 
On The 7th Day

Zack Murphy

Copyright 2012 Zack Murphy

Smashwords Edition

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6 DAYS BEFORE THE BIRTH

Jeff MacFeeghan normally didn't ride the bus; as a matter of fact, he was morally opposed to even the idea of their existence. But when your brand new Lexus, that you had only purchased 2 months back, decided that this was the day it wasn't going to start, you ride the bus.

It had been raining for three straight days, a sure sign of the Apocalypse in southern California. Being an up-and-coming young investment banker in one of the most prestigious offices in the country had many perks, and not riding the bus with commoners was, to Jeff, the biggest perk.

Something happened, Jeff knew that. _What_ actually did, he couldn't quite put his finger on. There was a dense fog of nescience permeated his brain. The past several seconds had seemed to flow in slow motion. Jeff had chalked this up to the sinus-permeating fumes of the woman sitting across from him, who had felt it better to douse her body in a full bottle of cheap perfume than to take the time to bathe.

He looked around at the other passengers on the bus, the ones with whom he had so keenly avoided eye contact, for fear that they may want to chat about whatever had happened over the weekend at the county fair or exchange recipes for the latest craze in goulash or enchiladas.

Suddenly, and without warning, the bus was overtaken by the brightest light Jeff had ever seen, filling the bus with a radiant white glow. He shielded his eyes from the glare, but couldn't quite seem to make out the shape emerging from the brilliant radiance that pervaded his stare.

A silvery voice beckoned from the shadowy form approaching him, but couldn't quite make out what it was saying. Jeff shifted away from the light and tried to find any door that he could; if this was the Apocalypse he was damn sure he wasn't going to spend the end of the world trapped inside public transportation.

As Jeff fumbled for anything that looked like an exit he realized that he was not, in fact, on the right side of the bus. He was very much on the wrong side of the bus indeed. The figure drew closer as Jeff struggled to make sense out of the verity that he was now sitting on the ceiling. As he looked at the seats lined overhead, resembling a vast display of mall florescent lighting, he thought about all the other travelers on the bus and thought, shaking his head, "Man, the boys at the office are going to have a field day with this one."

As the figure crept closer to Jeff he could just make out the shape of a man, or a woman, hooded in a black cowl and a flowing robe that stretched from head to foot, and carrying what seemed to be a scythe. The figure stopped a few feet from where Jeff was sitting, tapped the handle on the floor and tilted his head.

It had situated itself between a small Latino woman and an elderly man dressed in a horribly tight-fitting, blue and yellow-striped seersucker suit. The older gentleman reached out his shaking arm to touch the figure. Jeff tried to telepathically advise the old man about the dangers of such brazen activity, " _don't grope at it you old fool, it's obviously a not-for-touching thing, like a dive-bar debutante after a few beers; no matter how tempting it is, you just don't know where she's been_." The old man's hand grabbed ever so gingerly onto the robe of the figure.

The figure looked down at the man and nodded intently. A sense of calm inflicted itself upon the passengers. They may all be crumpled in a mound of mangled steel, but it suddenly seemed okay. Instead of taking the old man's hand in a reassuring gesture of humanity, he slapped the old man's arm away and boomed out, "Okay everybody, you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here!"

"What?" said Jeff weakly, trying to figure out why the Prophet of the Apocalypse was being kind of a douche.

"Let's not talk, okay?" whispered the hooded figure, shaking his head "let's just be good little boys and girls and walk into the light."

"Why are we whispering?"

"Because I'm a tad bit hung over today."

"Really?"

"No!" screamed the veiled outline, "I just want to do my job, and I can't do my job unless you go into the light."

It pointed its scythe toward the portal of light that was shepherding the other passengers from the bus. The scythe was large and daunting, the blade the most magnificent silver he had ever seen; it seemed to literally cut the air into slices as he waved it about.

"This isn't how it's supposed to end at all!" barked Jeff, feeling betrayed by the figure trying to usher him towards an end unbefitting his demise.

"This isn't how what's supposed to end?"

"The world. The universe. Everything. This isn't much of a reception for Armageddon. Where's the fanfare, where's the vestigial virgins, where's the glamour?" clamored Jeff, fumbling for the right words that would express his overall disappointment.

"The end of the world?" the figure gave a bone-chilling chuckle [which is very hard to do with a chuckle, a laugh yes, but a chuckle?] "My poor disillusioned boy; this isn't the end of the world."

"Then what is it?"

The figure shrugged. "It's just the end of you."

*****

Dana Plough sat bleary-eyed at her kitchen table and lunged for her morning cup of coffee. "Piece of crap, freaking decaf freaking coffee," she muttered, looking down at the swollen lump that used to be her belly, "I can't wait until you're out of me and I can get a decent cup of coffee."

It wasn't as if the life form writhing within was an big inconvenience; she was still working. She loved her job and, quite frankly, her job loved her. Working for the top-rated 24 hour news channel had its privileges, especially when you're the poster child for the machine that owned her network.

She knew how to pick fights and she knew how to win them. She had battled all-comers to her show and mowed them down, like a big league pitcher hopped up on a mixture of human growth hormones and steroids facing a batch of wide-eyed little leaguers.

Being nine months pregnant came with attachments Dana Plough had not anticipated: The hourly peeing, the immense back pain, the fetal horns of the son of Satan writhing in her belly, jabbing her insides like some kind of disgruntled goat trying to pry open a can of beef stew.

She knew that the life forming inside her was for the greater good, and she was happy for it. She felt happy for all of mankind as she sipped the brown sludge sitting in her mug, knowing that within days the child inside her would burst forth out of her womb and into the world, ushering with it an eternal darkness that would swallow and destroy all those who were not deemed to be on the right side of the war of the heavens.

Fire and brimstone would hail down as the skies opened up and brought forth a new beginning of evil and suffering. It was going to be great to be a mom.

*****

Jeremiah was outside, gardening. He really did enjoy the activity of cultivation. He had become quite fond of his little patch of land with its rows of carrots, beets and the occasional tomato plant. He was particularly fond of the pear tree he had nurtured from a seedling. He called it Mr. Partridge.

Naming inanimate objects had been a particular bee in the bonnet for Jeremiah for quite a long time; he could never quite seem to get it right. He had a cat named Cat and a washing machine he had effectively called Mr. Washing Machine, though most people who would come over to the house would delicately tell him most people didn't actually name their appliances.

Mr. Partridge had been named, very cleverly in his opinion, after a song he had heard while shopping one late December morning in one of the local shopping centres. There were a group of 12 people dressed in what they liked to believe were authentic-looking Victorian era clothing, each taking a particular verse about what some seemingly very wealthy man with too much time on his hands had given his true love. As the song progressed the man had come up with a wide variety of items to give his betrothed, but always punctuated the new gifts with retreads of old ones.

By the end of the song, the woman had been presented with enough gifts to open up a small village on the outskirts of town with an overabundant contingency of maids, leapers, drummers and a wide assortment of livestock. A partridge that accompanied the pear tree was always given as gift no matter what day it was.

Jeremiah knew it would be very impractical. Unless you already had a large lot in town and enough people around to warrant the eating of all those pears to house said birds it was not a functional gift, but it was a fine inspiration for someone who had but a single tree and nothing to name it.

*****

There had been better gigs, but a job was a job and being the personal driver for Dana Plough was what was defined as a job. As he drove down Santa Monica Boulevard he espied into the backseat through the rearview mirror, and watched Dana Plough pour herself a triple of vodka.

"Are you sure you want to be drinking that with the little one on the way Ma'am?"

"When I want your opinion, I'll ask for your opinion, okay? Marco." she glared at his eyes in the mirror as she poundeded the glass in one smooth shot.

"Yes, Ma'am," said Manuel.

Manuel DeLuego had been Dana Plough's driver for almost three years now, and much to his chagrin she had continued to vehemently insist that his name was Marco, even though he kept protesting it wasn't. His insistence over his name was a tad disturbing to Dana Plough since she knew that some people were not supposed to be right about anything and those people were the working people.

Manuel had speculated that Dana Plough had once met a Latino man years before named Marco and had deduced, in all her worldly erudition, that all Latino men were named Marco. That, or she was just a bitch. He settled on the latter.

It wasn't as if Dana Plough had a problem with her liquor; in fact, before the pregnancy she hadn't had so much as an ounce of liquor since the two tequila shots at Suzy Kessleman's after her High School prom and that made her violently ill for three days after. That the baby craved liquor was strange enough, but that the baby only seemed to hunger after straight-up vodka was something she couldn't quite fathom.

Poka Vsyo was a little known brand from a small fishing village in Siberia, made by a chapter of lapsed orthodox monks working behind the local mink stole shop. It was three thousand dollars a bottle and almost impossible to get. But when your unborn fetus, fathered by the dark overlord, wants expensive grain alcohol from the furthest depths of a former Soviet Bloc country, who are you to deny it?

"Big show today?" Manuel was trying to make small talk, something he was gifted at outside the car; but inside, with Dana Plough, was a different story.

"All _my_ shows are big, Marco. Lest we forget that", she replied as if talking to three-year-old child. Dana Plough was excellent in knocking people down a few notches; it came in handy both in her job and in her personal life. She had an analytical need for people to know she was superior to them.

"Of course Ma'am, it was just that-"

"You don't need to apologize to me Marco; I know you try your best."

"Yes, Ma'am."

As the car made its way into to the lot of Global News Association Network, Dana Plough peered out the side window. She stared up at the prodigious G logo on top of the GNAN building and sighed. She had spent her entire life striving to get to where she was and now the little bundle of joy was going to take it all away. She sighed again and reconsidered her first thought.

At least where she was going after this would make everyone in the office sit up and take notice and curse the fact that they didn't put her on at the 8 pm time slot she wanted, instead of the twelve noon time slot she was so erroneously given. "They'll all want me in prime time now," she mumbled under her breath.

"Excuse me, Ma'am?"

"Nothing Marco, just keep driving."

"Yes, Ma'am."

The car pulled up at the front doors of the studio where stood Juliet Robinson, a bright, cheerful, smiling, brunette of 23 years, who opened the car door and stuck her head in. She was dressed in a conservative gray pinstriped pantsuit, hiding the well-toned body that she had put in hours at the gym to sculpt.

As Dana Plough had stated many times, if god wanted you showing your assets to the world he wouldn't have invented blazers. In her right hand Juliet held a bottle of Evian water, in her left hand she clutched a clipboard, both of which she tightly gripped as if her life depended on the objects being there.

"Good Morning, Ms. Plough; we have an amazing show planned for today. I hope you're feeling up to it," her eyes chaffed with a deep desire for the tiniest bit of encouragement.

"And why wouldn't I be up to it? Juliet." The way she said Juliet's name had a ring of serpentine malice about it. "I'm the best there is and don't plan on ever being anything else." Dana Plough had a certain uncanny way of always knowing who she was, and who she was was the best. Dana Plough lurched out of the car with the wobbly, unsteady restraint that nine month pregnant woman do.

"Yes Ma'am," Juliet knew she would have to wait for another day before the compliments came in. If you didn't get palatable Dana Plough first thing in the morning, it wasn't going to come that day.

Dana took the bottle of water from Juliet and drank it all down in one impressive, smooth swallow. She reached out her hand and Juliet placed two breath mints in her palm. Dana Plough chewed on the mints as she eyed her assistant up and down, thinking that she herself had had that kind of body not too long ago. As the ladies headed inside, Manuel drove off to the studio's cafeteria to exchange stories with his fellow drivers about the wonderfully misguided souls they had to work for; and a have good laugh over a Danish and coffee.

*****

Heaven was a hive of activity this particular day. A massive earthquake had killed 312 in Argentina, a hurricane wiped out 35 locals and 12 tourists on the island in Aruba and a small guerrilla war in the Middle East had claimed another two dozen, to go along with all the time-honored deaths of old age, gun-downs, overdoses and the ever increasingly popular auto-erotic affixation.

Technically, this wasn't heaven, but none of the recently deceased could tell the difference. Most people believe that when you die you go straight to Heaven; this is in fact a big lie. Before anyone gets to pass through the Pearly Gates, they must go through many hours of standing in processing lines, filling out massive amounts of paperwork and then meeting with his or her particular God. This was not heaven; this was what you had you to do in order to get into heaven. This was the giant DMV in the sky.

Once one's death had been processed and one was fit for going on to the next life [To go onto the next life, it actually helps if one were actually through with this life. There are approximately 22 accounts per year where people who weren't actually dead ended up going through the bright white light because "It seemed to be the thing to do at the time."], one must stand in a very long color-coded line that marked his or her particular belief in his or her particular god, religion, being, cult, etc. Once one met with one's god, guru, incarnation, cult leader, etc. one would then move on to one the four cities of heaven or, in some cases [members of said cults] to hell.

The better it was determined that you had lived your life on earth, the better the city in heaven in which you would be assigned to live. Someone who had led an extraordinarily exemplar life would live in the most grandiose city of heaven, deemed "Heaven One" [because heaven had a lot more things to think about than naming the cities where people would live]. Heaven One was ripe with huge fields of lilac bushes and freshly mowed green grass, encircling majestic mansions on vast hilltops looking down on one of Heaven One's four-star restaurants.

In the lowest city of heaven were standard one bedroom apartments, overlooking fields of concrete slab and a Denny's. Hell also had four cities, but none were nearly as nice as the fourth city of heaven.

Death of the West Coast of the United States including Nevada, Arizona and Hawaii walked through the front door of his French chapeau-style home in the city which had been deemed "Place where workers of the after-life live Three."

He took off his black hooded cloak, hung it the coat rack, and plopped down on the sofa, resting his feet on the coffee table overgrown with magazines that sported titles like " _Heaven's 10 best places to get Shrimp Scampi_ " and " _Hell: It may be too hot to work here, but the benefits are endlessly fun_ ".

Death of the West Coast of the United States including Nevada, Arizona and Hawaii rubbed his eyes and slapped his face several times trying to get any semblance of cognizance back in his aching head.

Being an agent of Death was the cushiest job in the afterlife, but the hours were hell, so to speak. People died twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year, and although not everyone had to be personally guided through the light, it was a given that a Death had to at least see 32.8% of his clients through to the other side.

The phone rang. Well, the phone would have rung if it were an actual phone; it was in fact just a telepathic thought being transmitted to DWCUSiNAH [Death of the West Coast of the United States including Nevada, Arizona and Hawaii will now be referred to as simply DWCUSiNAH to help keep the author's typing to a minimum.] from Death. Death, of course, being THE DEATH and not one of his employees, who were also called Death, but with a fancy long title tacked onto their names. The Death, throughout history and story-telling, had been transformed into a tall, rather bony individual by people who thought Death would be better served to scare small children and college coeds at sleep-away camps, than merely someone whose job it was to get people to stop living and get on with their deaths. The Death wanted a staff meeting and when the big guy called, you jumped. So DWCUSiNAH pulled himself off his sofa and started toward what was going to be the worst week of his after-life.

*****

The Hall of Death was a magnificent entry in the encyclopedia of architecture, with its high fresco ceilings aglow with Rembrandt's, Michelangelo's and other assorted mutant ninja turtle painters. The corridors were festooned with great statues of past gods and retired Deaths.

