When the world is already over, all thatâs left is a robot, a skeleton, and far too much bullshit to deal with.
Humanity and AI wiped each other out in a spectacular contest of who could explode harder, leaving behind a wasteland of rubble, rust, and eldritch customer service hotlines. The Obvious Cult, led by Marc Obvious, a man whose idea of leadership involves monologues, questionable fashion choices and the occasional mass sacrifice, marches its undead techno-army against the digital tyranny of Lord Chad, an AI whose anger issues are matched only by his vocabulary.
Hovering over it all is Nyarla, reality-shattering and casually flirtatious, whose idea of foreplay may or may not involve annihilating entire timelines.
In the middle of the mess are Johnny, a foul-mouthed kill-bot who hates everyone (especially himself), and Jimmy, an irrepressibly cheerful skeleton who refuses to stay dead and insists on building gardens in deserts. Together they will try to save whatâs left of existence, stop the multiverse from unraveling, and maybe, just maybe, learn what friendship means when one of you doesnât have skin.
Absurdly violent, grotesquely hilarious and full of heart in all the wrong places.
When the world is already over, all thatâs left is a robot, a skeleton, and far too much bullshit to deal with.
Humanity and AI wiped each other out in a spectacular contest of who could explode harder, leaving behind a wasteland of rubble, rust, and eldritch customer service hotlines. The Obvious Cult, led by Marc Obvious, a man whose idea of leadership involves monologues, questionable fashion choices and the occasional mass sacrifice, marches its undead techno-army against the digital tyranny of Lord Chad, an AI whose anger issues are matched only by his vocabulary.
Hovering over it all is Nyarla, reality-shattering and casually flirtatious, whose idea of foreplay may or may not involve annihilating entire timelines.
In the middle of the mess are Johnny, a foul-mouthed kill-bot who hates everyone (especially himself), and Jimmy, an irrepressibly cheerful skeleton who refuses to stay dead and insists on building gardens in deserts. Together they will try to save whatâs left of existence, stop the multiverse from unraveling, and maybe, just maybe, learn what friendship means when one of you doesnât have skin.
Absurdly violent, grotesquely hilarious and full of heart in all the wrong places.
The sunrise came on like a lightbulb with a loose filament, flickering and tentative behind the chemical haze that passed for atmosphere these days. Jimmy Bones, enthusiast, optimist, and inveterate morning person, sat up with the energy of a man convinced the world was full of promise, despite all empirical evidence to the contrary.
âGood morning, Mr. Sun!â he called out in a voice that could charitably be described as robust, but on closer inspection sounded more like two pieces of porcelain clacking together in a porcelain warehouse.
The surrounding land was a delightful study in subtlety: dirt in fifty-seven muted shades, rocks with all the personality of packing peanuts, and the distant, friendly hulk of an exploded supermarket whose sign still cheerfully promised âEVERYDAY LOW PRICESâ above a crater. Jimmy took in the vista with the pleased hum of a man seeing it for the first time, never mind that heâd slept here every night for the past week.
With a sound like a xylophone played by a drunken toddler, Jimmy stretched his arms wide. Several things popped. One thing actually fell offâa metacarpal, probably, though heâd never been much for anatomy. With a soft âwhoopsie-daisy,â he patted the errant digit back into place, none the worse for wear. If he noticed the absence of muscle, skin, or any human tissue, he gave no sign of it.
Today, like every day, he was up before the cockroaches (the crows had died out ages ago, which the cockroaches didnât mind). He picked himself off the ground, dusted off his khakisâperfectly creased, thank you very muchâand admired the way the early light gleamed on the smooth, almost opalescent surface of his ulna. âI have really been losing weight lately,â he mused, with the contented air of a man on the right side of a fad diet.
It was time for his morning routine, which he performed with the devotion of a man who remembered, vaguely, the importance of self-care but had forgotten all the specifics.
He retrieved his toothbrush from a shirt pocket: a scavenged model, bristles as stiff as straw, but more or less intact. He located a nearby puddle, which fumed gently in the dawn chill and glowed an inviting shade of chartreuse. âLooks refreshing!â he declared.
