Apoclypse When?

In a gloomy bedroom, somewhere off to the left of this dimension we laughingly call “reality”, an hourglass alarm clock is banging out a 100 decibel rendition of Knocking on Heaven's Door. The figure squirming within the confines of the emperor-sized bed thinks this is ironic, as many of his clients certainly won’t be.

A muffled, ‘Mmmmffbuggeroff,’ comes from beneath the crumpled landscape of duvets and scattered pillows. A bony hand slowly emerges, crashing down on the hourglass, and sending a small sandstorm spiralling across the room; Luckily for him, the hand’s owner has several billion spares lying about the place, as this is a scene played out most mornings.

Spelunking deeper into the bed, he tries to tune out an annoying ringing sound bouncing around inside his cranial cavity, thinking that perhaps he shouldn’t have had that vindaloo last night. It had been particularly picquant.

But the ringing persisted, and was beginning to sound more and more like that infernal mobile phone the Boss had insisted he keep about himself. Muttering, he swung his skeletal legs out of the bed, sending a sequence of cracks through the air that would have made the most hardened chiropractor wince.

This was Death, and he was growing old, though being unencumbered by a nervous system, the arthritis burning through his joints like wildfire rarely bothered him. The racket from his calcified joints was, however, making it harder and harder for him to sneak up on his clients, who were often left wondering why the last thing they heard before shuffling off to whatever version of the afterlife they thought they were going to was the sounds of a castanet concerto.

He cracked and scrabbled around, searching for the source of the piercing racket, finally locating the phone in the sink, wrapped in a slice of garlic naan. Poking an adamantine phalange at the green answer button, he held the phone up to the side of his head. This was purely for effect, of course, as he does not possess what you and I would call ears.

'Hello,’ he began in the dulcet tones of every answerphone message you have ever heard. ‘You are through to The Harvester of Souls, The Grim Reaper, Old Bony Face, Death. I am not here to take your call as I am BUSY. Please leave a message after the tone, and I will try to get back to you before the universe collapses in on itself. BEEP.'

He was about to switch the phone off when a vaguely familiar voice called out from the hated device, sounding panicky, 'No, Death, don’t hang up. I know you’re there, this is important.' It sounded like that annoying little shit, Famine. Death hadn’t spoken to him in centuries and would prefer to keep it that way.

'Hi, Fammy, how’s it hanging?' Death asked, apathy dripping from his voice like water over Niagara Falls.

'A bit further than yours, Death, but listen. I’ve got news from Central Command.'

'Is this about that crazy dictator?’ Death whined. ‘He was nearly dead, you know. I just gave him a little nudge to help him along.'

'No, Death, just listen, will you?' Famine pleaded, but Death was on a roll now.

'Or is this about my last expense form? Those pen pushers have no idea what it takes to be on Earth one moment, and Rigel Six the next. It doesn’t grow on trees, you know. Especially here.’

'Death, will you shut the fuck up and listen? The Boss has opened the first four seals. He’s had enough of humans, and He wants them gone.'

'So what does He want me to do about it?' Death asked, shrugging his skeletal shoulders.

'Well, Death, let me see. You may remember a little club you belong to. The Four Horsemen? The Apocalypse? Ringing any bells?'

'Oh, yeah, I remember. Aren’t we supposed to ride out or something?'

'Yes, Death, ride out, divide the Earth between us, cause mayhem, then wait for the fifth seal to be broken.'

'Why can’t I wait here then?'

‘Because it’s written, that’s why.’

‘Lots of things are written,’ said Death. ‘Doesn’t mean I have to do ‘em, though.

Famine released a long sigh. ‘Just get your bony arse here as quick as you can,’ he said. ‘The others are on their way and we need to get organised.’

'Have you got any beer in?' Death asked. 'I do like a pint, though—' '—it goes right through you,' Famine finished for him. 'You need to work on your jokes, Death, but I’ll see what I can do,' he added, while making a mental note to make sure he had plenty of mops to hand.

'Oh,' Death said, 'and some of that Bombay mix too. I don’t know why, but I’ve become seriously addicted to curry lately. That green stuff humans dip their poppadoms in is to die for.'