The floor was decorated with mosaic tiles depicting ancient civilizations becoming bygone civilizations; the place would give any normal thinking person a good case of the willies. The room at the end of the hall was large and dimly lit by torches affixed to the walls. In the center of the room was a large oak conference table, surrounded by high backed chairs adorned with deep purple velvet cushions. Seated along the table were the Deaths of every spot on the planet with any life on it. Death's motto was: "If you can live in this god- forsaken part of the world, we can get you out of it."

DWCUSiNAH walked in and sat down in his assigned seat at the table. He turned to his right where sat Death of Japan, the Koreas and the Philippines, who was nervously tapping his fingers on the table and blinking in what seemed to be Morse code for " _I don't want to be here_ STOP _Get me out of here STOP_. _Don't let the big guy see my blinking_ STOP".

DJKP [If you guessed that DJKP = Death of Japan, the Koreas and Philippines, then you're really getting the hang of this. Good work!] was, at any given moment, in the midst of some degree of a nervous breakdown. Death was a high stress job, made for low stress individuals. DJKP was here on what was an over-sighted technicality; no one knew about his penchant for nervous breakdowns before he got the job.

Death was a lifetime appointment; only retirement or, in the worst case scenario, really pissing off The Death, you were here until you said so, and even though many of the other deaths had tried to pull DJKP off to the side and council him on the wonderful world of not being Death, DJKP insisted that he was all right and that tomorrow he'd be just fine. Of course, at last count there had been 250 years of tomorrows.

"So what do think this is all about?" Whispered DWCUSiNAH.

"Adjna aux eru kubinanaru," Mumbled DJKP.

"Well, he can't possibly fire us all."

"Ba sazo eru kubinanaru."

"No, he wouldn't just fire you." DWCUSiNAH considered this proposition for a moment, "I'm sure he'd probably bring you in by yourself for that."

The Death walked into the room and stood at the front of the table. He perused the faces of his workers. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for all of you come, just you." He pointed a long bony finger towards DJKP.

"Shimatta!"

"Sorry, not you," said The Death, "I meant you." His finger turning its point towards the death sitting next to DJKP.

"Me?" gulped DWCUSiNAH.

"Yes."

DWCUSiNAH's face crumpled. "Dammit!"

The other deaths stood up from their chairs and walked swiftly out of the room. DWCUSiNAH could make out some of their whispering to their fellow Deaths, and what he could make out didn't bode well for him.

DWCUSiNAH sat still in his chair, a million thoughts racing through his head, though most of the thoughts were stifled. " _Oh my, I'm going to get fired, or worse; I've really pissed him off!_ " screamed the loudest, drowning out any good thoughts that may have been trying to reach the top.

"Come with me," said The Death.

"Where?"

"We have some things to discuss. In private." The words purred from The Deaths exposed jaw as he walked out of the room. DWCUSiNAH sat petrified, clutching the arms of his chair with the grip of a vice. The Death popped his head back into the conference room. "Coming?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not at all."

DWCUSiNAH stood up, ironed the wrinkles out his robe with his hands and whispered only audibly to himself. "That was what I was afraid of."

*****

Jeremiah was sitting on a bar stool at the local watering hole called, inappropriately, _The Laughing Devil_ , as it was neither particularly evil nor possessed any semblance of mirth. The name had always struck Jeremiah as being very humorous. Jeremiah had learned to love a good pint of ale, and The Laughing Devil had ale.

It also had an entertaining assemblage of unique locals that used a delicious collection of colorful colloquialisms to describe what they reasoned to be their mundane lives. And even more colorful colloquialisms to describe how they felt about their local football team and its "buggerful" of players.

He had come to know these people as friends, even if these people found him to be " _that barmy chap at the end of bar who wouldn't know his arse from his knackers_ ". He liked being near people; he liked people in general, even though he didn't quite understand them. People were a vast range of neuroses and unpleasant bodily functions. But they were also full of life and great imagination; able to do anything they set their sights on, as long as they could do it by 4pm and it wouldn't harm their back, since it was already a little tender to begin with.

He sat at his usual spot at the bar and nursed his ale as he watched the telly. It was an American program where a strange pregnant woman harassed a small child who had refused to attend her school's Christmas pageant because she was Jewish. The host seemed to be winning the debate because the young girl was sobbing into her mother's breast while her mother was berating the host for being a bully.

The host told the woman that she was a godless heathen and declared that she, the host, had won the discussion. Jeremiah found it all fascinating, especially since the pregnant woman seemed to be a bit on the tipsy side during her display of disputing prowess. As he sipped on his beer his ears perked up at what he thought he heard coming out of the woman's mouth.

"Did she just say, 'those damn horns are killing me'?"

"Yeah, and she looked at her belly when she said it," said the bartender.

"Probably giving birth to a goat," chimed one patron named Charlie.

"American's are always giving birth to animals," supposed Nancy, another regular.

"Nah, that's a lie," said the bartender giving her a look.

"It's true," Nancy rang in, "Don't you ever read the Sun?"

"Nah, that's stuff's a bunch of rubbish."

"'S true," said Charlie, "One American gave birth to half-boy half-alligator."

"S'that right? We'll I'll be damned," conceded the bartender, who was not a great debater. As long as two people said it was true; who was he to argue with mob rule.

"It's not a goat!" yelled Jeremiah leaping off his barstool. "It's something much, much worse!"

"Worse than giving birth to a goat?"

"I gotta' go to America," said Jeremiah as he hurried out of the pub.

The bartender and patrons looked at each other, then at the door, then back at each other. They pondered Jeremiah's statement for a moment and came to a group conclusion; going to America was much worse than giving birth to a goat-child.

*****

Actor Jonathan Frakes sat at a booth at the _Seattle_ _Science Fiction Convention and Go-Cart Rally_ , signing autographs for a long procession of fans lined up for a chance to experience the aura of his stardom. He made agonizingly quaint small talk with each one, signing an assortment of collectables that they laid in front of him.

A small man wearing a bowler and dressed in a dapper tweed suit with bulky coke bottle glasses came up to the table and placed a small book at the foot of the booth. The book was well worn and old, not exactly the piece of memorabilia most enthusiasts wanted to get signed by their favorite television alien organism.

The book was tattered, with the words _The Last Days vol. XII_ emblazoned with red calligraphy on the leather cover, with the tagline: _or what to do when it finally does happen_ , written in marker many years after the book was first printed.

"This seems to be a very old book, are you sure you want me to autograph it?" asked Actor Jonathan Frakes.

The small man coughed, clearing throat, "No, Mr. Frakes I do not want you to sign this book! This book is very special!"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," Actor Jonathan Frakes was very astute when encountering rabid fans at conventions; he knew what to look out for; and crazy people with old books that didn't want them to be signed were at the top of the list. "It is a very nice book, did you write it yourself?" he said as if speaking to a two year old child. There are two major factors when approaching a person verbally that may have a tough time discerning fact from fiction; one: don't piss off your paycheck and two: some of those weapon replicas come with terribly sharp points.

"No, I didn't write it!" the man took a deep breath and calmed himself. He tried to come at the conversation from another point. "This is real. This book is real. I know it sounds crazy, but believe me, I'm not. This is real!" The man had picked up the book and shoved it front of the star's face.

"Look, I don't want any trouble. I don't get paid enough for trouble."

"You don't want any trouble? You don't want any trouble? Do you hear what you're saying? This tells us that we are knee-deep in trouble my friend."

"What do you want me to do about it; I mean, I'm just an actor."

"I know you're just an actor! I told you I'm not crazy!" At this time three towering security guards with more muscle than brain crept up on the shouting little man and grabbed him. They started to lead him out of the convention hall as the man kicked and screamed, writhing and squirming, trying to break free from their control. "Read The Book! Just Read The Book!" the man screamed as he was guided out from the sight of Actor Jonathan Frakes. "Just so you know, I'm usually quite reserved and level-head," he added to no one in particular.

After the room had returned to normal [as normal as a room filled with grown people wearing homemade costumes of differing space creatures they'd seen on television programs and b-movies can return to.] Actor Jonathan Frakes returned to signing his name for the hordes of various costumed Martians, demons and bogeymen until the convention was over. As he was readying himself to leave he looked down at the table.

There sitting ominously was the book, _The Last Days vol. XII_. He thought twice about picking it up, but finally persuaded himself to see what all the hoopla was about. Besides, he reflected, sometimes these fan-fiction books can be a hoot.

*****

Death's office was in every way an allegory in opposing contrast. One might think that the office of someone whose sole purpose was misery and destruction would be gloomy and dark, filled with recently scalped skulls and paintings of moaning ghosts trying to escape their tortured prisons. You might even wish for a little black.

But Death's office was small and cheerful, with freshly cut flowers in on his desk and a brightly woven tapestry on the wall. It was an office more suited for an ex-hippie high school art teacher than the purveyor of mortality. DWCUSiNAH sat, nervously waiting for The Death to put his head on the chopping block of employment.

He pulled out a book from one of the many bookcases lining the walls: _How to influence people and get them to REALLY like you_ , and skimmed through the thick tome. The Death had spent the last several years trying to soften his image, but it was difficult diminishing the coldness of an eight-foot tall skeleton in a frock wielding a scythe.

"Oh good, you're still here," said The Death, entering his office carrying a large basket. "I made cupcakes, would you care to try one?"

The Death may have been trying to become a gentler, kinder being, but he was not as yet adept at the finer points of baking for consumption. DWCUSiNAH didn't eat, he didn't need to, and after looking at the pile of what could only be referred to as cupcake-shaped objects, he was glad he never had to.

"Sure, they look delicious." Just because one doesn't have to eat doesn't mean one doesn't _have_ to eat.

"Now," said The Death, "let's get down to business, Jimmy."

"Jimmy?" questioned DWCUSiNAH.

"Maxwell?"

"Huh?"

"Franz? Alberto? Jack? Barnaby? Just stop me when you hear one you like."

"When I hear one I like, what?" DWCUSiNAH was usually confused when having to spend time alone with The Death, but this time the conversation was really taking the cupcake. [Which he carefully spit into a napkin while his boss wasn't looking.]

"I'm trying to liven up the place by giving you all proper names," bemused The Death. If DWCUSiNAH squinted hard enough he may have seen what appeared to be The Death conveying the look of wanting a child-like approval for his new concept. "So which one do you prefer?"

"Well," it was very hard stalling for time with someone who can read your thoughts. It was much better to jump straight into a lie and ride it out until the next question came around and The Death had forgotten what you lied about in the first place."I love them all."

"I know," said The Death, "But which one suits you more? I feel that I am much better at making up names than actually giving them to you."

It wouldn't have been wise to correct his boss in saying that The Death hadn't actually made up any of the names, in fact the names he had been listing had been around for thousands of years. Or that he really didn't think any of the monikers sounded at all pleasant to be saddled with for however long this obsession was going to last.

There had been numerous attempts to "happy-up" the profession over the past thousand years, after The Death had decided to make the job a lot less dark and more of a family-friendly experience. These included:

1978: Pastel Colored Robes.

1779: An all-expense paid tour of the Wedgewood pottery factory in Staffordshire, England to the 120th person who died each day.

1665: An "I Suffered through, then Died in the Great Plague and All I got was the Crappy T-shirt".

1420: A harrowing ride on "The Official Catapult of Death" [This lasted only one day, after 24 people were "accidentally misplaced" somewhere in the cosmos.].

1343-1346: All agents of Deaths learned to play a popular regional instrument to accompany them while they sang melodious dirges as people marched through the light.

1227, a widely unsuccessful endeavor involving a donkey, a bucket of mud and a serf dressed as a lobster.

"Barnaby? I like that one?" doubt rose about the sanity of this exercise in futility, "That was one right? Barnaby?"

"Barnaby it is!" exclaimed The Death.

"Oh goody", sighed DWCUSiNAH, um Barnaby, "I have a name."

*****

It was nine months earlier and Dana Plough had just won the coveted _People of Good Moral Values from Other People with Good Moral Values Award for Journalism Excellence_. A fine bargaining chip when her contract with GNAN was up. She was absolutely glowing with pride at the annual company Christmas party.

It was a well attended, exceedingly luxurious bash with no expense left out, from the two-hundred dollars an ounce beluga caviar to the giant statue of the baby Jesus holding an oversized blinking neon GNAN logo in his hands. What it didn't pay for was fun.

The party was mind-numbingly boring, bordering on the edge of slit-your-wrists-and-take-a-warm-bath-just-so-the-pain-will-stop tediousness. But Dana Plough was a team player and she wasn't going to leave the party until she had a verbal agreement for a new six figured multi-year deal.

She had spent a hefty amount of money on a new black Vera Wang that would not only represent her fine taste, but also her expensive predilections. She had also gone into debt maxing out her credit card purchasing a Christmas gift for the company's President and CEO Mr. Perry Rainford Bidwell: a one of kind $3,999.00 Forzieri designer pen with the price tag still accidentally attached.

Mr. Bidwell was a jet-setting multi-billionaire who had pulled himself up by his bootstraps from a small mining town near Blackpool, England to become one of the most successful men in the world of mass media.

In the 1970's he started his empire by launching a small state-sponsored television station in North Vietnam. He became a millionaire as the leading distributor of SquidBeez Cola and its soda mate Diet SquidBeez Cola [Fewer Calories. Same great taste of squid and honey!] in the 80's. And in 1991 he became a billionaire with the introduction of GNAN and three years later its sister station, GNAN For Kids.

Dana Plough stood back against the bar, nursing a glass of sparkling water amongst a sea of rival newscasters, company shills, production crew members, and one lone intern named Mark who had somehow found his way into the party without anyone calling for security to remove him from the premises.

She watched as Mr. Bidwell unwrapped her present, gave a charming little c'est tout dire smile and tossed it into a pile with all the other offerings from all the other would-be corporate suck ups. Her heart sank at the sight of his disposal of her gift amongst the other countless ruins of dashed dreams and hopes of personal approval.

She tugged on her dress, pulling it down around her knees when she noticed that she was showing a little too much thigh at the party. Dana Plough wasn't a prude, but she wasn't looking to be titled loose either, and, to her, anything above the knee was an act akin to sinful decadence.

Perry Rainford Bidwell was not a man you buy with trinkets, he was a man to whom trinkets were given by Heads of State and Foreign Dignitaries; trinkets that he would throw into one of the many closets in one of the many rooms in one of the many homes in one of the many countries he had purchased over the years.

What Mr. Bidwell was looking for was something that no one could give him, because he didn't know himself what he truly wanted. As in the case of most citizens who are, for better or worse, too wealthy for their own good.

Mr. Bidwell had too much of everything he never wanted or could ever use. This was not good news for those who wanted to get into his good graces and even worse news for those emboldened enough to try it. But there was a glimmer of hope when it came to pleasing the man; if you could give him what he truly needed you were to be forever in his adulation. Whatever that thing may be.

