Everything in front of the Horsemen was exploding. Even the air. Individual molecules were screaming in agony, praying in vain for the sweet release of nonexistence.
But what are words, really…
No. No. He was doing this. Timmy was doing this.
A cockroach scuttled in front of the Horsemen’s path. The lead Horseman whinnied—an awful, terrible sound—and reared up on its back two legs, before bringing its full weight down on the cockroach.
Then the other eleven horsemen did the same thing.
Then they all fired lasers at the insect, not stopping until the pavement beneath what used to be the cockroach was boiling itself away into the ether.
Timmy was a squirrel. An atypical, extraordinary, preternaturally intelligent, telekinetic, cape-wearing squirrel that just dropped a load in the middle of the street.
Seventy-Nine: Boss Fight
Thor, Catrina, Chester A. Arthur XVII, and Queen Victoria XXX, heavily armed and more or less determined, walked down the street, stepping over the occasional dead tourist or twitching brochure-hawker, and made their way to the casino.
Quetzalcoatl saw their approach and waved from his perch.
“He seems nice,” said Queen Victoria XXX.
“What, uh, what do we do now?” asked Catrina confusedly. “Call him out? Throw a rock?”
“I’ve got a better idea,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, shouldering a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. The president aimed at the Aztec god and pulled the trigger. The projectile hit Quetzalcoatl in the face and exploded.
“Aren’t you supposed to add some kind of witty taunt to that?” asked Thor.
“I thought I did.”
“Well, that was kind of oblique, you know? I was thinking something more direct, like, ‘knock, knock, bitch.’”
“That doesn’t really seem like something I would say, though.”
“I don’t know. I think you could pull it off.”
“You sure? I’m really more of a speech guy.”
“Uh, guys,” said Catrina, pointing toward a swooping and pissed off Quetzalcoatl, “shut up and do something.”
“Fuck.”
Quetzalcoatl slammed into the ground with tremendous force, shattering the sidewalk beneath him. The shockwave knocked the girls to the ground, while the reborn god’s whipping tail caught Thor at the knee and spun him face-first into the pavement. Chester A. Arthur XVII, however, managed to remain standing. He raised his RPG, only to remember it was unloaded.
“Fuck!”
Quetzalcoatl slammed his fist into Chester’s face, breaking his nose and sending him sprawling across the sidewalk.
“Knock, knock, bitches,” said Quetzalcoatl.
“Oh, come on,” said Thor, picking himself up from the ground. “That was ours! It doesn’t even fit what you’re doing.”
“I was knocking you guys on your asses, it totally fit.”
“That’s stretching it, man,” explained Thor, pointing the igniter of his flamethrower at Quetzalcoatl and pulling the trigger. “See, right now, I’m setting you on fire. So what I’m going to do is make some kind of crack about the heat. Or grilling. Something like, ‘I hope you like your gods well done.’ Or maybe, ‘I don’t know where I’m going to find a tortilla big enough for this,’ since you’re Mexican and all. Although that might be a little too racially insensitive, I’m not really sure.”
“I’m cool with it,” said Quetzalcoatl, shrugging and being doused in flames.
“Oh, good,” said Thor. “I kind of like that one.”
“You mind terribly if I tried again?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“OK,” said Quetzalcoatl, still being bathed in a jet of flame. “How about, ‘Tell the electricians I said “hi.”’”
“Well, no, see, that’s actually worse. There’re no electricians here, it makes even less sense.”
Quetzalcoatl pointed toward the building on the far side of the casino’s property, specifically the marquee stating “West Coast Construction Workers Conference” in tall, bright, easily-read letters.
“Crap,” said Thor, extinguishing the flamethrower. “Nice one.”
“I thought so.”
In a single, astoundingly quick motion, Quetzalcoatl slid his way to Thor’s side, grabbed him by the face, and pushed, sending Thor sailing over the Excalibur’s entranceway and through the window of the neighboring convention hall.
Eighty: With a Cool, Dry Wit Like That…
“So, with that out of the way,” said Quetzalcoatl, making his way toward Catrina and Queen Victoria XXX, “who wants to get eaten first?”
“Oh my god, you eat people?” asked Queen Victoria XXX.
“I don’t want to get eaten,” said Catrina.
Quetzalcoatl laughed.
“I don’t eat people, it’s OK.”
He grabbed a chunk of broken cement from the ground before clarifying, “I am going to kill you, though. Probably with this piece of sidewalk. Please don’t be mistaken about that.”
“Well,” said Catrina, pulling two .44 Magnums from behind her back, “you can certainly try.”
She unloaded twelve rounds directly into Quetzalcoatl’s face. Quetzalcoatl’s head snapped back. Then it snapped forward. The he blinked a few times.
“Really? A fucking handgun?”
“No,” said Queen Victoria XXX, also pulling two .44s from behind her back, “a number of fucking handguns.”
She likewise unloaded twelve rounds directly into Quetzalcoatl’s face. Once again, Quetzalcoatl’s head snapped back, then forward, and then he blinked.
“What is wrong with you people?”
A rocket-propelled grenade exploded in Quetzalcoatl’s face.
“Clearly not our aim,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“Seriously, fucking stop. You guys are not Bruce Willis.”
Quetzalcoatl’s lip was bleeding slightly. He put his finger on the cut, pulled it away, and then looked at it so he could verify this fact for himself.
“And now I bit my lip. Great.”
“If it bleeds,” said Queen Victoria XXX, “we can kill it.”
“No. No, no, no, no. You seriously did not just say that, did you?”
“I didn’t not say it, jerkface.”
“You turkeys might as well be juggling Jell-O for all you’ve accomplished,” said Quetzalcoatl, putting down the sidewalk he had been brandishing. “Go ahead, shoot me again.”
“I’m sorry?” asked Queen Victoria XXX, raising an eyebrow.
“Shoot me again.”
“Which one of us?”
“All of you,” said Quetzalcoatl, “at once.”
“Seriously?” asked Catrina.
“Sure.”
“OK,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII with a shrug. “Your funeral.”
“Yeah,” said Quetzalcoatl, “I kind of doubt that.”
Catrina, Queen Victoria XXX, and Chester A. Arthur XVII reloaded their weapons. They drew a bead on Quetzalcoatl’s face. Quetzalcoatl smiled sweetly. A flaming prostitute ran screaming in between them, fell over, got up, and continued running down the street. Everyone looked at everyone else, shrugged, and then resumed the standoff.
“On the count of three, girls,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII. “One…”
“Two…” added Quetzalcoatl.
“Three.”
Catrina, Queen Victoria XXX, and Chester A. Arthur XVII fired directly into Quetzalcoatl’s face from less than five feet away.
The explosion of the grenade caused Catrina, Victoria, and Chester to shield their faces, singing arm hair and throwing shrapnel in the process. Quetzalcoatl, however, never stopped smiling. He didn’t even bother snapping his head back for dramatic effect this time around.
“Now, as you can quite plainly see,” said Quetzalcoatl, his sweet, taunting grin becoming sinister and menacing, “I ain’t got time to bleed.”