Chester A. Arthur XVII rolled his eyes.
“We need your help, Thor,” repeated Judy at a much greater volume.
“That’s what I thought you said,” replied Thor, turning to Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“Fine,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, “you’re not completely worthless.”
“Thank you.”
“What exactly is it you need Thor for?” asked Catrina.
“After the incident with subject 37-E, I was recruited by the Department of Science to… Well, not recruited, really. Since we fucked up so bad, the department pulled our funding and took back our building, confiscating all of our research and supplies. And me, ‘cause I was living there. Anyway, I told them about how Thor killed it with lightning and they put me in a cell for a while and then last week they had me tell the story again and then they gave me this suit and told me to go get him. So that’s why I’m here.”
“That’s great, Judy,” said Catrina, before repeating, very slowly and distinctly, “but what do you need Thor for?”
“Oh, right. There’s a renegade Mexican god with an army of philosophers marauding up and down the west coast and we need Thor to destroy it.”
“What?” asked Thor. Although, truthfully, it was more a statement of disbelief than an actual question.
“Renegade god?” asked Queen Victoria XXX. “What god? What the hell are you talking about?
“Whoa, new person, hi,” said Judy. “It was a name with a lot of letters. Catcher… Quesa… Quasimodo?”
“That’s the Hunchback of Notre Dame,” said William H. Taft XLII.
“Yeah, that’s not a god,” countered Judy.
“Right, that was my point…”
“Right.”
“I don’t…”
“Yeah,” said Catrina, putting her hand on the shoulder of William H. Taft XLII, “don’t do that. Just follow my lead.” She leaned forward and called to the four men still standing by the door. “Hey, suits, anyone over there not an idiot?”
Three of the men immediately took a step back and pointed to the fourth man. He looked confused. Catrina hung her head.
“That explains why they’ve come for Thor anyway,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.
Thor smacked the reconstituted genetics of a former president in the back of the head and walked toward the man in the suit.
“So,” said Thor, “who’s this renegade god then?”
“Quetzalcoatl,” said the man, similarly walking toward Thor, “Aztec god of assorted things.”
“Anything in particular I should know about him?”
Thor and the least imbecilic man in a suit met in front of the couch… and all the people situated thereon.
“Wait, wait,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “You’re seriously considering doing this?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“You’re going to get yourself killed, that’s why not,” said Catrina.
Thor shrugged, saying, “Not necessarily killed.”
“Our reports,” said the man in the suit, “indicate that Quetzalcoatl recently manifested himself as an abnormally strong, winged snake-man hybrid with an unverified arsenal of supernatural powers. Plus he has a loyal, downright devout, army of liberal arts majors and hobos numbering in the thousands.”
“Sounds like killed to me,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“Wait…” said Thor, “snake-man?”
“Yes,” said the man from the Department of Science. “Snake-man.”
“Well, how much snake and how much man, exactly?”
“I’m sorry?”
“If you were walking down the street and you saw this guy, would you be like, ‘Holy crap, it’s a giant snake,’ or ‘Oh my goodness, that man has a tail?’”
“I don’t…”
“This is very important,” said Thor, grabbing the man in the suit by the suit the man was in, “answer my fucking question.”
“I don’t know. Sir. I honestly don’t. Please don’t hurt me.”
“Let him go, Thor,” said Catrina.
Thor let go of the man in the suit, but continued staring at him hard enough to make the man need a dry cleaner. Catrina, meanwhile, turned her attention to Judy.
“Judy?”
“Hey, I don’t know either,” replied Judy, putting up her hands. “We were told that every reconnaissance drone sent out by the Department of Science exploded or otherwise ceased to function. So no one’s actually received a visual yet.”
“According… according to our research, though,” said the man with the wet crotch, taking a folder from one of the other men in suits and hastily flipping to a page within it, “Quetzalcoatl was traditionally described as ‘the feathered serpent.’ So I’d wager he’s more snake than man. Probably.”
“Well,” said Thor, with unexpected calmness, “seeing as how you’re all clearly so well-versed in mythology, I’m sure it’s safe to assume that you’re already aware my battle with Jormungand, the Midgard Serpent, is prophesized as a key part of Ragnarok, right? And since the dead have already risen and I was at least partly responsible for killing Fenrir the Wolf, probably, the prophecy is kind of accurate. You know, within interpretation.”
“I understood maybe half of that,” said Judy.
“If I fight a giant snake the world will end. For real.”
“Well,” she said, “maybe you think so. We’ll take our chances.”
Sixty-Five: This is a Call
“Quetzalcoatl wants us all to come to Las Vegas,” said Jack, closing his phone and putting it back into his pocket.
“Las Vegas?” said Jill. “But what about all the missionary work we’re doing? We’re nowhere near finished.”
Jack shrugged. “Gil says Bill says Quetzalcoatl says it can wait. Something big is going down in Vegas, apparently.”
“He say what?”
“Nope.”
“But we just started here…”
Jill pouted and looked at the dozen terrified Mormons tied to chairs with rope and extension cord, their eyes duct-taped open and their mouths stuffed with socks.
Jack shrugged again and began dismantling the video camera and tripod.
“It can wait. They’ll still be here when we get back.”
The dozen terrified Mormons began banging the chairs they were tied to around in a frenzy.
“What the hell’s gotten into them?” asked Jack.
“I’unno,” said Jill, shrugging.
Jack and Jill were interrupted by the sound of a door slamming shut. They turned to see Hil trying desperately to hold the room’s entranceway closed as murder-drones battered it from the other side.
“Uh, guys?” she said, ducking slightly as a spike lodged itself in the wood above her head. “We got murder-drones.”
“Crap,” said Jack.
“Guess it’s a good thing we’re leaving then,” said Jill.
Hil toppled an armoire in front of the door.
“We’re leaving?” she asked.
“Yep,” replied Jill. “We’re going to Vegas.”
“Why are we going to Vegas?”
“Quetzalcoatl said so.”
“Oh,” said Hil, shrugging slightly, “OK. Well, there’s another exit in the other room.”
“Good,” said Jack, handing the tripod to Jill. “Let’s get the hell out of here before those robots break through.”
The Mormons started shouting. Or moaning. Or something. It was probably best described as “making a loud, muffled sound.”
“Aw, don’t worry, guys, we’ll finish this up when we get back,” said Jack, putting his hand on the shoulder of one of the converts. The man responded by pointing his head fervently in the direction of the killbots.
“Oh, them?” asked Jack. “You should be fine. I mean, their not after you yet.”