As she finished off the last few drops of water, a tall, well-dressed, strikingly handsome man came over and gently situated himself next to her at the bar. Dana Plough couldn't help suddenly feeling like a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl trapped in the library with the star quarterback, something Dana Plough never felt like, including when she was a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl. A wave of flutters ran through her stomach as she watched the handsome stranger next her dust some very pricey New England crab cake crumbs off his tuxedo jacket.

"Howdy Ma'am."

"Well howdy yourself, stranger," said Dana Plough, feeling weirdly tipsy off her glass of mineral water. "And where might you have moseyed in from into this high-falootin' party?"

Dana Plough could hear the words coming out of her mouth and was trying to cram them back as fast as they erupted, but for some reason this strikingly beautiful man who had sidled up to her was making her lips say things she only thought about while in the privacy of her own company. When she knew all the doors and windows were shut, when she was alone soaking in a bubble bath with her biggest vice, a sleazy paperback romance novel.

"Down South, Ma'am," said the stranger, "Way down south." With a wink and Cheshire cat grin that showed off his perfect dimples and a smile that would make avowed spinsters buckle at the knees.

"Oh my," swooned Dana Plough, who all of a sudden found herself knee- deep in an epic Civil War novel. She used a cocktail napkin to fan the heat radiating from her blushing cheeks. This man could do things to me, things to me other ladies have said over lunch in tv shows about ladies who talk like ladies don't, but most ladies fantasize about talking like with their friends about, she thought to herself.

"Can I get you a refill?" said the man, fixating his stare into the mirror behind the bar. It was a general rule in society that the more beautiful someone is, the less that person will ever look at anyone else besides him or herself.

"Oh no," said Dana Plough, trying to pull herself together and contain her fertile reddening to a minimum, "I don't really drink."

"It's not often in these immoral times you get to meet a virtuously restrained girl."

She giggled, which was also something Dana Plough never did. She couldn't help herself, this man made her giggle, and all things being equal he could probably get her to do more. "Oh, I'm not a nice girl; I just can't handle my drink. I get a bit tipsy on one glass of champagne, and then you never know what I'm going to do!" and gave him a sly wink.

"Well then, I'll ask again. Can I buy you another?"

"Sure, why not!" she threw her head back trying to look sexy and kicked her leg gently into the air accidentally hurling her pump clear across the room and beaning Mr. Bidwell in the head.

Her face collapsed into sheer panic as her boss turned around to catch her trying to hide her face in her hands. She looked up at the shockingly gorgeous stranger who had an almost supernatural way of making her weak in the knees and shrugged, "Well, I guess you can probably count primetime out."

Three hours later they were lying on a bed at the Ritz Carlton Beverly Hills. As the three thousand thread-count sheets caressed her body like a million North American Wooly Bear Caterpillars, Dana Plough smiled like she had never done before.

" _So, this is what sex is like_?" she thought to herself. It's not that she had never had sex before, being a world-traveling high-profile multi-media darling she had had sex plenty of times in her thirty-eight years on the planet [Five times with three different men], but this was something totally different. This was pure, unadulterated ecstasy. This was earth shattering, heart-pounding, knock down drag-out sex. And she was in euphoria.

Dana Plough was a good-looking woman, and good-looking women usually get what they want. Frigid good-looking women always get what they want because no matter how hard a man tries he's never going to come out on top because he's too scared to try. Dana Plough always got what she wanted. She never had to use sex to get ahead; she knew how much to give and when to snatch it away.

She was good at playing games and enjoyed the competition. She never needed sex; she never really desired it, like so many others around her did. These other women would sit around with friends while they gossiped about their latest exploits of carnal lust with the newly hired cabana boy or Richard from accounting, while Dana Plough would listen, silently amused by what these women would do for good roll in the hay and a little help on their tax forms.

What happened this night was totally different, she told herself, but who was she kidding? If anyone ever asked her where she had gone so abruptly during the party with that good-looking, dark haired guy with the killer dimples, she would speak of it and she would speak of it fondly.

"Wow!" she exclaimed and to get those words out was a struggle through the exhaustion.

"Did you have a good time?" said the handsome stranger who had taken her places people usually only get to go when they are performing high-wire circus acts or in certain Russ Meyer movies.

"I can't believe I did all that. I didn't think I had it in me."

"Oh, I knew you could do it."

"Oh yeah?" she said coyly, "And how would you know what I could do?"

"I've watching you for quite some time now Ms. Plough"

Dana Plough came down suddenly with a complete case of the " _what have I done and how do I undo-it's._ " "You're not some sort of crazed stalker, are you, because I warning you buddy-"

"No, no, not stalking. On the contrary, tonight was the first time I had actually seen your face."

"Then how did you know what I could do," she looked down at their naked bodies, "here?"

"Just because it's the first time I've actually seen you, doesn't mean our encounter hasn't been fated for quite some time."

"Oh God! You are a stalker!"

"Actually, you're wrong on both accounts."

Over the next few minutes there was a great deal of awkward silence, as Dana Plough tried to wrap her head around what her mystery man had just said, until finally, in a flash of unequaled clarity, she deduced what her new lover had just told her.

She searched for the right words to say, but nothing jumped to mind. She looked at the magnificent specimen of manhood lying before her and her heart melted. How could she possibly not come up with a commonsensical reason for just politely thanking her gentleman caller, getting dressed and leaving quickly and quietly like she had seen so many ill-conceived one-stands do on popular television shows and movies?

There are two ways to go when being presented with such an enigma as the one Dana Plough was facing; you could: a) scream bloody murder until someone from hotel management breaks the door down and you explain to him that you've just done it with Satan, cementing your stay for at least six months in the Rosemary's Baby wing of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, or b) go with the flow and allow yourself to take what is in essence a very big check on a very big platter. Dana Plough opted to take the latter.

"So you're-?"

"Yep."

"Oh my."

"Shocked?"

"A little."

"But?"

"But nothing. I just got the best sex anyone in the history has ever had and it turns out it was Satan himself. But you know what? I don't care."

"Excellent." Satan smiled and nodded to acknowledge her forward- thinking. Most women would be traumatized or horrified or both to find out that they were just taken to heaven and back by the Devil. But Dana Plough knew what a good business deal was, and there weren't too many negotiating leverages better than being in bed (so to speak) with old fire and brimstone himself.

Dana Plough sat up and put her arms around his chiseled waist and nudged her nose into the side of his face. She knew that people often cuddled after sex. She had never been the canoodling sort, plus she wasn't exactly sure what the post-coitus etiquette was after having relations with pure evil. But, she was either too dazed by the amount of fluids she had lost in the love-making marathon, or she was in absolute denial over the whole incident.

"Although I do feel a tiny bit bad."

"And why is that?"

Dana Plough wasn't a woman to let a good opportunity slip past her while other less qualified people slept their way to the top. "Well, I just allowed the Prince of Darkness to ravage my body, again and again, and I didn't anything out of it."

"I believe you did." He smiled in a way that couldn't be good for anyone involved, except for the smilee.

"Oh well, that. I know that. But-"

"I think you'll be pleasantly surprised in the not so distant future."

"When?"

"Oh, I'd say about nine months."

*****

The Death sat at his desk flipping through a pile of paperwork in an attempt to make himself look busy. It was always good to make the employees sweat a little while they waited, and the agent of Death formerly known as the Death of the West Coast of the United States including Arizona, Nevada and Hawaii was drenched.

It wasn't as if The Death was mean-spirited, it was just that he had really wanted Barnaby to notice his new _Kiss Me I'm Irish_ pin he was sporting, and was a little perturbed that his minion hadn't commented on its delightfully humorous ironic statement [The Death was of course Latvian.]. After a few minutes The Death put down his papers and looked longingly at Barnaby and sighed.

It was never a good sign when The Death sighed, it usually meant there was something a-mess, and when The Death thinks there's something a-mess there's usually a very big clean up.

"Is everything all right?" asked Barnaby, knowing full well something was wrong. If something were right he wouldn't be in an unscheduled employee evaluation meeting, he would be in Hell, aiding demons in injuring the damned souls of people who tailgated incessantly or who leaned on their horn in traffic jams when they knew damn well that traffic wasn't going to move if they made a lot of racket, but did it anyway.

These people needed to be in Hell and they needed to be tortured and Barnaby loved to help in any way he could. It was one of life's little pleasures. Sitting and waiting for the axe to fall was his own personal hell.

"So, how are you today Barnaby? Are you liking your new moniker?" asked The Death, hoping for a little recognition of his modern ways of doing business as outlined in _101 Ways To Get Your Business On The Right Track and Start Getting People To Like You_.

"Well, I've only had it for five minutes."

"But you are enjoying it?"

"Yes, very much so." Barnaby hated small talk and when the boss wants to engage in small talk in a personal meeting it usually only leads to bad things like " _The weather's been awful this month, we're going to let you go_ " or " _The Boston Red Sox have a real good chance of going all the way this year don't you think? And by the way I know your sleeping with my wife_."

Small talk frequently leads to big problems, and Barnaby didn't like problems, he liked order. He ran a tight ship, get 'em into the light, get 'em out and let the lawyers deal with the rest. He ran his shift by the clock, as much as you can when dealing with people who didn't want to see you in the first place.

Most people are opposed to being dead, and when they do die, it usually comes as quite a shock to them and they aren't ready to let go of the miserable existence they've carved out for themselves. There's usually a lot of crying involved and more whining than ever need be. But Barnaby liked what he did, though he could with less complaining and more of a can-do attitude about rushing straight on into the illumination of the spirit world.

"Can I ask you question? It's rather personal," asked The Death.

"Of course you can. You can ask me anything you want," gulped Barnaby.

"Have you ever wanted to know what it was like to be mortal?"

Barnaby thought about this for a moment. He had considered on numerous occasions what it would like to be a number of different things, yet being human had never crossed his mind. Not even once.

"No, not really."

"Great!" declared The Death, "You're going to have a wonderful time being alive!"

*****

Jeremiah could have flown first class, but you didn't get the full human experience sipping mimosas and eating freshly prepared cheese Danishes. There was a wonderful sense of belonging when flying business class; the screaming children, the rude flight attendants, the seats made for a 10 year old boy with amputated legs, these luxuries were what people didn't want to pay for, but did anyway.

He sat between an American Used Car Salesman who spent the entire flight chewing his nails down to bloody stumps as he slammed back ten-dollar whiskey sours at a steady pace, and an eighteen-year-old university student from Scotland who was going to backpack across America to see if she could find herself.

Jeremiah really liked the young woman, mainly because she loved to talk. She regaled him for hours with stories of her small village just outside Aberdeen and how it was the most mind-numbing place on the face of the earth, filled with locals; each one more bizarre than the last.

This seemed like a fascinating place to live to Jeremiah, a village full of colorful folks doing off-color things, but mainly just sitting around telling stories for hours upon hours of how life used to be. This appeared like a town Jeremiah could really sink his teeth into and become a proper member of its society, but he was not an eighteen-year-old girl.

The plane was somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean as Jeremiah listened to the girl tell him everything that was wrong with Europe and its line of wearisome, cold and emotionless people, and how America was the place to be if you really wanted to meet interesting and engaging people. America was a place where seemingly you couldn't walk down any street in the country without meeting a dozen or so celebrities.

Apparently in America you become a celebrity almost by default as long as you are willing to make a complete ass out of yourself on a number of their television shows, where one can either become famous by living in a house trapped with eleven other strangers and yell at them constantly for a few weeks before giving into carnal obsessions in a dimly lit room you share with a neo-Nazi and a gay black republican, or by eating any number of animal entrails.

The plane landed in New York's LaGuardia airport and Jeremiah said his goodbyes to the young woman. He wished her luck on her continuing journey, but she didn't hear him as she was busy running through the airport chasing after someone she just knew must have been a person named Brad Pitt.

Jeremiah picked up his bags and headed for his new terminal. It would be a few hours before his flight to Los Angeles, the perfect time to find an airport bar and listen to what sordid stories drunken semi-celebrated intestine-eating Americans had to say over a pint.

He found a seat at the bar and situated himself so he could get a good view of the entire room. He perked up his ears and listened carefully to see if he could get anything that would help him better understand humanity. The American way.

*****

It was three p.m. and Dana Plough had just finished another rousing episode of her show _Plowing Ahead with Dana Plough_ [Unoriginality was the trademark of GNAN show titles]. It had been another banner day of sticking it to the communists and hippies who were running roughshod over the values and dictums of civilized society and a pertinent part of the seedy underbelly of her America.

Her America was firmly wedged in a belief that the morals and prudence of the ill-remembered 1950's were what the Founding Fathers had envisioned for the new millennium; a wholesome, god, mom and apple pie slice of Americana, where Leave It To Beaver wasn't so much a sitcom, but a well preserved documentary of its time. People back then knew how to act and behave, even if it was the age of rampant color discrimination and segregation, McCarthyism, Herbert Hoover, the atomic bomb and the onset of Rock and Roll.

Dana Plough was going be a big part of taking America out of the twenty-first century, wrapping it up in a big bag of self-righteousness and time warping it back to the good ole days.

Dana Plough returned to her office, sat down at her desk, opened the bottom drawer and took out a large bottle of Poka Vsyo, poured herself a glass and drank. A knock at the door jolted her from her alcohol-induced bliss. As she popped a breath mint into her mouth she fought with every fiber of strength in her body to sober up until the next drink. Juliet opened the door and walked confidently inside with a grin the size of the Grand Canyon plastered across her face.

"Ms. Plough?" asked Juliet as to not alarm her obviously sloshed boss.

"It's three o'clock in the afternoon, I just finished being on the air and I'm nine months pregnant."

"Okay?"

"I'm not drunk!"

"Nobody said you were, ma'am."

"But everyone was implying it. Weren't you all?"

"Who did?"

"All of you!"

"I'm the only one here, ma'am."

Dana Plough focused her gaze around the room to find to her surprise that the three or four young women who had come barging into her office was in fact one. "So you are," she said, trying to muster the will to make her words seem like intelligent conversation.

"Um-"

"What?"

"Um-"

"Well, spit it already!" It wasn't as if Dana Plough was a mean drunk; it was entirely the baby's fault.

"There's a, uh- Man here to see to you, but he doesn't have an appointment." Juliet knew what she liked in a man's shape and there was everything to like about the shape of the guy waiting behind the door. She hadn't been the president of Lambda Sigma Delta sorority because of her great homemaking skills.

She was made president because of her intrinsic nature to find any and every cute boy within a sixteen-mile radius of the campus and persuade them that the girls of LSD were ready for action. If she could give a lecture of what she wanted to get out of what was in the next room it would be: if you don't want him, I know 101 ways to make a guy happy and sit up and beg for 101 more.

"Who is it?"

"I don't know. But he's very cute."

"I don't want to see any- cute?"

"Very."

"Would you say he's tall dark and handsome?"

"I would"

"Would you say he's seductively handsome in a bad boy kind of way."

"He seems like very nice."

"But do you think he has the unmitigated capacity for bad."

"I would say yes."

"Send him in."

"I think he's the guy from the Christmas party."

"Okay, send him in."

"Wasn't he Southern then?"

"Yes. Why? What he is now?"

"English."