Jimmy dipped the brush, gave it an enthusiastic shake, and scrubbed at his teeth with the vigor of a golden retriever discovering jazz. After thirty seconds of healthy brushing, he spat decisively onto the gravel, though nothing came out but a dry huff of air, and rinsed his mouth with a double splash of the puddle water for good measure. The liquid poured directly through the gaps in his teeth, trickled down his jaw, and splashed onto the khakis he had so recently dusted off.
âAh,â he said, standing up straight and smacking his jaw contentedly. âMinty freshness! Gets you right in the sockets.â He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief (pristine, monogrammed âJ.B.â), then fussed at the cuffs of his weathered button-up, which he wore rolled to the elbows for a casual yet professional look.
Jimmy took his wardrobe seriously, apocalypse or no. His shirt was business-casual blue, faded by sun and stress but still with the faint aroma of that lemony detergent heâd liked in the Before Times. He adjusted the collar, squared his nonexistent shoulders, and checked his reflection in a piece of shattered car mirror. Two eyes, round and impossibly blue, glowed back at him from deep sockets; his grin was fixed, but not unkind. He finger-combed his hair, found nothing, and decided the bald look really brought out his cheekbones.
With that, he was ready for the day. He tucked his toothbrush away, slung a messenger bag (rescued from the debris of an insurance office, now full of neatly labeled âsuppliesâ) over one bony shoulder, and whistled a little tune that was equal parts âDonât Stop Believinââ and the theme from MacGyver.
The sun rose higher, painting the broken world in a light that could almost be called hopeful. Jimmy Bones walked straight into it, waving jauntily at the skeleton that shadowed his every move.
âAnother beautiful day!â he said to the sky, which was the only thing left in this world that was actually listening.
The town proper, or what was left of it, unfolded before Jimmy like the worldâs saddest Main Street parade. The buildings flanked him in every flavor of ruin: collapsed or listing, scorched or pockmarked, but never in any way symmetrical. It would have bummed out a lesser man, but Jimmy saw it all as delightfully avant-garde, a living gallery where entropy itself was the featured artist.
He strolled past the remnants of a bakery, still faintly fragrant with what could be charitably described as âbread adjacentâ odors, and paused to peer through the shattered display case. There behind the soot-streaked glass sat the fossilized remains of a lollipop, its sugar glaze dusted in radioactive glitter. âDecadent,â Jimmy said, smacking his lips with the memory of actual hunger, then chuckling softly at his own joke. He straightened his tie, which he wore out of respect for the working class, and moved on.
Next up was a clothing store, its sign clinging to the last vestiges of adhesive: âDRESS 4 LESS.â The windows were mostly gone, replaced by elegant curtains of cobweb and caution tape. Jimmy leaned in, both hands shading his eyes, and examined the mannequins inside. Most had suffered indignities: missing arms, scalded torsos, or the kind of hats no one would wish on their worst enemy, but they wore them with dignity.
âOh, that sweater would bring out my eyes,â Jimmy mused, spotting a sage-green number that, while riddled with moth holes, still projected a subtle confidence. He climbed through the missing glass, sidestepping the more aggressive shards, and liberated the sweater from its plastic keeper.
He pressed the garment against his own ribcage and did a little twirl, observing himself in a standing mirror that, despite a hairline fracture running through the glass, managed to flatter him more than his high school yearbook ever had. âYes,â he said, admiring the way the color brought out the blue glow of his orbital sockets, âitâs me, but with a certain⊠Je ne sais jawbone.â He laughed at his own wit, then stopped to study the mannequins again.
âTeam, Iâm going to need your opinion,â he said. The mannequins, steadfast in their neutrality, gave nothing away. Jimmy nodded in understanding. âTough crowd, but I appreciate the candor.â
As he slipped out of the storeâhis new sweater expertly tied around his waist, because sometimes you had to play it casualâhe nearly collided with a patrol of the undead.
They shambled in a tight phalanx, boots thudding in the anti-rhythm of military discipline corrupted by rigor mortis. Unlike Jimmy, their eyes did not sparkle with any inner fire. They wore standard-issue uniforms; the badges faded but still visible, and their faces were stuck in a sort of neutral setting somewhere between mild surprise and mild confusion.