'Well, you would know. Just get here as soon as you can, will you? We can’t drag our heels on this.'

💀

Leaving Death to his ablutions, let us slide across the radio dial of infinity and into Famine’s dimension, where a flat, dusty plain stretches from horizon to horizon. There is no night to be had here. The lone giant red star never moves from overhead, keeping the plain bathed in perpetual crimson daylight and the temperature at a balmy 35 degrees Celsius.

The only thing bigger than a grain of sand rising above the plain is a ramshackle construct called, or so the sign above the entrance would have you believe, The Four Amigos. The wooden building is hard to miss against the plain’s table-top topography, though one intrepid Victorian time traveller did fail to miss it, crashing into the outhouse at the back on his penny-farthing time machine after taking the wrong wormhole on his way to 1415 Agincourt. Famine, though, was more miffed that the man didn’t hang around long enough to apologise or even buy a drink. After turning his map the right way up and resetting his coordinates, he buggered off before they could so much as swap insurance details.

A blackboard on the front of this folly proclaims in meandering, barely legible blue chalk letters - the ability to write neatly, clearly a problem among bar owners everywhere - that this is the last watering hole for 93 billion light-years. You may notice the occasional animatronic tumbleweed rolling by. Famine thinks they add a touch of authenticity.

Tied to the hitching post, four piles of sun-bleached bones bake, while through the batwing doors, a pianola is grinding out a selection of paper-perforated, thigh-slapping syncopations that so perfectly orchestrated those Hollywood barroom brawls where everyone fought with everyone else for no other reason than the sheer hell of it.

Once inside, you are transported back to those halcyon days of the wild west, where the gloopy streets reeked of animal dung and urine, and you had to leap out of the way as chamber-pots were emptied from upper-storey windows. Hollywood presented a much more sanitised reality, wanting you to believe that all cowboys looked as shiny and new as Randolph Scott.

On a stage at the back, a troop of animatronic dancing girls is frozen mid-step, skirts raised, waiting for Famine to flick a switch and bring them to life. More than one is missing a leg.

Similarly, a gap-toothed prospector sits at one of the tables, ready to spout cowboy wisdom for anyone who cares to listen; “Don’t squat with yer spurs on,” and “Always drink upstream from the herd,” being just two of his many life-expounding saws.

Four gun-toting gamblers are positioned around another table, primed and ready to start shooting plugs of potato at each other should an ace slip gracefully to the floor from one of their sequined sleeves.

Behind the counter, Famine, grey, translucent and with lemon-coloured eyes, is being watched over by the painting of a rotund, mostly naked lady balancing precariously on the edge of a blue velvet chaise lounge. She is holding a rose stem between her teeth and looking about as sexy as a sack of potatoes. Famine is struggling to finish the Metro crossword, distracted by the ‘ooofs’ and ‘aaghs’ coming from the cellar. When the beer barrel is finally in place and ready to go, he dials up a wormhole and sends the two terrified deliverymen on their way.

The pianola finally works its way through its limited repertoire, leaving the bar’s only two customers sitting in silence, waiting for something to happen. It soon does.

Just inside the batwing doors of this incongruous Wild West saloon, a tornado of dust and spider webs appears, spinning wildly like sugar in a candyfloss machine. It clears to reveal Death, cowled, caped and holding a scythe sharp enough to split the atom. After glancing outside, he marches towards the counter where a stein of frothy beer and a bowl of Bombay mix are waiting for him, with his joints crackling like a Xhosa spelling bee.

‘Put that scythe down, will you, Death?’ Famine barked.’ You’ll take an eye out, waving it around like that.’

Death threw his scythe down on the nearest table, in the process removing the head from one of the gun-toting gamblers. Reaching the counter, he took the stein in his bony hands and emptied the contents into his mouth with one humongous quaff. The eight on the Richter scale belch that followed set his cowl fluttering like the Northern Lights. He seemed oblivious to the beer falling to the floor from his cape, nonchalantly scooping a bony handful of Bombay mix into his mouth; Unlike liquids, food never emerged from beneath Death’s cape, but was instead instantly digested and fermented somewhere inside, giving rise to gases that would fetch a tidy sum on the WMD market. When Death ate, you made sure to be upwind.