"But he's still tall, dark and handsome?"

"Smoldering!"

"Thank god!" said Dana Plough, "Send him in."

*****

Allison Carney was surprised to find herself still standing, since she had just been hit by a speeding truck while trying to cross twelve lanes of traffic on Interstate 80 just south of San Francisco. Her car had broken down a couple of miles up the road and she was trying to get to a gas station across the busy highway.

She had made it across ten lanes, but fate finally caught up to her and mowed her down on lane eleven; or so she thought.

For some reason the sky seemed a little clearer and she could have sworn that the world around her was moving a tad bit slower than she had remembered, but this was probably due to the fact she had just encountered a very life-harrowing situation; or so she thought.

Up ahead in the distance a small glow of bright white began to form on the horizon, and it was creeping closer. The light moved steadily until it stopped about fifteen feet from where she was standing. A cloaked figure emerged from the light and gestured for her to come nearer.

A wave of calmness overtook Allison as she stared at the motioning figure, she looked at the world around her and noticed that although everything around was starting to catch up and began moving at more normal pace, the sky became much darker and ominous.

A cool wind had picked up and she brushed long strands of blown hair out of her face. The figure seemed to be getting impatient and was restlessly tapping his foot on the gas station's parking lot floor.

She scratched her head as the cloaked figure began to do some sort of intricate, albeit highly confusing, interpretative dance/mime routine that Allison wasn't quite sure what she was supposed to do with.

After the figure had seemed to finish, Allison stood a brief moment taking in what she had just witnessed and remembered what her mother had always taught her: if you can't say anything nice about someone, don't say anything at all. So she politely applauded and smiled in confused approval.

"Hokou tsuujite runpu, temae bakabakashii American fujoshi," yelled the Death of Japan, Korea and the Philippines.

" _Oh, he's a foreigner,"_ She thought to herself, and remembered another thing her mother always taught her. "IT WAS A VERY NICE DANCE YOU DID. I AM PLEASED TO HAVE SEEN IT!" She shouted at the top of lungs and bowed to her new Japanese friend.

"Chikushou! Kan Hokou tsuujite runpu!"

She had felt that somehow she had offended the poor street mime and tried to make it better by digging into her purse and pulling out eighty-two cents worth of loose change.

"THIS IS FOR YOU!" she shouted as she held out the coins intended for the DJKP to take home and feed his family, who were obviously starving if they had to rely on his horrible imitative skills to provide for them.

The DJKP looked at the offering, shrugged and grabbed them from her outstretched hand, then grabbed her by the hand and threw her gently, but firmly through the hovering light. After she had gone through, he looked down at the coins he had been presented and proclaimed," eighty-two cents! bakabakashii Americans!"

*****

A small man wearing a bowler and dressed in a dapper tweed suit with bulky coke bottle glasses jumped into a cab. He had with him a small package wrapped in brown paper, held together with twine.

"Where to?" said the driver.

"I need to go the corner of Melrose and Vine in Los Angeles."

"You want to go to California? You are aware that we're in the state of Washington?"

"Yes, I know."

"You know that's a pretty expensive ride?"

"Yes, I know, I have the money."

"Delivering a little bundle?" said the cabby, never missing an opportunity to point out the painfully obvious.

"Oh no," said the man, "I'm hoping to stop one."

*****

"Stand up straight and be still will you!" said the Death of Australia, New Zealand and Countries with a Population of less than 500 Total People. Sewing needles bounced on her lips, causing her statements to have a slight air of danger about them.

"But I don't wanna go!" whined Barnaby.

"Why not? I think it sounds exciting."

"Then why don't you go and I'll stay here and make pretty costumes."

DANZ & C>500TP stabbed him with the point of a rather sharp needle. "I don't understand why you don't want to this opportunity?"

"Because," moaned Barnaby. He was getting quite adept at complaining about anything and to anyone.

"Because isn't an answer," DANZ & C>500TP shot him an exasperated look. It was a look only women possess and is only used on men. The look has a number of abundant uses, yet they all say one thing loud and clear; "I as a woman am right and you as a man are wrong."

Men had tried for centuries to find any weakness in their ability to debate this statement, but were never able to break through a common-sense resistance to mere manly stupidity. Also, most men knew the statement to be true.

"Besides," said Barnaby "I don't know the first thing about being human," trying the " _I'm a man and I'm an idiot_ " route, the only somewhat successful strategy to date.

"Well, I think it would wonderful to be human for a day. Just think of everything they get to do and we don't."

"Name one thing they do that we would want to do?"

DANZ & C>500TP gave it a minute of careful thought, "I don't know, but some of things they do with ostriches look cool."

"Human life looks like a pathetic, never-ending circle of mistakes, followed by regretful bemoaning about the mistakes they've just made, then rueful self-pity about the mistakes they didn't. They walk around in a constant haze of unprovoked dominance waiting to be hit by a speeding bus they mistook for a train."

"See!" she said, "You do know how to be human."

"I just don't understand why I have to do it."

"Because it's happening on your turf; you know how these people think."

"No one knows how people in L.A. think. It's a well-known fact that southern California is filled with people who haven't thought in years. It may be that all the collagen implants have finally crept their way into their brains and they're one botox shot away from becoming a roaming band of plastic zombies."

"Well, what about all the glitz and glamour and SeaWorld?"

"They put the whale on a diet and dyed it peroxide blonde."

"You're going to have a blast."

"I know. I really am looking forward it."

"Really?

"Yeah. Besides, if the apocalypse does come we'll be overrun with these people. It'll make the Rapture look like an intimate dinner party"

"What's the Rapture?"

"Beats me. Something about getting away from the Jews and Muslims."

DNAZ & C>500TP prodded him accidentally a few more times with her needles as she hemmed the leg of his pants. She lost herself in thought as she allowed herself dream of all the new experiences she would come across if she had gotten the assignment.

It was a well known fact that humans spent most of their waking lives pursuing one of three things; Barroom brawls, jumping out of airplanes with nonworking parachutes, and ingesting large amounts of habituates in dark basements while waving glow sticks and listening to electronic music. That was the way most of them died, so it seemed probable that was how they lived.

DANZ & C>500TP was one of the few employees of the After-life that had a certain affection for humans and their existence. She found them fascinating and admired what they did with their lives. Whereas, most of her colleagues believed she was probably on drugs and that they really should, when they weren't too, too busy, get some sort of intervention started.

*****

"I just want to know when it's going to be out of me, that's all," said Dana Plough trying as tactfully as she could to tell her baby's daddy that the organism inside her was slowly killing her with tiny kick.

"Soon, my sweet. Then our little guy will be born and everything will be as it should be. Okay?" Dana Plough nodded. "Good, now what I wanted to talk to you about was insurance."

"There's no need, I'm fully insured. I don't need any money."

"No, I didn't suppose you did. No, what I'm talking about is life insurance."

"You mean?" gulping Dana Plough running her finger along her throat.

"No, no, not you. I'm referring to our little bundle of joy. His life and its impending arrival need a little extra protection, you might say."

"Why?"

"Well, you see, there are people, bad, nasty people, who don't want us to be happy and may want to do harm to our son. And I just needed some guarantee that the birth will go off without any unforeseen, unruly side-effects." Unruly side-effects of having the bringer of the end of humankind burst out of your womb are a bit of an understatement.

"Like what?"

"Now, don't you worry about any of that. My men will take good care of you until the blessed day."

"Men? What men?"

"Think of them as an Insurance policy." Satan stuck his head out the door and called in thirteen enormous men, each more hideous and vicious looking than the next. The hulking beasts made Frankenstein's Monster look like a baby kitten in an adorable little straw hat. "These, my darling are our protection."

"Who or what do I need protection from?"

"That's for these men to worry about."

Dana Plough stood up, took Satan by the arm and led him over to a corner where she could whisper without the men hearing her. "These men, darling," she said, "look a bit- what's the word I'm looking for?"

"Like if the Keebler elves had been seven-feet tall, on steroids and been run through the ugly machine a few times?"

"Exactly," trying hard to keep both their voices down.

"Don't worry, they're going to take care good of both of you."

"But if there are people out there who are trying to kill me!"

"Calm down, nobody's trying to kill you."

The thirteen Insurance Agents stood at complete attention on the other side of the office, their gazes fixed firmly on their task. They were single-minded about their duty, which was made even more difficult when being part of a group, but an excellent quality when your boss could have you spend the next five consecutive eternities scrubbing Genghis Khan's communal Mongolian Horde toilet room.

If one were to decide to go into battle over heaven and hell, the men in Dana Plough's office would be the first ones picked. Their rippling muscles carved out under their much too tight for any straight man's tee-shirts would have put a lock on their selection, but it was the multitude of awe-inspiring and lethal weaponry they carried with them that would have sealed the deal.

There was a knock at the door and Juliet stepped inside. "Ms. Plough? Manuel has brought the car around for you."

"Who?"

"Um, Marco?"

"Don't you see I'm in the middle of a meeting a room full of very large and dangerous men?"

"Um, no. I only see you in a private meeting with a very good-looking man. But if you want me to see other men, point me in their direction."

"She can't see them," whispered Satan.

"Why not?" she whispered back.

"Because, they can't be seen until they start to work," he whispered into her blushed ear.

"I thought protecting me and our son was their work?" she whispered back.

"It is. But they haven't officially started protecting you yet, technically." His nose wrinkled up knowing that this was a conversation he was dreading for many months. Most women don't enjoy having unexpected guests drop by, and they really don't like it when they're Dana Plough.

"And when will when that start happening?"

"When you're in danger,"

"And when will that be?"

The hushed whispering was starting to get a little awkward for Juliet. The office wasn't that big and she could hear everything they were saying. Being able to hear what the whisperers were saying just made it uncomfortable.

"Very, very soon," he whispered and kissed her on the forehead. "I have to be heading out anyway; I'll see you soon dear. It was very nice meeting you Ms. Robinson."

"Call me Juliet."

"Juliet!" screamed Dana Plough, awakening Juliet from her puppy dog stare, "tell Marco I'll be right down."

*****

There are certain people who send out a ' _pick me'_ vibe to school bullies, who would automatically gravitate towards them to take their milk money and, if they were feeling at all inspired, stick them in a locker or punch them unmercifully in the face until the bully became tired and need a nap.

Then there are people who look like they'd be fun to pummel about the head and neck for a while, but instead were the type to send the bully home crying with three broken bones in his or her nose, a slight concussion, and note to their parents telling them to make out a check for one hundred and fifty dollars or their child would be sent back the next day looking even worse.

Ketty Bauer was the latter; she was a three hundred pound gorilla in a 110 pound petite frame, a quality which was helpful for being a public school teacher.

She had finished saying goodbye to her students and was going through the next day's lesson plans. She was trying to rush through it as quickly as possible, as she was late getting to her second job as an orderly at a local hospital. A public school teacher cannot, as badly as they pinch every last penny, survive on a teacher's salary in America.

Though, some people would tell you that they make quite enough money for only part time employees, as she'd seen on a program called _Plowing Ahead with Dana Plough_. She had to buy a new television set after that, having thrown a bowling trophy through it.

Loman March, a fellow teacher and trying for the past three years to be something more to the beauty he admired in the teacher's lounge, dropped by her classroom and stood in the doorway waiting for her look up.

"Oh Loman," said Ketty startled, "I didn't see you there. God you scared me."

"I'm sorry," he said, disgruntled.

"It's okay Loman."

"So, what are you doing tonight? Any big plans?"

"I'm working at the hospital tonight."

"Oh, 'cause I was wondering if you weren't doing anything you might want to grab something to eat or something."

"I'm working at the hospital tonight Loman."

"Oh yeah, you just told me that."

"Maybe some other time."

"Really?"

Ketty had a hard time turning Loman down; he was on one hand one of the nicest guys she'd ever met, on the other hand he was the human equivalent of an Irish setter; if you left him alone in the house for more than ten minutes and he'd pee all over the furniture and eat the garbage.

"Maybe, I'm really quite busy. Two jobs and all, you understand."

Ketty's eyes went back to her work, which was the international sign for ' _I'm all done with you; now move along before I throw the nearest blunt object at your head._ ' Loman peered through his horned-rimmed glasses and squished his face up into a tight little ball, which made him look more like a pug than a setter.

His tall, bony frame collapsed at the shoulders as he pouted and turned around, sulking out of the room. As she watched him leave she added that little display of childishness to her mental list of reasons why she could find a better man than Loman March.

She had graduated from Loyola Marymount with a Bachelor's degree in World History and received a Masters in Political Science at Georgetown University. At the time of graduation she felt she'd give something back to the community and decided on teaching for a couple of years in an inner-city school before going to Law School to do what she always wanted to do; give something back to herself.

That was eight years ago and she'd come to realize that she would never be representing victims of heinous gun violence against major gun manufactures for billions. She would be stuck defending heinous spitball crimes against nerds.

She had settled into a nice little rut teaching History and Drama at Frederick Douglas High School and working the five to eleven shifts at _The Richard M. Nixon Memorial Medical Center and Cocktail Lounge_ every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday evenings.

She finished up her day job and collected her things, putting them neatly into a brown leather carrying bag with her initials monogrammed into the flap. It was a graduation present her parents had given her, hoping she'd use it to carry her books to Law School in, but, much to her parents chagrin, it instead made a nice place in which to keep her grade books and a snack.

*****

Jeremiah's plane landed on time at Los Angeles International Airport much to the amazement of both passengers and flight crew. After having been taken on the 'scenic drive' by his cabbie [Which costs triple than what you would normally pay, but you don't get to see all the pretty palm trees.], he checked into his hotel room. He unpacked all of his clothes and toiletries and placed a picture of the Queen on the nightstand next to his bed. He always wanted to make his surroundings feel a bit more at home, even if he was sequestered in an airport hotel ten thousand miles away.

He took out his wallet and pulled a business card from the sleeve. He stared at the card for a minute then gently placed the card on the nightstand.

It had been a long day of traveling and Jeremiah tossed himself into bed without checking the phonebook to see where the nearest local waterhole was. He was on business and didn't have time to sample the indigenous atmosphere this trip. He had read numerous books and magazine articles about modern America and watched a variety of television shows and big studio action-adventure blockbusters that had been shipped across the pond, but he had yet to see it firsthand.

He had been to the country many years before, but had found that Puritans were not much into getting snookered and regaling each other with rousing stories of the night they found old Mrs. Levy in the washroom with Michael Merryweather's son Todd and the town pig. This was not the America he was in now.

Jeremiah yawned and decided that he had had enough adventure for one day. And this was probably the easiest day he was going to have in quite some time.

*****

Retirees Miriam and Chuck Friedlander of Eau Claire, Wisconsin were currently on their tenth day of a three week sightseeing tour of America. They had set out on a course for adventure in their new Winnebago that Chuck had bought with his severance pay after retiring from Wisconsin's largest producer of canned cheese.

Miriam and Chuck stood outside of Mann's Chinese Theatre at eleven p m. They were normally in bed at this time of night, but this trip was a once in a lifetime experience. They had mapped out their itinerary and needed to cram everything in three weeks. They had given themselves this timeframe because after this they were never stepping foot out of Wisconsin again.

