They came to a roaring stop at the gate to Sodomy Studios and waited impatiently for someone to let them in. When the gate didn’t immediately open, the man with the large sword ripped it off its hinges with one swing of his gleaming blade. They walked the rest of the way to the set.
“It’s the afternoon show with Kayla Mangabbler!” A hyper woman yells into the PA, voice rising and lowering until it punctuates the host’s name at a hundred and thirty-three decibels. The audience has been boisterous, but now they amp it up to a new level, the ones who don’t get immediate ear bleeds.
They milled around during the break. The crowd inhaled coffee, caffeinated water, and the goodies that advertisers left under their chairs. Little red bags with the studio name on them along with the logos from the forty-seven things crammed in the package. Chunks of high-fructose corn syrup, energy drinks, and even a batch of chocolates from the Ostergroup Corporation filled with a curious combination of guarana and high-grade cocaine.
The host perches on her seat demurely. Across from her sit four people dressed like vagabonds. The audience is crowing at the top of their lungs like they expect them to start beating the shit out of each other at any second. Welcome to Hollywood. Welcome to the big show; have a nice fucking day—if you survive.
She has questions for each of her guests prepared from their submitted profiles, although War’s handwriting was hard to make out. He would have been better served by using a crayon on a large sheet of paper.
Death’s read like a serial killer’s.
Cue the camera. Cue the sound. Cue the ultra-bright but energy efficient LED lights that make the place as bright as daylight in the Caribbean. Cue Kayla to sit back and look hot.
“And we’re back. My next guests are the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Are they a motorcycle gang? A rock band? The beginning of the end?” She has to pause here, because the word on the teleprompter reads harbinger, and she is not about to unleash that intellectual bombshell on her audience. They might string her up and piss on her corpse Mussolini-style.
The camera pans across the four guests. Two on a couch, large one on a padded seat, and the last on a metal chair. They tried to put the girl in that one, but she unleashed a string of profanities so long it made the audience actually shut the hell up for a few seconds. Besides, if her wide ass took that seat, it would probably collapse like a house of cards hit by a stiff wind.
The producer points, indicating she is back on camera. Kayla leans forward and takes a sip of her drink, then slowly sets it down. The camera takes this moment to pan across the robed figures. It stops on the one directly across from her.
He has a tattered cowl over his face. It hangs limply, and when he breathes, strings flutter from the sides. Strips of cloth dangle from his sleeves, and torn ends of his robe cover his black boots.
“So Mr. War. Or do I simply call you War?” Her smile is in full effect. It is mocking in its severity. Her lips curl up in a smirk. The viewers at home have seen this look a thousand times. She is about to start some shit.
“War is fine.” His lips are visible. One sneers down when he speaks, like half of his face has been left numb by a stroke. If he wore glasses, he would be the spitting image of Dick Cheney.
“What do you bring? Why are you here? Do you have a message for the viewers?”
“Prepare for the end, for we have arrived.”
“The end of what, exactly?” She stares at the madman and lets a hint of concern quirk up her tweezed eyebrows.
“The end of the world. We are here to beak the seals and usher in the Apocalypse. The Antichrist awaits the savior. When he arrives, you,” he points at the crowd and then at the cameras. He points and points, and at last his finger points directly at her nose, “are all kitty chow.”
He sits back with a smug look on his face. The crowd is going nuts, laughing at the madman in the cowl.
“You all know me! I’m War and I bring it!” He jumps to his feet and pumps his fist in the air as the crowd goes nuts. They scream and holler like he is a celebrity. Kayla shakes her head at the spectacle.
“We are the four baddest mother fuckers to ever step onto the Earth. We are going to break the seals and trigger Armageddon. Where we go, cities fall and nations crumble. People die by the million. We bring pain, we bring misery, and we bring death.”
“I bring death,” the man in the hoodie interjects. He doesn’t speak loudly, but his voice cuts through the air like a twelve-inch razor-sharp knife.
Kayla shifts her gaze to the man in the hoodie and considers the apparition. He is just as scary as the others, but his face is a nightmare of tattoos that form some sort of spiral patterns. She feels… drawn to him like she is being sucked inside the shadows around his eyes.
“We all bring death. Just because you are Death doesn’t mean you get all the credit.” War yells while turning, hands in the air. The crowd of men and women scream louder at the circus performers.
“Without me, there is no death.”
“Look, Death old pal. If I take this fucking chair and bash this pretty lady into the fucking ground, she WILL fucking die.”
“Not if I don’t take her soul.”
Kayla looks between the two and then at the massive chair. For a split second, she considers bolting from the room.
“War, if you could take your seat we… “
“Don’t listen to that pussy. He’s losing his nerve. Doesn’t want to reap the slaughter like the old days.” Death turns his sneer on the man next to him. “Come on, Death. We used to follow the angels and paint the cities red with blood! We used to rile up the armies of the world. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I will do what is necessary when the time comes,” Death says and tugs the hoodie over his face so it is hidden in shadow. “It doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“Dude! Once upon a time we took down most of the world. Remember all the water? People screaming? How many on that one day?”
“Two million, six hundred and seventy-two, give or take.”
Kayla watches the strange exchange. This can’t turn into a philosophical debate at the loony bin. She needs to regain control. The big one does the job for her by jumping to her feet.
“I’ll change your mind. Why don’t you hop on me, and I’ll help you find your balls!” she screams in a voice that sounds like glass breaking.
“Sounds like there is some tension between you and this woman. Care to elaborate on your relationship?” Kayla seizes control once again. She is on her feet, hands out as if she were shrugging.
“There is no relationship, you stupid twit! I am Death. I bring death. I kill, not just a few, but scores. When I lower my scythe, cities tremble and fall. I have taken entire countries and leveled them. I have no time for women or love. Especially not with her skank ass. You mock me at your own peril!” He stares daggers at the big girl.
“Some temper you have there. Do you talk to your wife like that?” Kayla puts her hands on her hips to admonish him. The audience loves it and roars their approval.
“Are you fucking stupid?” Death shakes his head and folds his hands across his chest.
“No wife? Did she leave you because of your temper?” Kayla presses.
Her head buzzes with pleasure again. It’s the drink that does it. Makes her feel like she can take on the world. But something is off today, and she can’t help but wonder if they didn’t tell her everything before they brought these four mental hospital rejects in. People are freaking out about the end of the world, but it is all bullshit. She also can’t help but think about the massive sword War carried when he entered the room. The producer had to come out and ask him to leave the big blade off to the side. They wanted to lock it up at first, but he said in a very deep voice, “That would be a bad idea.” And everyone in the room nodded like they knew it was a bad fucking idea. After a look from Death, War relented and stowed it offstage where he could see it but the cameras could not.