Banging the empty stein down on the counter, Death said, ‘Another,’ then glanced to his right, where War was perched on a barstool nursing a pint of whisky and chewing on a cigar the length of the Bakerloo Line. Clad head to foot in khaki, War was a creature of very few words, preferring to shoot, slash and stab first, then ask questions later. Sadly, there was rarely little left of said askee to supply an answer.

Death turned his cowl back to Famine. ‘I couldn’t help but notice the bones outside just now,’ he said. ‘So what have you done with the horses?’

A voice came from the shadows, ‘He let them starve to death. We’re the Four Pedestrians now.’

Death turned and stared through the gloom, seeing Pestilence sitting in a corner by the pianola. He had a face a blobfish mother would struggle to love. Green luminescent pus erupted and dribbled from the plethora of carbuncles and boils dotted across his features like cowpats.

‘Oh, hello, Pestilence,’ Death said. ‘Pretty as ever, I see.’

‘Yeah, I’m a real babe magnet, ain’t I?’ Pestilence replied. ‘Can we get on with this Apocalypse, please, Famine? Then maybe I can get a makeover. Maybe return as Sword or Conquest, like the Old Testament scribes wanted.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Death, turning back towards Famine. ‘Without horses, it might be difficult.’

‘Look,’ said Famine, ‘I didn’t let them starve to death. They managed that all by themselves. There’s a clue in my name, you know. I mean, why leave them here in the first place?’

‘We left them here, Famine,’ said Death, ‘so they could have plenty of fresh air and space to run around in.’

‘But how was I supposed to know I had to feed them? I’m Famine, for crying out loud. And anyway, I just assumed they were Manifestations of the Eternal Cosmos, like us, not real horses. I mean, have you ever seen a scarlet horse?’

Death turned to War, who sheepishly removed the cigar from his mouth and uttered the first word to have left his mouth in a geological age - ‘Paint,’ - before shoving the cigar back from whence it had come.

‘So what do we do now, clever clogs?’ Death asked Famine.

‘It’s all sorted,’ Famine crowed. ‘Central are sending a limo over. We can arrive in style. We might even get on Oprah. I hope you’ve still got your license, War?’

War nodded. By the end of his driving test, War had left a trail of destruction twenty miles long in his wake. A crumpled red and white striped bollard and a garden gnome still holding resolutely onto its fishing rod were mashed into the front grill, both held in place by several yards of white picket fence. A duck was quacking furiously while trying to escape from under the front wipers, and a temporary bus stop and two terrified passengers clinging on for dear life were on the roof. The examiner robotically stamped PASS on the paperwork and immediately admitted himself into the local psychiatric hospital for 6 months of R&R.

A second whirlwind of dust in the centre of the saloon cleared to reveal a bespectacled man wearing a bespectacled man's suit and sporting a bespectacled man’s haircut. He was holding a clipboard, thus identifying him as a bureaucrat. Seeing the ceiling fans whumping overhead, he quickly drew his wings in.

‘Oh, good,’ Famine beamed. ‘The limo’s here.’

The man strode to the counter and banged the clipboard down. The clipboard had a form attached.

‘I hope it’s a stretch Limo,’ said Famine.

‘Well, it’s a stretch to call it a Limo,’ the besuited man said. ‘But, yeah, if you were circus clowns, it might be considered stretch.’ He pointed to the three asterisked boxes on the form and said, ‘Just sign here, here and here, and it’s all yours. It’s out back by the bog.’

Famine signed the boxes, and in a dusty heartbeat, the man was gone. ‘Well, shall we go and have a look, then?’ He said to the others.

They shuffled over to the rear entrance. Famine opened the door with a flourish, leaving them all gaping in a tableau that would not have looked out of place in the Chamber of Horrors.

‘I hope that’s a long way away,’ Pestilence said, breaking the awkward silence.

War did something he had not done for . . . well, ever. He laughed.

💀

So, if you’re driving down the road minding your own business, and you see an unstretched, rather squashed in fact, seen better days black Morris Minor with four characters from your worst nightmare squeezed inside, suddenly appear from a spinning wormhole, take cover, because the end is nigh. That is, if they ever manage to get out of the damn car.