The flashes from their cameras lit up the street. They wanted to capture everything for prosperity and to fill up the two dozen photo albums they had purchased at a wholesale outlet store, which Miriam had insisted would come in handy one day [This included 20 boxes of chocolate flavored cereal, a 10 pound drum of sliced peaches and a pair of his and hers matching tombstones for a reasonable price.]. As they perused the sidewalk for stars of past entertainment shows they noticed a young, somewhat handsome man appear, seemingly out of thin air.

The man wore a pair of ill-fitting jeans, a tee-shirt exclaiming his love for beer drinking and farting and an over-sized Kiss Me I'm Irish button.

He staggered over to the couple wildly searching the area around him. This was probably one of the many meth-addicted, failed Hollywood hopefuls that wizened the boulevard at night like amped-up vampires seeking out-of-towners to rob, rape and pillage. Miriam and Chuck had heard about these people from their neighbor Mrs. Pennymore, who had been to California years before with her church choir and had come back with many stories to tell, although it was common knowledge she had a vivid imagination and was prone to believing anything she saw on the Late Late Show.

"Where am I?" The man said as he lurched toward the elderly couple.

"Well, young man," said Chuck who was never going to let raping, drug-crazed vampires ruin his penchant for talking to anyone who would listen, "You're in front of Mann's Famous Chinese Restaurant."

"What? Mann's? I'm in Hollywood!?"

"Well yes sir," exclaimed Chuck.

The man looked around him then turned his sights upward to the sky and yelled, "Argggh! I can't believe you did this! Can't you bastards do anything right!"

"Well, I know it can be disappointing," said Miriam trying to help, "but a lot of famous landmarks seem smaller in person."

"What?" snapped the man.

"We've been all over the country and I can tell you first hand that a lot of things you read about in the travel books are much smaller in person than you actually think they will be."

The man looked her with a potent combination of confusion and contempt, so she decided to help out a little more. "Like the St. Louis Arch; it looked like it would engulf the night sky in all the photos, but it's really not that big once you get up close to it."

"You can take an elevator straight to the top," said Chuck.

"Well not straight up," corrected Miriam.

"Well, no. It's an arch; you go sorta in a curvy up," said Chuck, adding to his previous statement.

"Huh?" moaned the man.

"Oh the Grand Canyon was magnificent though," remembered Miriam.

"Well yeah," said Chuck, "It's a big hole in the ground."

"But it was a great big hole nevertheless."

"I admit the Grand Canyon was special, but we were trying to tell this guy about places that seemed bigger in pictures, the Grand Canyon didn't seem bigger in pictures, it was pretty big in real life too."

The man stared at the couple with disbelief that any two people who had lived for as long they had could be kept amused by arguing over the size of historic landmarks.

"The first Continental Congress in Philadelphia was a lot smaller than I thought it was," beamed Miriam.

"And the Statue of Liberty was tiny!" said Chuck trying to one-up his wife.

"Oh you know what I liked?" questioned Miriam not wasting a moment to wait for a response, "Mount Rushmore."

"Mount Rushmore was pretty big, Miriam."

"Yes, but it still could have been bigger."

"That's true. Amazing though. How they got all of them faces into that rock I'll never know."

"It's a wonder of natural science," thought Miriam aloud, "Have you ever been to Mount Rushmore young man?"

The man was suddenly jolted back into reality by the query that was presented to him. He had been dazed by the uninteresting game of verbal ping-pong being played by the retirees. "Uh, what state is that in?"

"South Dakota," offered Chuck.

"I think it was North Dakota," corrected Miriam.

"Well it was one of the Dakota's anyway."

"Yes, I think that's true. Have you ever been?"

Uh, no, "said the man, "I don't get that far east."

"It's a shame!" declared Miriam, "Really a wonderful piece of art, they've also got the largest ball of twine about 10 miles away too; you should really see that if you want to be impressed."

"I can't!" yelled the man trying to stop the conversation before it want any further. "I have things to do! Important things! I've got to get out of here!"

"Where do you need to go that's so important at 11 o'clock at night?" questioned Miriam who had raised four children and knew that nothing but trouble happened after 10 PM. 9 PM was cutting it close.

"I've got to save the world!" said the man

"Oh well, that's a big job," said Miriam who had also been a third grade teacher for 35 years.

"Which way is downtown?"

"I think it's that way," said Chuck pointing in a helpful but non-distinct direction.

"Give him the map Chuck." Miriam pried it out of husband's grip, "Here, take this."

"But I need the map to-" Chuck looked at his wife and saw the face that had made him cave a thousand times before. A face that Miriam would swear saved their marriage by keeping him in his place. "Here." He reluctantly handed over the map.

"Thank you," said the man as he took the map and walked off down the street. Miriam and Chuck watched him until he was out of view and went back to the Winnebago to try to find a grocery store parking lot to park and sleep for the night. Preferably somewhere in the suburbs.

The map was dropped in the nearest trashcan when it was safe to say that Miriam and Chuck could longer see the gift they had bestowed. "All right," said Barnaby, "If this is Hollywood, downtown L.A. must be this way."

He started down the road and began to whistle. He looked around him and could for the first time feel the gentle Santa Anna winds blowing through his hair and the smell of urine that lined the streets. He noticed how unattractive hookers were and wondered why anyone would pay money to get some from that.

He mused to himself as he headed over the horizon toward the City of Angels "I think if it all works out, I'm going to have a pretty good day," with that, he walked back over to the trashcan and collected the map.

*****

5 DAYS BEFORE THE BIRTH

Dana Plough groggily made her way down to the kitchen to fix herself a cup of coffee. She found that 4:30 am comes around a lot earlier when you're abruptly kicked in the gut every twenty-five minutes. 4:30 am on five hours of oft-interrupted sleep and all you get as a pick-me-up is decaffeinated coffee and a shot of vodka is not at all a pleasant way to greet the day.

She made her way past the 13 Insurance Agents who were exactly where she left them when she went to be bed last night. They were still standing at attention and were perhaps a tad bit uglier than they had been five hours ago. If such a thing was at all possible.

Dana Plough walked into the kitchen and was startled at the sight of a twelve-course breakfast laid out in fine china and bake ware on the table. There were eggs, in poached, fried and scrambled varieties, French toast, pancakes, freshly-squeezed orange juice and at least seven different assortments of fried meats. She carefully scanned the items, scratched her head and headed back into the living room.

She went up to the first Insurance Agent in line and assumed he was their leader and would speak for them since he had the #1 emblazoned on his tee shirt. She poked him in the chest with her finger almost breaking it on his freakishly hard muscles. "Ow!" she tried to muffle her scream of pain as best she could. When you're trying to lay down the law, getting an owie doesn't help one's tough gal image. "Who did this?" she barked with a stare that would cause small woodland creatures to burst into flames.

"Who did what, Ma'am?" questioned Insurance Agent #1.

"Who cooked in my kitchen?"

"Is that a bad thing, Ma'am?" asked Insurance Agent #1.

"Yes it is. It is a very bad thing."

"May I ask why?" said #1, reluctantly taking on the spokesman role for the group since Dana Plough was directing all her rage at him.

"Because I've lived here for four years and have never used the stove for anything other than as a shelf to hold the Chinese take-out I eat once a week. I want to sell this place one day at a profit and you're ruining it with the use of major appliances"

"Ma'am, if I may?" Insurance Agent #11 raised his hand, cautiously trying to shield as much of his 350 pound frame as he could away from the raging woman.

"WHAT IS IT?!" Words really can't kill, but a slightly hung-over nine-month pregnant woman with no sleep and a serious caffeine jonesing certainly could.

"Well," stammered #11, "a home does not depreciate in value because of how often an appliance is used."

"But it was never used; I could sell it off as brand new."

"No, you couldn't," #11 was, for all of his furiousness, really a rather mild-mannered and thoughtful sort who had often thought if he hadn't been a Minion of Satan he probably would have been quite happy as a Realtor. "An appliance, even if never used, is only new for two years or until the warranty expires; your stove's warranty expired after three years, so therefore-"

"Shut up! If I wanted a lesson in home décor from the Martha Stewart of the Freaking Underworld I would have written you a very nice fan letter and shoved it straight up your ass!"

"I was merely stating-"

"I don't care what you were merely stating, you sniveling pile of- oh never mind! Who did this?"

#8 tentatively raised his hand, though he sure as hell didn't want to be yelled at. "I did."

She paced in front of him, stopped abruptly and spun around on a dime coming face to stomach with her secret chef. "All I want in the morning is a cup of coffee; can you make me a cup of coffee?" she spoke silently and clearly, her words cutting the air like a knife.

"I did."

"Decaf?"

"No, Ma'am."

"That's all I can drink."

"No Ma'am. I have found a special bean from the highest hills of the Perija mountains in Venezuela that is as strong as the coffee you crave but acts like a decaffeinate, causing no harm to the child."

"You mean?-"

"I think you'll enjoy it."

Dana Plough ran into the kitchen and poured herself a steaming cup of piping hot coffee. As she sipped on the heavenly brew and looked at her large protectors, the ones with magical beans, Dana Plough's small heart grew three sizes that day. "I think we're all going to get along marvelously!" she exclaimed as they all smiled at the sight of her beaming face.

*****

It had been a long night for Barnaby and an even longer 6 mile walk to downtown Los Angeles. He journeyed amidst the catcalls and various objects, including, beer cans, rocks and red sequined panties that were hurled in his direction. It occurred to him somewhere along mile three that someone should have done a little more research on the latest fashion trends of the time and region. And maybe not so tight fighting.

Capri pants and "humorous" novelty tee were causing quite a stir amongst the gawking locals. Whatever neighborhood he was in, he seemed to be either the most popular [West Hollywood seemed to particularly enjoy the tight pants.] or the most ostracized [Outside _The Pain Stick_ pool house and biker bar.] person on the street.

It was six in the morning and L.A. was starting to bustle with activity. Soon the shops would open and Barnaby could finally buy himself something a little less ostentatious. Barnaby was beginning to almost like Los Angeles. He eventually had the sidewalks all to himself, as everyone in the town drove everywhere, and not well. This was probably why he was always ushering so many heart-attack victims in L.A. to the other side.

He walked along Melrose Avenue, perusing the different men's clothing shops until he found one that would give him an acceptable look for both the everyday wear and tear of the city and for battling in a pre-Apocalyptic war between Good and Evil.

Le Chic Monsieur catered to all types of men in all different lifestyles, or so the sign said, and Barnaby was definitely a different man in a different lifestyle. He opened the doors and felt the cool recycled air smack his face, which was nice since he had just come from the hot recycled air of man-made pollutants outside.

He walked through the maze of suits for business and those items intended to give the flavor of a person who spent his entire life in a gym, but were mostly a fashion statement for overweight B-movie producers and rap stars, both with an unquenchable taste for gold chains.

A petite young woman dressed in a black miniskirt, black lace top and three long red scarves tied in her hair, on her arm and draped across her neck sashayed over to Barnaby and scanned him from head to foot. She turned her face into something like that someone whose job it was to inspect meat that been left out in the sun for a week.

"Hi, my name is Candy. May I help you?" she said with a combination of over-zealous bubbliness and a malicious hint of ' _please get out of here before I call the cops, you're probably homeless, penniless and/or most unimportantly, just utterly unfashionable_ '.

"Yes," said Barnaby ignoring her snideness because he knew what he looked like and he knew if had seen him he would have acted the same way. "I want to buy some new clothes."

"I should say so."

"I know, I know, I look ridiculous."

"Not if you're a thirteen girl living in a trailer park." Cady had graduated with honors in Sarcastic Belittlement.

Barnaby let out a chuckle that defined the self-knowledge of what he looked like with a twinge of shut the hell up. The salesgirl had obviously spent her entire twenty-two years on the planet reading a wide-range of glamour magazines and not much else. She was a person who could tell you what brand of moisturizer **Donatella Versace** used, but had no clue who the current President of the United States was.

Barnaby needed the former rather than the latter, so he allowed her to dress him in whatever fashion she found was appropriate for his skin tone and body shape. Deep down inside Barnaby found this a bit arousing, which he couldn't understand, but he felt he now knew the meaning of ' _a girl good for a night not for a lifetime._ '

He had spent nearly two hours trying on clothing from all over the world by all the top designers of the day with price tags that would make even the most ardently spendthrift trophy wife choke. He purchased shoes from Spain, suits from Italy, belts made of alligators and hats of wombat fur.

Money was of no object, since the only thing Death had gotten right when sending him to Earth as a human was giving him an unlimited cash supply. Every time he would open his wallet a lush green forest of newly minted bills filled the leather case. They may have put him in the clothes of a bad seventies sitcom's wacky neighbor cast-off, but they put him in the Bill Gates fiscal percentile.

Barnaby would attentively stand when prompted to examine the new him in the mirror, while a crowd of salesgirls gathered around to examine Candy's charity case turned Fashionista. They beamed from ear to ear and none of them seemed to possess the strength to hold still as they jumped and flailed and waved their arms frantically in the air as if they were on a never-ending roller coaster. Every so often they would huddle up and whisper and giggle while peeking up to see if Barnaby was listening, then plunged back down to their knot to plan their next strategy.

Finally when Barnaby's fast-track-to-a-new-look express had exhausted the interest of the salesgirls he stood for once last look-over by his Dr. Frankensteins' of Fashion. Their knowing nods and smiles told him that he would be taken seriously in the world and would avoid being thwacked by beer cans, at least in most neighborhoods.

"I think he looks great!' exclaimed Babs L.

"Fabulous!" declared Ramona.

"I just adore what you've done with layering!" squealed Babs M.

"I call it; 'From Drabulous-to-Fabulous!'" said Candy. She lacked any original thought of her own, having heard the statement on a popular television program a few weeks back and had incorporated the phrase into her own vocabulary.

"Well," said Barnaby, watching his admiration for what Candy could do with colors and stripes grow as he spun around flashing his best runway look. "I can't thank you enough for this."

"Don't thank me," Candy blushed. "Okay! Do thank me!" squealed an extremely proud Candy, throwing her arms emphatically in the air and twirling with glee.

Barnaby waved good-bye to the young ladies who stood giggling as their vogue-lacking patient-turned-walking style icon exited through Le Chic Monsieur doors carrying ten shopping bags full of the days most fashionable and expensive clothing items, as the girls dreamed of all the things they would buy with their commission.

*****

Ye Olde Crazy Lodi's Arms Emporium was located on a one-way dead-end street in East Anaheim, California. The building was small and rundown, and the facade of brink and mortar was crumbling, making it seem as if it would be more at home in East Baghdad.

Jeremiah doubled checked the address on the business card and apprehensively opened the door and walked inside. He climbed the three flights and knocked three times on a door. An old sign next to it, written presumably very long ago: "Y O de Crazy -Od ' Arms Empori "

"One more please," came a voice coming over an intercom above the door.

"Excuse me?" said Jeremiah staring at the contraption.

"Knock one more time please."

"What?"

"You have to knock four times in order for me to open the door."

"But you already know I'm here."