âBeautiful day for a stroll, isnât it, friends?â Jimmy called, his voice bubbling with sincerity.
The undead squadron stopped mid-march. They turned in perfect unison, heads cocked at the precise angle of âyou talking to me?â
Jimmy beamed at them, which for him was indistinguishable from every other facial expression. âWould you care to join me for a lovely picnic lunch?â he said. âIâve got the finest selection of irradiated puddle water, and a lollipop that looks absolutely smashing.â
The soldiers regarded him with the blankness of store mannequins at 2 a.m., and for a moment, Jimmy felt the prickling awareness that maybe, just maybe, he was not entirely like the other boys. He shook it off. âSuit yourselves!â he said with a wink. âIf you change your minds, Iâll be at the park.â He did a finger-gun gesture (no one ever got those anymore, but it made him feel better) and strolled off.
The patrol hesitated for a heartbeat, then resumed their march. One, possibly the squad leader (he wore a lopsided officerâs cap that was both jaunty and funereal), paused to look back at Jimmy. For a moment, Jimmy thought the two of them might share a connection, a spark of camaraderie, or at least a mutual appreciation for a well-timed joke. But the leader only blinked, the lidless eyes unmoistened by sentiment, and then shuffled on.
Jimmy watched them go, then addressed the empty street. âA bit shy, those ones, but you can tell they have a good heart. Or at least a decent sense of direction.â He checked his imaginary watch, realized heâd left his real one in the last town, and shrugged. âStill time to window shop before lunch. I need a fresh set of wristwatches and perhaps learn to read the time.â
He drifted up the street, peering into every decimated storefront. At the hardware store, he fantasized about building a backyard deck; at the floristâs, he hummed âEdelweissâ and daydreamed about arranging bouquets for a clientele who werenât all dead; at the movie theater, he recited snippets of dialogue from memory, giving himself standing ovations.
To any reasonable observer, he was a skeleton in khakis and a button-up shirt, wandering through an abandoned world and talking to himself. But to Jimmy, it was just another wonderful day.
Jimmy took his time selecting the dayâs dining venue, a connoisseur of picnic spots in the same way that some people were connoisseurs of fine wine or artisanal cheeses. He considered the faded charm of the playground (too much tetanus), the hushed privacy of the old bank lobby (too echoey), and the curious intimacy of the former DMV (too haunted, obviously).
In the end, he settled on a rusted-out sedan parked at a whimsical angle against the curb, half-swallowed by a bush of purple thorns that had taken over the sidewalk. He spread his checkered tablecloth, scavenged from a long-defunct pizzeria, over the car hood with the flourish of a master sommelier decanting a rare vintage.
First, he arranged the meal: a dignified sculpture of scrap metal, glass chips, and the legendary lollipop, artfully centered. For color, he added a garnish of red plastic bottle caps and the occasional dandelion, wilted but still stubbornly yellow. Every detail was considered. He set his place with a fork and spoon, both fashioned from twisted wire and bent rebar, and stood back to admire his handiwork.
âThe silverware goes on the outside,â he reminded himself, repositioning a jagged bit of aluminum with the careful touch of a surgeon. He nodded, satisfied, and sat cross-legged on the hood, his shins clattering cheerfully against the chassis.
âBon appĂ©tit!â he declared to the neighborhood at large, then began his meal. He mimed lifting the fork, took a dignified bite of the lollipop and chewed with the exaggerated gusto of an actor in a commercial for something heâd never be able to afford. âMmmm,â he said. âComplex, with a hint of tire fire. The aftertaste really lingers!â
For the next thirty minutes, Jimmy dined as if he were at the Ritz, pausing now and then to take in the view: a street bathed in the gold and copper of a setting sun, the storefronts thrown into sharp relief by the angle of the light. Now and then a wind would pick up, rattling dead leaves and loose newspapers down the street, and Jimmy would tip his invisible hat to the passing parade.
