“What the cheetahs?”
With his foot lodged firmly in the bowl of potato salad, Quetzalcoatl hopped off the picnic table and chased after the fleeing family.
“Hey! Hey, hey, hey, hay. You,” he said, pointing at the mother. “You there. Can you tell me where to buy stamps?”
The mother halted her flight just long enough to scrunch up her face and look confused.
“What?”
“Stamps,” repeated Quetzalcoatl, “I need stamps. Also, I seem to have put my foot into the squishy part of a plastic creature’s cranium. Was this your plastic creature? Have I killed your dingo?”
The mother’s face relaxed slightly. The confusion was still readily apparent, though.
“Uh, no. We don’t have a dingo. You did not kill our dingo.”
Quetzalcoatl suddenly leapt forward and grabbed the youngest child. He lifted the boy into the air and shouted, “Tell me why monkeys eat my cheese, small thing!”
The mother’s expression changed from confusion straight into horror. She resumed her fleeing, hastily ushering the remaining children across the park and into the family minivan. The father, meanwhile, charged at Quetzalcoatl, throwing around his fists and no end of unsavory language.
“Your roses smell unquestionably like donkey turds, sir,” replied Quetzalcoatl, still holding onto the boy while being punched repeatedly.
In an effort to end the beating, Quetzalcoatl tossed the child into the air, grabbed him by his ankles, and swung him at the father like a baseball bat. The boy’s back collided with the father’s head. The father was knocked to the ground. The boy wet himself.
Quetzalcoatl returned the boy to the ground and then knelt down, lining up his eyes with the child’s. He stared at the boy. He stared hard.
“I hate you, small thing,” he said.
The boy wet himself again.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” said the father, picking himself up off the ground and collecting his child.
“That is like a nurse murdering a rabbi,” replied Quetzalcoatl. “What you should be asking is, ‘What is wrong with me?’ How could an antelope possibly let a circus clown kill his dingo and then beat him with the stains on his sheets? You have been mauled by lions and will surely be forgotten by the etchings of cavemen everywhere.”
The father slung his urine-soaked child over his shoulder, flipped off Quetzalcoatl, and retreated to his minivan.
“You shouldn’t run with scissors!” counseled the former Aztec god, smiling and waving.
Quetzalcoatl heard a rustling sound behind him. He turned, expecting a pile of leaves and possibly some wind. Instead, he found a pudgy, unkempt man in a tattered blazer and even more tattered jeans. The man approached Quetzalcoatl.
“My name is Will,” said the man named Will. “I’d like to talk.”
Seventeen: White, Unmarked, and Idling
Will put his arm around Quetzalcoatl and led him across the park.
“I have a feeling,” said Will, “that you know more about the ways of the universe than you let on. That you have a deeper understanding of… society… of even the sky… the stars… everything!”
“I have a feeling,” said Quetzalcoatl, “that is akin to being hungry, but in the back of my brain, and only for certain shades of red and blue. Also my toes.”
“You’re starved for knowledge! Exactly! I could see it from the way you handled yourself during the… incident prior. It permeates your very soul!”
“Kittens are nice.”
“And yet you can still appreciate the more… mundane aspects of life! The… aesthetic pleasures of our reality! Oh, I couldn’t have said it more eloquently myself…” Will paused. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“You can call me Roger.”
“Roger, yes. I’d like you to meet some people…”
“Now you can call me Susan.”
“Susan…”
“Call me Wilhelmina.”
“Oh, man, see,” said Will, pulling his arm away from Quetzalcoatl and clenching his fists excitedly in front of his chest in excitement, “this is what I’m talking about! This is amazing! Why settle on simply one persona? Be anyone! Be everyone! How can anyone honestly ever truly commit… to one life, one persona? Life is constantly in flux… people changing right along with it. You and I, Wilhelmina… we are different now than we were just those moments before.”
Seriously, Will’s eyes were glazed over from the excited excitement he was feeling. It was crazy. Quetzalcoatl may or may not have noticed. Regardless, he replied in the following manner:
“I would like to go by Mr. Sausage King.”
“Look, Mr. Sausage King, come with me. I’m a part of a… convocation, of sorts. A collection of dreamers, like you… fascinated by the world and trying to make sense of it… trying to see beyond, see through… the every day. I am certain that your input would be invaluable to our cause.”
“I once saw the Paris burlesque on ice…” replied Quetzalcoatl earnestly.
“Yes, I understand your doubts,” said Will, equally as earnestly. “It is a bit… abstract. But then, really, how can one ever hope to impose order on a gathering of… philosophers and artists, writers and free-thinkers? Why, there are those among us who aren’t even convinced the world exists, much less that it needs saving.”
Will continued, “Now, I’ll be the first to admit that even before the first of the apocalypses our roles in society were a bit… frivolous. But that’s the beauty of it, really. Governments toppled, corporations and organizations collapsed, but we… we remained unaffected. Our less… defined structure allowed us to… avoid the setbacks that destroyed the more… entrenched paradigms. Pragmatically, the end of the world wasn’t much of a change for us.”
“Roast beef sandwiches.”
“Well, no… We do not have much in the way of a… practical stratagem. Or a mission. Or any sort of… defined goal. We are perpetually in the process of establishing one, really. But, then, that’s why I’m… inviting you. Each new member has the chance to set that goal… each new viewpoint will be weighed fairly and without bias.”
“Hey, like Shakespeare said, it can’t be porn if it’s classy.”
“Oh, yes, absolutely! Our intentions are nothing if not noble! I knew you’d understand! Come on, my van is this way.”
Eighteen: The Other Half is Violence
Chester A. Arthur XVII paid for his bag of Slim Jims, pretzels, and soda and exited the 7-Eleven. He made it about halfway to his car before a large, malformed hand pressed against his chest—not actually stopping his forward movement, but forceful enough to imply that was the goal. The hand was attached to an outstretched arm attached to a shoulder that belonged to what was pretty clearly an atomic mutant.
“Can I help you?” asked Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“We don’ want yer kind here,” said the atomic mutant.
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Sorry?”
“Well, for starters, what do you mean by ‘kind?’ Men? Guys standing in front of you? Walking replications of the genetics of dead presidents? Or is it some kind of pent-up rage against any and all non-irradiated, non-mutated human folk? Maybe you’ve mistaken me for a robot, or a werewolf, or one of your cousins who owes you money?
“Then, of course, there’s the issue of ‘here,’” continued Chester A. Arthur XVII. “Are you referring to the convenience store I’ve just vacated? The parking spot the two of us are currently standing in? Or something more general, like the state of Pennsylvania? Perhaps you are referring only to this particular stretch of nuclear wasteland? Am I somehow on your lawn? You’re going to need to make your meaning more apparent if you expect to elicit some kind of response from me, whether it be the one you intended or otherwise.”