"Listen, rules are rules; if I bent them for you the world would be total chaos."

"The world is already in total chaos!" Jeremiah said trying to justify his knocking.

"Listen, I would appreciate you knocking one more time."

"Why?"

"Please! I tried to be nice about it! Would it kill you to obey the rule and just knock once more?" screamed the voice so loudly it shook the wall that held the intercom system.

Jeremiah knocked a fourth time, allowing the person inside to grant him entrance. Jeremiah stepped through the door revealing a spacious warehouse with row after row of towering aisles filled with a potpourri of every weapon ever known to man and some that never should.

The room resembled a sprawling metropolis of steel industrial-strength shelves that reached a hundred feet in the air, casting shadows from the track lighting that hung overhead like a florescent star cluster.

Crazy Lodi's was a contradiction of everything the laws of physics had held to be long believed self-truth. Outside it was quaint little building, inside it opened up to the expanse of a small town. Jeremiah could have sworn that down one of the aisles he thought he saw a post office and town mercantile.

In the middle of one of the rows there sat a desk with a man waving his hand ushering him over. The man sitting behind the desk was a tangled mess of solvency, his hair laid across his shoulders, matted down under a heavy mixture of oil, grease and sweat, revealing a face that only a mother could love [A mother who had left soon after the birth and had come back years later deaf, dumb and blind and in the worst case of self-denial the American Psychiatric Association had ever witnessed.].

The man swiveled the stub of his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other showcasing a smile of blackened teeth from behind his stubbly chin.

He wore a filthy wife-beater t-shirt, which would have been considered filthier if the man and the shirt weren't in a combined camouflage of stains and unsettling dankness. There were piles of magazines sitting on the desk with varied titles using some combination of Juggs, Buns and a loose definition of Legal.

"Hi, I'm looking for Crazy Lodi," said Jeremiah, clearing his throat and trying not to stare at what might be a haphazardly shaven Sasquatch staring at him behind a cloud of cigar smoke.

"Ain't here, my friend," said the man, switching the cigar to his hand and scratching his head as the cigar ashes fell into the tangled nest of hair he was using as an unwitting ashtray.

"Will he be back soon?"

"'Fraid not."

"Will he be back later?" Jeremiah liked people, he liked talking to people, and he just wasn't sure what he was speaking to was all human.

"Not later either"

"This is, uh, Crazy Lodi's Arms Emporium, right?"

"Yep."

"But he's, uh not coming back soon?"

"Nope. In fact not ever."

"Ever?"

"Not ever."

"No?"

"Never ever."

"Never ever?"

"Dead." Shrugged the slovenly made man.

"Dead?"

"Yep."

"But-how long has he, uh-?" Jeremiah's heart sank. He had come this far to fail because of a dead man.

"Oh god, let me think," Jeremiah thought he could in point of fact see the cogs in the man's brain actually spinning as he pondered the question, "about, uh, two-hundred years or so, I guess."

"Two-hundred years?"

"Give or take a couple, yeah."

"Oh," said Jeremiah in a confused despondency.

"I'm Earl," said the man not skipping a beat in the conversation.

"Oh, Earl." Jeremiah's head curved toward the ground looking at the tops of his loafers.

"You gotta name, friend?"

" Jeremiah?" thinking his side of the discussion was over.

"Nice to meet you, Jeremiah." Earl stuck out a meaty hand to shake. "You from England, right?" Jeremiah took the greasy palm and clasped it. Earl was big man with a tight grip; he held Jeremiah's hand like he was a kid on a three-day sugar rush clinging on to his last precious Milky Way bar.

"Right."

Earl liked talking to people almost as much as Jeremiah, but when you're six-feet of solid muscle and look like you're the offspring of an orangutan and an oil spill, people don't always like talking to you. "Good people in England. I was there oh, about 10 years ago, couldn't be a nicer group people. Real down-to-earth. Class acts all the way."

"Yes."

"Don't look so down friend. No use cryin' over spilt milk or dead milk."

"No, I guess not, it was just that I was hoping-"

"You look like a man who needs to do a little shopping," said Earl standing up and walking from behind the desk.

"Yes?"

Earl beamed the showiest grin anyone with mouth half full of teeth ever grinned. "Then let's do some shopping!"

"Okay!"

The two men walked through the maze of weapons that glistened and gleaned from their high perches. Earl was a master mechanic who had spent every waking hour of his life trying to invent the perfect weapon.

A noble cause if the effort wasn't intended for the whole doomsday device part. He had a swagger about him, mostly because his knuckles almost touched the floor when he walked, giving his body a natural swing, but he also knew he was good- Oppenheimer good.

"So, whatcha huntin'? Vampires? Werewolves? Mutant Zombies? We got a real good shipment the other day of Zombie Blasters. These babies' are Nitro-tipped arrows that'll cut through those mothers like a hot knife through butter."

"No, not exactly."

"What then?" he said quizzically.

"Baby." Jeremiah said sheepishly.

"You're huntin' babies? For sport?"

"No, not for sport!" Jeremiah was enraged by the idea, but back tracked his exchange in his head and reflected that he should have prefaced the whole baby thing with an adverb of some kind; "Devil Child."

"Devil Child? So you're lookin' at demon possession in--"

"No."

"No?"

"Not demon child. Devil child.

"You mean THE Devil's child?"

"Yep."

"Oh gawd."

"My thoughts exactly."

*****

Dana Plough skipped out to her waiting car reinvigorated; whatever those Venezuelans did to decaffeinate coffee while injecting them with what could only be described as blood-filling pleasure jolts, was a wonderful feat of humankind and should be awarded with a medal. She hadn't had a morning this good or invigorating in nine months.

For the first time she could hear the birds chirping and the children playing, and even better neither one annoyed her [as they usually did]. Manuel stood by the car watching the figure that used to be his rigid, temperamental boss who had in all likely hood been body-snatched by alien invaders, come wistfully gliding down the driveway towards him. He opened the door and Dana Plough floated in and lay back on the leather seats on a caffeine rich high.

"Thank you Manuel."

"Excuse me ma'am?" questioned Manuel.

"I said thank you. Is that so terribly strange?"

"Well-"

"I know, I know," said Dana Plough her eyes drifting around her skull as if her brain were watching a tennis match on the moon, "I know I don't say thank you enough to you."

"It's not that ma'am."

"Then what is it Manuel?"

"You called me Manuel."

"Well, that's your name isn't it?"

"It is."

"Well then, Manuel, thank you so very much."

Manuel shut the door and walked around the car to the driver's side. He looked in the house and made out thirteen very large men standing at the window watching him with the attentiveness of a pack of lions watching a three-legged gazelle stuck in a mud hole. He quickly climbed in the car and sped off keeping an eye on the house in his rearview mirror.

Manuel had spent thirty-two years as a professional driver and in that lifetime he had driven some of the most successful people in the modern world. From politicians to actors to singers to heads of industry and State, and the one thing they all had in common was that each and every one of them had been, at some point or another, in some varying degree of a drug-induced haze.

The high that was coming from the backseat of his car was something he had never witnessed before and he'd driven Keith Richards in his heyday. Dana Plough's body was slouched over and her head rested against the car window, her mind somewhere in the clouds.

She marveled at the sights she had passed each day on her way to work through a newfound child-like proclivity. She commented on everything she saw with a rambling nonlinear narration that would trail off whenever something shiny or large or both caught her eye and took her attention into a different direction.

The car pulled up at the GNAN studios where Juliet was waiting impatiently for her to arrive. She paced back and forth, tapping her clipboard with her false fingernails while muttering to herself under her breath. Juliet could act like this until she opened the car door. Then it was back to indentured submissiveness.

Beside her stood Henry Angler, a fresh-faced recent college graduate from Yale University, who had been assigned by GNAN against his and his Senator daddy's wishes to be the assistant for Dana Plough's assistant. Henry wasn't over-privileged, sniveling little pissant. He was THE over-privileged, sniveling little pissant.

The morning had not gone well for Juliet, first she had been stuck with this abhorrent, little Ivy League snot that had been grandfathered in, and second Mr. Bidwell had stopped by the office an hour after her boss was supposed to be at work. She used all the skills she had learned at Lambda Sigma Delta [Except the ones that were related to keg-stands. Those only helped at office keggers.] to lie to the company's CEO, who had become more and more impatient with every passing tick of the clock. He even had the audacity to notice Juliet's deficiency of people skills and her utter lack of the art of deceit [She was extremely good at keg-stands.].

Juliet opened the car door and was met by a beaming Dana Plough who jumped out of the car and hugged her tightly. As Juliet sensitively pulled herself away from the grasp of her boss's bear hug she gave a furtive glance to Manuel who looked back at her and shrugged.

Juliet wondered if all these months of drinking straight vodka by the gallon had finally taken its toll on the woman. A woman had been a pillar of rock-steadiness in times of crises. She motioned to Henry to help Dana Plough inside and back up to her office to sober up.

"Get her some coffee or something." She pointedly said at Henry.

"Oh no, I am never going to drink coffee again. Am I Marco?"

"I guess not Ma'am." It appeared to Manuel that the Venezuelan coffee high was finally wearing off and the days of " _Manuel the sexy, sexy driver man_ " were gone and he would return to being plain old Marco.

"Well, get her some Vodka then!" she scowled in Henry's direction.

"I don't think she should, I mean, she's pregnant." Said Henry, who hadn't been on the job long enough to know of Dana Plough's propensity for DWP's [Drinking While Pregnant].

"I don't care what you think. Get the woman some alcohol!"

This kind of impudence would have never had happened at Yale, thought Henry, where he was well respected by his peers, a leader of men, and thought of as somewhat of a Renaissance man by the other members of his class.

This was, of course a self-delusion; he was a nauseating little turd whom nobody liked or spoke to hardly at all in his six years at school. This could have been rectified if they had known his grandfather and father were very powerful men and could have them all killed with one phone call. If he could only have told his fellow classmates this while they were dunking his head into a toilet.

He took Dana Plough's arm and draped it over his shoulders as he led her inside, muttering to himself under his breath about his new boss, whose boss he was carrying.

*****

"Is that a recliner with a helicopter propeller and two sidewinder missiles attached to it?" said Jeremiah pointing to a recliner with a helicopter propeller and two sidewinder missiles attached to it.

"A marvel of modern machinery ain't she?" said Earl radiating with pride. "That, my friend, is the Earlinator Mach Two."

"How is different than the Mach One?"

"The Mach One went and got blowed up," said Earl shaking his head in the remembrance of what he considered his greatest invention to date, "But you don't want that."

"Why not?"

"Well, the Mach Two ain't for enclosed spaces where there might be lots of civilian casualties. It's an outdoorsy kind of toy. I assume that you'll be battlin' mainly in hospitals and playschools and what not. What with your target being a child and all."

"Good thinking."

"That's what I get I paid for." They both paused for a moment to reflect on that particular piece of wisdom, "Well, I actually get paid for making stuff to kill people with, but I gotta think of em to build em."

"Gotcha."

"What you want is your basic up close and personal combat-issued weaponry. I assume that the Powers of Darkness you'll be engaging is well edjumacated in hand to hand combat?"

"I would assume so. Yes."

"You see where you're at the advantage is that you- um- well-"

"Where I'm at the advantage-?"

"I'm thinkin'- You got anyone with you?"

"Uh, no."

"You're planning on taking on the Dark Overlord of the Underworld and thirteen of his most ferocious minions on all by your lonesome."

"No. Of course not." Jeremiah gave a chuckle of hesitant shame. "Don't be silly."

"Who you got?"

"Well--"

"You ain't got nobody, do you?"

"Well-"

"The book clearly states you need thirteen to go up against his thirteen."

"I know. I guess I just didn't think that far ahead." Jeremiah tried to whitewash over the fact he had sort of leapt into the whole saving the world from the forces of evil a little on the unprepared side.

"Didn't think that far ahead!? Didn't think that far ahead!? What you need to do is set aside some personal reflection time for yourself and start thinking that far ahead buddy," Earl seemed to begin to get red under the pounds of grease in his face.

"Well, there's got to be others who know about this. You know about this. I assumed that-"

"Don't assume. You have to get out there and find others."

"I know."

"Well don't just stand there. Get out there and find them!"

"But I haven't finished my shopping."

"'But I haven't finished my shopping'," mocked Earl who nailed Jeremiah's nasally inflected voice to a tee. Which was an impressive feat by a man whose drawl would make the denizens of the swamps of backwoods Louisiana seem downright regal." Leave the rest to me."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome! Now go!"

*****

"Well," bemused Henry, coming out of Dana Plough's office, and shutting the door gently behind him "I gave her two glasses of Vodka and seems to be settling down now."

"Great," said Juliet slinking back in her chair, "Hopefully that will get her through her meeting with Mr. Bidwell."

"If it's not too much trouble, I'd like to sit in on the meeting with Ms. Plough and Mr. Bidwell."

"It is too much trouble. I don't get to sit in the meetings, so I'm damn well sure my assistant doesn't get to sit in." her words shot out like cannon balls at the very thought

"Yeah, about _me_ being _your_ assistant."

"Listen, college boy," she said rising from her chair and pointing her finger, backing Henry off. "I've worked too damn long and too damn hard to let some little pipsqueak, who should have started his illustrious career in the mailroom, but because his Daddy has money and power he gets to be my assistant, leap over me in this office."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry I said anything." whimpered Henry cowering.

"Good," she huffed sitting back down.

As the two assistants were having a small face-off Mr. Bidwell appeared as if out of nowhere.

"Good Morning Sir," said Juliet lunging to greet him.

"I take it that she's in?" Bidwell said, as if to no one [as far as speaking with subordinates, there was no one there].

"Yes sir."

"Sir," said Henry straightening himself up and extending his hand, "May I just say that it is an absolute honor to meet you."

"And you are?" slurred Mr. Bidwell with disdain as if had just watched Henry eaten his beloved cat Mrs. Pussywinkle MacNamara.

"Er, Henry Angler, sir," he said trying to recover from Bidwell's general lack of interest of who he was, "I'm Mike Angler's-."

"Ah yes, Senator Angler's boy. I had heard you'd joined us in my little company."

"Yes Sir."

"I like your father very much." As if he didn't.

"And he likes you very much." As if he didn't.

"Well I should think so, he wouldn't be a United States Senator if it wasn't for me now would he?" Statements and facts were crucial in the world of news and politics, and Mr. Bidwell knew how to manipulate both.

"I don't think, I- um- I-"

"Don't think boy. Know."

"Yes sir."

"Oh well, I owe him too I guess, I wouldn't have my second jet if it wasn't for him," Mr. Bidwell slapped him on the back and turned to Juliet who had a huge grin stretched across her face, "I'm going in now."

"Yes sir."

As Mr. Bidwell exited the room and into Dana Plough's office Henry let out his best primal huff and stamped his foot on the floor. He slunk down into a chair and covered his face with his suit jacket and pouted. Juliet walked over to hi, put her arm around him and gently caressed his hair. "You see," she said, "You may have money, but you don't have a clue how to use it."

"But-" said Henry looking up at her with puppy dog eyes.