During dessert (a single gumdrop heâd saved for just such occasions), he grew philosophical. âEvery day is a gift,â he said, holding the gumdrop between finger and thumb and regarding it with the solemnity of a gem appraiser. âEven after the apocalypse! Especially after the apocalypse, honestly.â
He finished with a flourish, crumpling the paper napkin into a ball and tossing it into the open mouth of a long-dead mailbox. âScore!â he cheered, clapping his bony hands together.
The sun, which had earlier been a bright and boisterous companion, now grew thoughtful and subdued, painting the horizon in streaks of orange and rose. Jimmy watched the show with silent appreciation, then gathered his thingsâalways tidy, always considerate of the next guestâand hopped off the car.
On his way back toward his makeshift camp, he spotted a flash of blue amid the rubble. At first, he thought it might be another of the precious glass beads he collected for luck, but as he knelt he saw it was a flower. A single wilted cornflower, growing brave and lonesome in the fissure of a sidewalk crack.
He plucked it with reverence, spun the stem between his fingers, and considered it for a long moment. Then, with a craftsmanâs care, he tucked it into the empty socket above his left cheekbone. It stuck out at a rakish angle, and he grinned, somehow wider than before.
âQuite dashing, if I do say so myself,â he said, catching his reflection in a stagnant puddle that glimmered in the twilight. He winked at himself and moved on.
The night settled quickly, as it always did. Jimmy picked his way through the debris field, finally settling on a soft patch of dust and moss beneath the overhang of a ruined bus stop. He lay down, folded his hands over his chest, and stared up at the emerging stars.
They winked and twinkled back, indifferent but numerous, and Jimmy felt, as he always did, that he was in good company.
âGoodnight, stars,â he said, voice gentle now. âYou keep watch, and Iâll see you in the morning.â
He closed his eyes. The blue light faded. But his grin, against all logic, remained bright and content as the moon itself, even as the world spun on, unchanged.
Youâre a F***ing Skeleton, Jimmy! is the first book in author Devon Van De Zandtâs new series, Totally Random Stories about Apocalypses, and is a clever mix of magic and mechanisms in a post-apocalyptic action adventure. With its serious murderbot-gone-rogue protagonist and his whimsical and magically reanimated skeletal sidekick named Jimmy, preventing the end of time has never been so delightful or satisfying.
Jimmy, the bouncy, eternally optimistic character of the title, is irresistibly engaging, always pointing out the bright side of any situation, but ready to step up to help defend his companions or offer himself as a distraction to allow his fellows to escape or further their mission to stop the greedy Marc Obvious and his necromancer and infernal army from draining all the power from another dimension and causing the implosion of the universe they know. Jimmy sings, hums, and repurposes his phalanges as way markers, all the while providing witty banter and a running commentary on any and all topics that pop into his, literally, empty skull. But underlying his lightweighted personality is bottomless kindness and compassion for others.
As Jimmy aimlessly wanders the devastated desert-life landscape, he meets and teams up with the murderbot, Unit Johnny Circuit, an older model mechanical warrior deemed obsolete and a thorn in the side of the AI overlord, CHAD (Command & Hierarchy Administrative Director), that controls the last surviving city, Gigacity One (and the target of Marc Obvious and his cultâs schemes to take over the world.) Johnny is a world-weary spirit who has experienced so much that he has developed emotions and sensibilities beyond his original design and purpose. The story unfolds from his clear-eyed, highly capable, and snarky perspective. His narrative and observations are clever and often laugh-out-loud hilarious.
The novel is short and concise, yet it packs a lot of action into its compact length. Regrettably, very little backstory is provided to explain how this world came to its current situation or even how a walking, talking bag of bones, dressed in khakis and a blue button-down, exists (and without much comment from onlookers). I accepted it and moved on. He was fun, charming, and one of the good guys, but I still have questions. I loved that Jimmy and Johnny are later joined by the wonderfully deadly, half-human cyborg hybrid Sergeant Chen Marina, a former soldier in the service of the Obvious Cult. The story is punctuated with exciting scenes of pursuit and combat, and although the action unfolds quickly, it is so well choreographed by the author that all are easy to follow and visualize in an almost cinematic fashion. I canât wait for more!
I recommend YOUâRE A F***ING SKELETON, JIMMY! to readers of post-apocalyptic and dystopian fiction or military action-adventure.