“No promises.”
“Some of them… are my friends.”
“Man, that’s your problem.”
The president, the philosopher, and the scientists left the other president, the queen, the god, and the girl, and walked towards the encroaching horde of liberal arts majors and drug dealers.
“Alright, now, Timmy…” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, turning his attention toward the Horsemen.
“Already gone, bitch,” replied the telepathic squirrel from half a mile away.
“Right, well, good luck then,” thought the president in return.
“I don’t need luck, chump.”
“If you say so. When you’re getting stomped on by ten foot tall robotic sadists, don’t blame me.”
“Says the non-scientifically-enhanced human tasked with taking down an ancient, insane, robot-smashing god.”
“I was trying not to think about it in terms quite like that, so, you know, thanks for that,” answered Chester A. Arthur XVII. “Get out of my head.”
“With pleasure,” replied Timmy.
“Why is he just standing there?” asked Thor, pointing a thumb at Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“Maybe he’s strategizing or something,” offered Catrina.
“That’s not his strategizing face,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “That’s his ‘I can’t believe I’m being taunted by a rodent’ face.”
“He has a face specifically for that?”
“Yeah,” replied the queen with a sigh. “There’s also one for particularly contentious cacti.”
“This happens so much more than it should,” she added.
After a few more moments of arguing with the genetically-modified squirrel, Chester A. Arthur XVII spoke aloud again.
“OK, there are four of us and one of him…”
“That’s his strategizing face,” said Queen Victoria XXX.
“…so if we spread out, each take a compass direction, we should be able to track him down with a fair amount of ease.”
“Although,” he continued, “the giant robots aren’t his.”
“The giant robots blowing the living crap out of everything,” added Catrina.
“That’s also assuming he hasn’t just bailed entirely,” said Queen Victoria XXX.
A trio of burning prostitutes ran past.
“Shouldn’t he be holed up in a castle or something?” asked Thor.
“I think you’re thinking of Super Mario Bros., Thor,” replied the queen.
“No,” said Thor, “I’m pretty sure I read something somewhere about how they always made their lairs in castles or something.”
“They?”
“You’re thinking of a dragon,” said Catrina.
“Right…” said Thor, failing to see her point.
“He’s not a dragon, Thor.”
“Yeah, I know, but, he’s like a dragon.”
“OK,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, “anyone who isn’t Thor have a suggestion?”
There was a loud bang from the side of the street—specifically, from a direction that did not appear to involve giant robots or a philosopher/scientist showdown and, in turn, probably should not have been making loud banging noises. Catrina, Chester, Thor and Victoria turned toward the source of the sound simultaneously, just in time to see Quetzalcoatl fly through the dust of a collapsing hotel and alight on the highest turret of the Excalibur casino. A casino that just happened to be shaped like a castle.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“Not unless Satan decided he was tired of not existing, too,” replied Catrina.
“That motherfucker just took down an entire building by himself,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “We are so screwed.”
“Probably,” said Thor, grabbing a flamethrower from the helicopter. “Let’s go find out.”
Seventy-Seven: Olive Branch
“Gil,” said Phil, approaching the militant crowd of philosophers and poets, “what are you doing?”
“Honestly,” said Gil, looking at the two-by-four he was carrying, “I don’t even know anymore, man.”
“Quetzalcoatl, like, he told us to kill you, man,” said Lil.
“Well, actually,” clarified Hil, scratching her head with the tire iron she was holding, “he told us that he already killed you and that we were supposed to kill him,” she pointed the tire iron at William H. Taft XLII, “and his friends.”
“Or else he’d kill us,” added Jill.
“It was just bad juju all around, man,” said Gil.
The writers and stoners and assorted other nouns standing behind the conversing members appeared to just be milling around, staring at their feet or otherwise looking confused and sad.
A few had taken the halt in marching to mean it was time to sit down and stare off into space. A few others had been doing that even before the group had stopped walking.
“Seriously?” said William H. Taft XLII, looking over the crowd. “This was your philosopher army?”
“Yep,” said Phil.
“I can’t believe you guys actually took over half the country,” said the president. “Honestly. How’d he get you guys out of your parents’ basements?”
“My mom doesn’t get around so well, man,” said Gil, a downhearted look on his face.
“Yeah,” said Lil, putting an arm around Gil, “That’s a little harsh, man.”
“We were just trying to do some good,” said Jill.
“It’s not our fault we picked a dormant Aztec god as our spiritual leader,” added Jack.
“Actually, it kind of is,” countered William H. Taft XLII.
“Well, yeah, OK,” said Hil. “But he seemed less evil earlier.”
“In our defense,” added Phil, “he was a pretty good liar.”
“Alright, well,” said William H. Taft XLII, “if you promise to drop your weapons and not kill me and my friends, I’ll apologize.”
The members at the forefront of the group acquiesced immediately, while the remainder only did so when the offer was passed back to them. Eventually, the entire philosopher army dropped its weapons, a slow-moving wave of clanks and thuds and sighs of relief.
Also, they did not kill William H. Taft XLII or his friends.
“OK, then,” said the president. “I’m sorry. I guess.”
“It’s alright, man,” said Gil.
“Yeah, it’s OK, man,” said Lil. “We forgive you.”
She took a step closer to the president, opening her arms and saying, “C’mon, let’s hug it out.”
“Do we have to?” said William H. Taft XLII.
Lil hugged him ferociously.
“See,” she said, squeezing the fat man, “doesn’t that feel good?”
“I feel so dirty.”
Seventy-Eight: A Tiny, Steaming Load
Timmy was a squirrel. An atypical, extraordinary, preternaturally intelligent, telekinetic, cape-wearing squirrel. Gifted with artificial sentience and a super-powered mind, he swore an oath to make the world a better place.
The Horsemen—engines of pure destruction born from the folly of mankind—marched down the avenue in four rows of three, firing missiles and lasers and large rocks indiscriminately. Flames spouted from their metallic nostrils. Death followed them like a fine, dark mist.
Well, to be fair, Timmy never really swore anything. He just kind of did it. There was certainly no oath, anyway.
Although he did tell the reconstituted genetics of a former president that he was going to stop the Horsemen single-handedly. And that is a promise that simply cannot be broken.
Seriously, death followed the Horsemen like a fine, dark mist. Everything behind them was broken, vaporized, and reduced to subatomic dust.
Well, OK, it could be broken, but that wouldn’t really be cool. If nothing else, Timmy was a squirrel of his word.