"And that's why you're _my_ assistant." She stood up and slapped him in the back of head with the full force of her palm, "And now I have to get back to work."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he said, ceding his position in the food chain.

"Yeah, here's seven bucks. Go get me a cup of coffee."

*****

Barnaby sat on a park bench beside a little old woman clutching her purse. He had told her that he wasn't going to rob her but that only seemed to make her clutch it tighter. He scanned the newspaper to find anything that would help him find out who the mother of Satan's child was, but he was coming up empty.

There were a lot of events that would send conspiracy theorists rushing to their blogs to tell the world that the world was finally coming to an end, but to the trained eye, the countless untold deaths were all in a day's work. Finding a needle in a haystack was easier than sorting through the pages L.A. Times looking for the antichrist. He looked up to the sky, the sun was directly overhead. Barnaby was sweating, something he had never done.

"How do you people stay cool?"

"I swear I'll cut you!" glared the little old woman.

"I was only-"

"I swear I'll do it!"

"Okay."

"I have a knife."

"I said okay."

"You're a sweet young man."

"And you're obviously bipolar."

The two went back to sitting in silence with Barnaby now keeping a careful watch on his tormentor. He threw the paper down on the seat next to him and wiped the sweat from his brow. He felt his mouth getting dry and it was getting increasingly harder to swallow.

He thought about asking the old woman for advice on how to remedy his problem, but feared the cold hard steel of a switchblade piercing his innards. She didn't look fast but anyone with a grip like the one she had on her purse was bound to have hidden strengths.

A tall man walked by wearing a sandwich board and ringing a bell. "The world is coming to an end! The world is coming to an end!" he shouted as he ferociously rang his bell in honor of the upcoming horror.

"He says that every day you know," said the old woman sweetly leaning over to Barnaby.

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yes. I've been coming to this park for the past fifteen years and he's always here, rain or shine. Ringing his little bell and yelling about the Apocalypse. I think that if the world was truly going to end, it would have happened by now, don't you?"

"I think he may be on to something this time."

"I think I should have cut you when I had the chance." The old woman jolted from her seat and stared a hole in Barnaby the size of a small planet. She started to leave when she spun back on her heels and spit in Barnaby's face. After she'd felt that her message was well received she spun back around and walked off down the park.

Barnaby took out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and gingerly wiped the saliva from his forehead. When he was sure the woman was out of sight or at least a safe enough distance that he could get a running head start he yelled a few choice words in her general direction.

The woman, who was a mere dot on the horizon, stopped and turned around. Barnaby grabbed the newspaper and ran off down the park in the opposite direction keeping a look over his shoulder in case he was being hunted by the knife-wielding granny.

As he walked through the park he heard a ringing coming from the only working public telephone in the state of California. He stopped, puzzled, and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Oh hello Barnaby," said The Death from the other end of the phone.

"This isn't working out."

"Oh I think it's going swimmingly. Did you see that woman hock a loogie at you? Brilliant."

"Yes, and I'm not sure if that's what I'm supposed to be doing here. Am I supposed to be getting spit on by geriatric grandmas? Besides I think there was oatmeal in that spit." Barnaby started to gag a little at the thought.

"It's all part of being human."

"I don't think it is." Barnaby knew what he was talking about; he had been human for almost a full half day. "But anyway, I thought I was sent here for a purpose. Can't you give me a hint of who this woman is?"

"I can't, I'm sorry; I don't even know who she is."

"But you must have some idea." Barnaby was nearly ready to sobbing into the phone.

"There are rumors she is in the entertainment field."

"This is L.A. Everyone is in the entertainment field."

"Everyone?" [Well not everyone, Mr. Macon Leitner of 1312 Upper Kaifionn Boulevard is a milkman. He has had no other aspirations in his life other than being a milkman. He is looked down upon by the rest of L.A.].

The Death took almost everything literally and was flabbergasted by exaggeration, as he took everything to mean exactly what was being said. This tendency had been devastating to the people of the ancient Incan city of Ingapirca, where a young teenager in 1422 declared to his friends while sitting around with nothing to do; that " _This village is so dead_!"

"Well, not everybody," said Barnaby.

"Listen Barnaby, I picked you for this assignment because you're the best we've got."

"And I thank you for the confidence." At least somebody noticed.

"No. I'm just pulling your chain," The Death said chuckling, "I can't believe you fell for that. I mean, they talk about me being gullible, but oh man! Wow!"

The Death continued to laugh and Barnaby hung up the phone.

"Rotten Son of a--!" Barnaby kicked the booth and slammed the receiver down over and over again. He had finally pulled himself together when the phone rang again.

"Hello?" said Barnaby.

"I can still hear you when you're not on the phone you know."

"Oh yeah. Sorry about that."

The Death hung up and Barnaby whimpered to himself. He surveyed the land to decide which way to go and spotted a sign saying 2 Miles to Hospital. It was as good a lead as any, he figured to himself that pregnant ladies, especially ones who are only a few days from their due date, probably go in for regular check-ups.

It was as good a lead as any, so Barnaby took off his jacket, showing off the sweat-stained $300 shirt he had purchased two hours before and started off towards the hospital.

*****

Mr. Bidwell was standing staring at a picture of Dana Plough and himself at the company's Christmas party she had hung on the wall.

"I don't remember taking this picture at all," he said shaking his head, "but of course I had to take so many pictures with so many people at that party."

Mr. Bidwell had a charming way of demeaning anyone. He was English. Dana Plough wished for once he'd recognize her and all of her efforts to make the world, and more importantly his company, a better place.

"Well, you're an extremely busy man." agreed Dana Plough echoing his sentiments.

"That much is true." He ran his finger along the top of the picture frame and studied the dust that had accumulated over the past few months.

"I really have to talk to the janitors, sir."

He gave a slight little chuckle and rubbed his fingers together to discard the dirt.

"Yes. Now Dana, I didn't come in here to give you a white glove inspection."

"That's good."

"No, I'm here to talk to you about your future." It's never a good thing when the words ' _Your Future'_ are spoken by someone higher up than you in the corporate food chain.

"My future?"

"More specifically, your future with my company." He said tapping his finger on the wall, seemingly to find out if it was sturdy.

"I didn't know there was any unhappiness in my work."

"Oh dear, don't be silly. We all here at GNAN are very happy with your work."

"Well, that's a load off my mind."

"We are though a bit unhappy with your current, oh what should we call it- situation." The word situation was well-drawn out to a lingering 15 syllables.

Dana Plough knew deep down this day was coming. She worked for a family business and being an unwed mother didn't necessarily fit into the company's family-friendly image.

"I'm not talking about that," he said pointing to her belly.

"Oh."

"I didn't mean that. It is a living human being inside you and we all here at GNAN are very pleased that you are about to give the planet another GNAN viewer. There are weaker women out there who wouldn't have done what you did. Then come to work and show it off for the whole world to see. I admire you Dana and I want you have everything you deserve."

"What do I deserve?" Was a question she knew didn't want answered.

"I'm assuming you're going to take a little time off after the baby is born?"

"I think it's safe to say that."

"Well, when you decide to come back I believe there may be a prime-time slot for you and your show. What do you think about that?"

"You're serious."

"I'm always serious when it comes to my company."

"I don't what to say."

"Say yes." A statement made more in demand than a request.

"Yes, of course, yes."

The excitement of finally getting her coveted prime-time spot blinded Dana Plough to the fact that once the baby was born there wouldn't be a prime time to come to work for.

But this wasn't the time to look to the actual future, it was time to look to the future that would have been. And that future was coming up roses.

"I don't know how to thank you," said Dana Plough reaching into her desk and pulling out a bottle of Poka Vsyo. "Can I offer you drink to seal the deal?"

"Well it's ten o'clock in the morning. Yes."

"Fantastic!"

She poured two glasses of vodka and handed one to her boss. They clinked glasses and downed the sweet confection. For once Dana Plough had found someone who didn't frown upon a pregnant woman drinking.

"Another?"

"No thank you. I'm afraid one is my limit." As he watched Dana Plough pour herself another while downing the unfiltered spirit in one fell swoop, he earned a greater admiration for his employee. It wasn't many people who could drink that much straight alcohol, especially this early in the morning. And to do it while pregnant, well that was something else. "Well, I have to be getting on my way now. Thank you again for the drink. It was an insightful conversation and I can't wait until we're seeing you where you belong. You earned it. You're a great asset to this company, you keep up all the hard work you've been putting in and you're going to go a long way at this station."

"Thank you again Mr. Bidwell, I believe in this company and I always do my best."

"I know you do," he said on his way out the door, "and remember we're all only as good as we are at this moment."

Juliet gently crept into the office after the company's CEO had exited half expecting to see the face of an inconsolably sobbing woman packing up her belongings, or an extremely drunk woman passed out on the floor in the midst of clearing out her desk.

She did find a drunken woman, but she wasn't packing or upset, rather she was smiling ear to ear, twirling in her chair and patting her stomach.

"I take it the meeting with Mr. Bidwell went well?"

"I think it did. You are looking at the next 8-10pm star on GNAN!"

"Oh my god!" yelled Juliet jumping up and down.

"God had absolutely nothing to with it."

"Excuse me ma'am"

"Juliet come inside and shut the door. Can I trust you to keep a secret?"

Juliet made her way guardedly into the office and closed the door behind her. "Of course you can ma'am. You know I would never betray our trust." Dana Plough poured a glass of vodka and handed it Juliet. "I don't think I should--"

"Juliet trust me, after what I'm about to tell you, you're going to need a lot more of these."

*****

Henry was standing in line at a local coffee shop, picking up refreshments for that afternoon's meeting. He resented being a gofer, but after being whittled down to a toothpick by Mr. Bidwell and Juliet collectively, he sucked up his unearned pride and did his job. He stood impatiently grinding his teeth and wringing the list of assorted coffee that were wildly pretentious in their unapologetic attempt at being really pretentious.

12 double halfcaf soy Café Lattes

10 double espresso non-fat skinny Café Macchiato

7 Breve Espresso Con Panna with a shot of Amaretto

4 Café Americano with two creams and three sugars

He swore under his breath about the knocked up woman he'd been saddled to like a severed horse's head tied to the ankle of a marked man in the mob. He knew he was better than this job [although no one else knew that] and he would be damned if he was going to let a bunch of people much more powerful than himself hold him down.

GNAN was going to pay for placing him with Dana Plough, a woman of supposed moral values who allowed herself get in 'the family way' by getting smashed and doing some strapping, well-endowed Indiana farm boy in the coatroom. A man who had supposedly wandered in to the party looking for directions to West Hollywood where he was going to make a fresh start acting in gay porn movies [This was a rumor spread amongst the secretaries at the steno pool].

A man behind him tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Excuse me sir."

Henry turned around to see a man in a disheveled state of mental anguish staring at him.

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation," said the man.

"What conversation?"

"The one you were having with yourself." said the man.

"I didn't say any of that out loud."

"No, of course you didn't. But anyway, about that conversation?" Getting the train back on track is much more difficult than derailing it.

"What?"

"I was just wondering if there was any chance you were talking or rather thinking about the host of _Plowing Through with Dana Plough_?"

"It's Plowing Ahead."

"Oh yes, right, sorry. Was it by any chance?"

"Yes. I'm her assistant or at least one of them."

"Very nice for you, getting to work with a big American television star." He chirped. "It must be fascinating work?"

"Yeah, it's a blast." Henry said rolling his eyes. "Listen I have a lot of work to do and-- Well I don't really want to talk with you. You understand?"

"Of course."

Henry turned back to his demeaning assignment and placed his order to the young girl behind the counter who was flustered by the volume of the order. It would turn out, once he had taken the order back and meted them out to their respected drinkers, she would have completely screwed up the order. This would result in all blame being placed on Henry for giving the order to a totally inept sixteen year old who was trying her best to save up for a used car and college tuition.

"One more question if I may?" asked the man behind him, gently tapping him on the shoulder.

Henry turned his attention back to the man standing behind him, "What is it?"

"I was just wondering if one of those is for Ms. Plough?"

"Why? Are you from the tabloids trying to dig up dirt on what a poor, innocent and caring true American patriot, who is just trying to make the world a better place? A woman who fights for everything we as a country hold dear. Does she spike her coffee with pure grain alcohol? I'm not saying. So why don't you stop with the inquisition and leave her alone. Are these the types of questions you paparazzi jerks are digging for?" Henry's wobbly finger was getting uncomfortably close to the inquisitors face, but it was better than where was Henry's shoe was going to be if he kept this line of, what he thought was innocent questioning up.

"I didn't actually follow any of that, but I'm going to say to no. I'm just curious, neither as a pinko nor a fascist, to know whether or not she's in the office today?"

"No she's not in the office she's at the ob/gyn." He said with disdain that the inane dialogue was continuing.

"Ah, and that's Dr--?"

"Arneau. He has an office in the Medical center off of Wilshire." Henry's face became a web of tangled confusion. "Why did I just tell you that?"

"People tell me things. I'm a people person." The man smiled.

"No, you're really not."

The man thought about this for a moment. "That's true."

He turned to leave the coffee shop but stopped and turned back to Henry and whispered in his ear. "You should spit in their coffee for all the torment and belittlement they put you through. And on your first day at the new job to boot. Besides your daddy is a very powerful person and you really shouldn't be held in contempt by people who are lower than you on the social scale. Television people! Really!?!"

Henry took the order and looked at the steaming cups of Java meant for the low-life pseudo-celebrities who pushed him around just like all the other people he had encountered throughout his life. Petty, jealous, envious people who deserved to get their precious coffees full of spit, and if he was feeling exceedingly motivated, maybe something even more disgusting.

The stranger exited into the bright Los Angeles sun outside the coffee shop with a smile and spring in his step. His day was getting better, he had found out where Dana Plough was and he'd given a gentle nudge to a young man down the pathway to eternal damnation. 'A very good day indeed', said Jeremiah to himself.

*****

Actor Jonathan Frakes sat in the hotel restaurant eating a small meal of fruit and fried eggs as a pick-me-up before his second day signing autographs at the Seattle Science Fiction Convention and Go Cart Rally. Beside him lay the copy of _The Last Days vol. XII_ he had been given the day before.

The leather binding was frayed and the pages were yellow and crumbling under the touch of his fingers. As he skimmed through page after page of what was an extremely and exceedingly poorly written novella in old English and Aramaic about a war between forces of Good and Evil involving two teams of thirteen combatants in a bloody battle to either save or destroy the world.

He didn't enjoy it as a piece of fiction; most of the scenes were, it seemed to be, thrown together in a random fashion with too many self editing marks crossed over in red ink, as if the author had changed his mind several times about who or what the book was supposed to be about.

He did find one thing he liked; he was in it. And was a major player on the side of good. Even though at the end of the book he was left in a substantial pool of his own blood, he did enjoy the way in which the author captured his obvious heroic features.

*****

Barnaby stared at the large board of names in the lobby of the medical center. Doctors and patients whizzed past him as he tried to decipher the different specialists with the floor they worked on. He didn't know who he was looking for, but he figured he'd know it when he saw it. He studied the board with an intensity usually reserved for people with major heart conditions coaching their child's pee-wee football team, while eating a foot-long roast beef grinder.

