone of assorted residual genetics of the twenty-first President of the United States of America, raising an eyebrow. “Fuck this.”
Chester A. Arthur XVII picked up his axe.
“Look,” he said, approaching the approaching horde. “As I’m sure you are all well aware, I am going to dismember you, with extraordinary violence and speed, and then I am going to set you on fire. However, what you may not know is that I am exceptionally tired this evening and I would prefer not to exert myself physically, if at all possible. I think it would be in everyone’s best interests if you were to simply turn around and stumble away, relocating your ungodly marionette show to some other apartment building.”
The horde quickened its pace.
Well, kind of.
“Grrraaaaaaaagghghhghh!” shouted several of the zombies.
“Blllarrgggh,” said a few others.
“Faaaaaakkkkkkk groooooo,” said one particularly contentious zombie, raising the stump of his right arm.
“That was just uncalled for.”
The zombie in question waggled its stump in reply.
Chester A. Arthur XVII shrugged, then looked at his watch.
“…and, go!”
Chester A. Arthur XVII charged at the horde, beheading the three lead zombies with a single swing of his axe. He took the legs off four more with the next slice. The following three arcs connected with a skull, a face, and a jaw, respectively.
It went on like that for another few minutes, until the parking lot was nothing more than an unsightly heap of assorted zombie pieces.
“Moooooorrrk.”
And one very confused, undead cow.
Five: The Internet is for Porn
“New record, lady and gentleman.”
Chester A. Arthur XVII walked into the kitchen and leaned against the doorjamb.
“Three minutes and twenty-six seconds.”
“I don’t understand why you can’t just use the flamethrower like a normal person,” said William H. Taft XLII. “I mean, that’s why we bought the damn thing.”
“Because, Billy, my boy,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, “that’s simply not a very sporting endeavor.”
“They’re walking fucking corpses, dude.”
“Hell,” added Queen Victoria XXX, “they’re barely even that. They’re like scarecrows made of balsa wood and phlegm. I think they’re beginning to decay more rapidly than they used to.”
“There was a cow out there with them this time,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.