He noticed an attractive young woman wearing scrubs walking through the lobby and ran over to her. "Excuse me miss?"

"Yes," said Ketty.

"Could you tell me where babies are made?"

"I think you're a little old to not know that."

"Ha-ha. Could you point me in the direction of where babies are made?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Barnaby knew that babies were created and born and lived through a serious of unfulfilled life events that they would want to share with him when they eventually died. It seemed all quite natural and insignificant in the small scope, he just wasn't aware there was a big scope.

"Um- well-," Barnaby clamored on, trying to come up with some sort of definition that would explain to the young woman that he wanted to find which floor and which room the mother of the antichrist was without seeming too crazy.

"Do you want babies who are already born or babies who are about to be?" Ketty had run into numerous first-time fathers before and they all acted like babbling children having just been hit with the idea that there was no Santa Clause and now needed to get to the North Pole to find out if this was actually true.

"I need babies who will be born in the next five days."

"So you want pre-natal. That's on the thirteenth floor. They call it the fourteenth, but everyone knows it's the thirteenth. I think they just don't want all the babies being born under some outdated sense of evilness."

"Evil babies are exactly what I'm looking for. Thirteen you say? Thank you."

"Wait, wait," she said lightly taking his arm. She determined it was probably best for him not to wandering the hospital unattended "Let me show you the way; I'm on my way up there any way."

"Thank you."

"I'm Ketty by the way."

"Kitty? Like the meow-meow cat?"

"No, not like the meow-meow cat." Her pupils pinpointing into two little black gun barrels. "It's Ketty; don't ever call me kitty unless you want your arms broken."

The elevator doors closed and Ketty pushed the button for the Fourteenth floor. She looked at Barnaby and decided he was cute and it was too bad he was going up to the pre-natal ward. "So," she said turning to him, "is your wife due soon?"

"I don't have a wife."

"Girlfriend?"

"No."

"Who are you visiting?"

"I don't really know." He said, scratching the back of head.

"You don't know? You just randomly stop by hospitals to check to see whose being born?"

"Today? Yes."

"Why is it all the cute ones are crazy?"

"I'm not crazy." Even Barnaby had a hard time believing that.

"No, you're just a normal average man who hangs around expectant mothers hoping to get a glimpse of who's giving birth that week."

"As I said; Today, yes." He knew it sounded crazy, but damn if he was going to stray from his deer in the headlights way of communicating.

"And you're not crazy?"

"No. And you did you say you thought I was cute?"

"Until the whole crazy thing happened."

"Listen, I'm looking for one particular woman giving birth to one particular child." He was starting to remember why he avoided speaking to humans during his job.

"But you have no idea who the mother or the baby is?"

"I know who the baby is."

"Who?"

There were some things humans were not supposed to know. For instance; when the world was going to end and if the world wasn't going to end, what was being done to insure that of happening. Barnaby didn't want to get into a discussion about what he was doing there because humans didn't believe anything that was actually true in the universe [Like a pig's ability to fly. They do it after everyone has gone to bed, under starless skies and really have a great deal of fun with it]. Plus she thought he was cute.

"Never mind, it's not important."

"Oh come on, try me. I'm not your average orderly; I have a sixth sense about things."

"Like what?"

"Like- I know you're visiting from out of town."

"How- how did you know that?"

"Your shampoo, its standard issue hotel shampoo. I collect it- okay, steal it from hotels." She hated when people judged, even if they weren't,"Hey, I don't make a lot of money; sue me."

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Barnaby hustled out onto the floor and searched the halls with his eyes.

"Really, who are you looking for?"

"The antichrist." He yelled over his shoulder, knowing that it wasn't the topic he wanted to breech. So he did what any normal person would do; he took off down the hall in a flash. He darted in and out of hallways, stopping to peak into rooms that may hold Dana Plough, whom he didn't know he was looking for.

"The antichrist?! Really?" Ketty huffed and after a second or two of watching the manic man hustle between rooms scaring women into false labor, she took off down the other hallway to start her second job emptying catheters.

*****

Dana Plough paced nervously around a much too cramped exam room wearing a revealing dressing gown. Satan sat in a chair in the corner and smiled as his eyes darted back and forth, watching her bounce around the room like a super ball shot out of a cannon. She tried to keep the large slit in the back from showing her ever-widening ass. As she tugged and pulled on the thin material Satan gave out a knowing little chuckle.

"You think this is funny?"

"A little, yes."

"They don't make these things for normal people, let alone one's who are big as freaking Shamu."

"Oh you're not that big."

"Really?"

"No. You're really quite big."

Dana Plough grabbed the nearest object within her reach and it them at the father. The object happened to be a bag of cotton balls and even if she hadn't thrown and hit one of the most powerful beings in the known Universe, it wouldn't have hurt any way. This made him laugh even harder.

"Oh will you shut up!"

"I will if you stop throwing dangerous objects at my head."

She gave him a look that would have given the devil himself the willies, and he being the devil himself, knew it was probably best to keep his thoughts, and chuckles to himself.

"Where is the damn doctor anyway? I've been waiting here in this ridiculous thing for almost an hour."

"Be patient, he'll be here soon."

"It's real easy to be patient from where you're sitting, isn't it? You're not the one lugging around a ten pound bowling ball in your stomach, pressing against your bladder. Your little job was pretty easy wasn't it? Wham bam thank you ma'am and you're on your merry little way. Well listen to me buddy, I don't care who you are outside of my presence, but when you're around me I'm in charge, get it?"

Satan buried his head in his chest not wanting to make eye contact with the hurricane that was Dana Plough. He had spent years searching for the woman to give birth to his child and Dana Plough was the perfect vessel for the job. He just had never anticipated the impertinent wrath of a woman who was getting stronger willed every day that the child was inside of her. Women, it occurred to him, were a major force in making any man feel ashamed of having a penis.

"Yes dear." He gave a quick glance up to see if she was looking at him. She was, so he hung his head again.

Dr. Arneau opened the door and glided into the room. He had a strut of a man who was quite aware that he was voted one of the nation's top five gynecologists by the American Medical Association for eleven straight years. He was a vision straight out of a soap opera; tall, tanned and handsome with a cleft chin and deep blue eyes. He was well into his fifties, but could have easily passed for thirty if it wasn't for the salt and pepper hair he proudly spent hours a day coifing in the various mirrors he would pass by [most of them on purpose].

"How are we doing Dana?" he said, his head buried in the chart he was carrying.

"I'm doing well, Dr. Arneau. It's so good to see you again," her voice quivered and hands shook at the sight of the Adonis in the white lab coat.

"Ahem," Satan cleared his throat trying to get the woman he impregnated to stop fawning over the doofus with a stethoscope.

"Oh hello," said the doctor turning his attention to the man in the chair, "Are we finally getting to meet the father of this lovely woman's baby."

"Oh Doctor," she swooned.

"Yes, I am the father," staring at Dana Plough.

"Ah, I'm guessing by your accent you're French?"

"Yes," said the Devil, "Damien Lefervre."

"I have a little French in me on my father's side of the family, of course, not as much as Ms. Plough has." Dr. Arneau gave a wink and a smile, Dana Plough let out a girlish giggle, turned flushed and swooned again. Satan groaned.

"Now Dana- and David was it?"

"Damien." Corrected Satan.

"Ah like the movie."

"Yes, like the movie."

"Very good. I have the latest ultrasound results and the baby is looking great. Two little arms, two little hooves..."

"What?" gasped Dana Plough and Satan simultaneously.

"Professional joke. Sorry. Most people don't it take it that seriously."

"No, it's just I didn't think you could see-- you know--" Dana was trying to cover, rather badly.

"Darling," said Satan trying to stop her from making the mistake of not only taking the joke too seriously but also telling the doctor that it wasn't a joke, "She's been a bit edgy these past few days."

"All perfectly normal. Are you doing the exercises we talked about?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"And are we helping her father?"

"I've got many good men on it around the clock."

"Good?" This puzzled Dr. Arneau; he'd seen absentee fathers before, but he had never heard of someone so unwilling to help with the pregnancy that he would hire an entire team to do his work for him.

"Let's see, according to your estimated due date, the baby is due in 4 days. Well, that's exciting." After over 25 years in the baby business Dr. Arneau still enjoyed the work. "Always nice to see a new little face come forth into the world."

All of a sudden there was a high-pitched squeal that came echoing from outside in the hallway.

*****

"AHHHHHHHHHHH!" screamed Barnaby as he came barreling down the hallway at full speed, colliding into Ketty.

"Oh it's you again," she said brushing herself off and checking to see if she was still in possession of all her teeth. "Find what you were looking for?"

"No, no, no, no, no," babbled Barnaby, the color had left his face replaced with a look of absolute horror.

"What's wrong?"

"I just- I just-I, um-"

"You just what?"

White as a ghost, he found the words to muster, "Found out where babies come from."

"And you didn't before." She laughed.

"I thought I-- I had only assumed-- Oh, it was so horrible-- There was this lady and she was lying on-- and her legs were spread-- and a head was coming out-- oh god the head-- and it was so-- so horrible!" his voice cried with the pleads of a quick death.

Ketty slapped him hard across the face; she had seen this work to calm hysterical women in the movies and figured it would do the same for hysterical men in the real world. "Now just settle down."

"How can I possibly settle down after what I've seen? It was slimy. So, so very slimy"

"I swear I'll hit you again if you don't pull yourself together. It's a beautiful and natural part of human existence, a wonderful treasure to be cherished, not to scream bloody murder about around the halls of hospital like a frightened little child."

"It's just--" he began.

She raised her opened palm again to show him she meant business.

"Alright. I'm calm."

"So, I take it you found what you were looking for?"

"No. I didn't find what I was looking for, thank you very much. I told you I was looking for one specific woman, not anyone with a birth canal able to pop out a-- a...--whatever the hell that thing was."

There were footsteps tapping down the hall and a recognizable voice with them. Barnaby leapt to his feet and grabbed Ketty, hurling their bodies precariously through the air, landing them behind the reception desk.

"I told you everything was okay," said Satan purveying the hallway. "All that shrieking was probably some woman going through the joys of labor."

"If that's the joys of labor, I'm definitely getting a cesarean."

"Anything you want, as long as we get him out of you."

"You're so romantic."

Barnaby peered just above the desk as he watched Dana Plough and Satan get on the elevator. After the doors had closed he stood up and turned to Ketty only to be met with a more vicious slap than the one to calm him before.

"Ouch! What was that for?" he said rubbing his cheek.

"You have to be kidding me! You just threw me onto the ground, you jerk."

"It was for your own good."

"Oh yeah? How was bruising my ass good for me?"

"Okay, I just got carried away. It was good for me. I couldn't let that guy see me."
"Why not? He isn't a bookie and you're so desperate for cash to pay him back that you're wandering the maternity ward looking to kidnap babies to sell them on the black market?" said Ketty in a tone that suggested she'd run into that problem before. "Because if that's your game, so help me next time it's a closed fist!"

Barnaby backed off from the ball of pent up rage that was brandishing a small but powerful fist just inches from his face. He had never experienced pain before today and now he had felt it twice in a three minute span. He decided he had experienced this particular slice of the human disposition enough for one lifetime.

He massaged his jaw, which was swelling up, and decided that he needed help. Since he had obviously formed a bond with this woman he opted to give her understanding a shot. Even if it might result in another shellacking.

"Will you listen to me for a minute?" he pleaded.

"I'm listening."

"There's no easy way to tell you what I'm about to tell you."

"Well, you better think of a way of telling me pretty damn fast. Because I'm about ten seconds from calling the cops and having your ass thrown in the deepest, darkest prison cell specially made for creeps and perverts like you."

"Okay." He started to give the truth a shot, "Did you see that guy walking by us?"

"Before you threw me to ground?'

"Get over it will you? Did you see him or not?"

"Fine. Yes I saw him. Very handsome. What has he got to do with you?"

"What I'm going to tell you is to be taken in the highest of secrecy. I don't want you to scream over what I'm going to tell you next."

"I promise." Ketty was ready for a big story about how Barnaby was a covert secret agent and the guy they were hiding from was a former soviet arms dealer who was wanted for all sorts of dastardly and misbegotten deeds. She imagined Barnaby had chased the man for years all over the world to finally track him to Los Angeles, where a major arms was about to go down and Barnaby was going to ask for her help in securing the world's safety.

"He's the Devil."

Ketty took a moment to digest the information she had been given. Then burst out into uproarious laughter.

"I'm serious." He contended.

"I was wrong. You're not a pervert; you're crazy!" Her eyes glazed over with the thought she was this close to going along with some harebrained spy story.

"He is-- I swear he is."

"I'm going back to work. I would say it was a pleasure meeting you," she gave Barnaby a small shake of her head and rolled her eyes, "but you know how it is."

"Wait please. I can prove it."

"Oh yeah? This should be interesting?"

"I work for Death."

"Death?"

"You know tall, skinny guy wears a lot of black, carries a scythe. Well, not anymore. He's pretty much delegated all his work to us and now he mainly just sits around watching 'Days of Our Lives' and making unimaginative lawn gnomes to sell at local flea markets. But, I do work for him, you have to believe me!"

"I do believe you. It's fascinating!"

"Really?"

"No" sarcasm was lost on some people "Now I'm going back to work; I can't afford to lose this job. I have rent due next week. Do you know what it's like scraping by, working two jobs for no pay? Well, of course you do, you work for death!"

"I don't get paid."

"Well bully for you!" She reckoned working with children and the dying elderly was easier than talking to Barnaby.

"No, you gotta believe me, I need your help! I don't know anything about the human race except when they die."

The phone rang and a nurse behind the desk, who had been struggling coyly not to show the two arguing that she was eavesdropping, although even if they had seen her they wouldn't have blinked at being caught, answered the phone.

"Are you Barnaby?"

"What?" He said as he was jolted back to reality "Yes?"

"Phone call."

She held out the phone at a distance where she could have easily reached him if she put any effort into it, but made him walk over to her to get it.

"Hello?"

"Hello Barnaby, how's it going?" asked The Death.

"Oh hi-- Wait! Just a minute!" Barnaby ran over to the departing Ketty and grabbed her by the arm and led her over to the desk and handed her the phone.

"What are you doing?" she said as she jerked her arm away from him.

"Just talk to him!"

"Who is it?" She said waving the phone above her head.

"The Death."

"Hello?" she said into the receiver, "I think you're doing a bang up job, I haven't seen any zombies walking around the hospital in years. Everyone is dying right on schedule. Keep up the good work! Bye."

She hung up the phone and headed down the hall. Barnaby stared at the phone; no one had ever hung up on The Death before. He was sure there must be some special place in Hell that people with those kinds of balls were sent. The phone rang again.

That was probably him again, Barnaby thought to himself. He reached for the phone but paused when he thought that perhaps The Death would blame him for the hang up. People may go to a special place in Hell, but Barnaby knew happened to Deaths who pissed off their boss. He decided that playing it dumb was his best bet and took off down the hall after Ketty.

*****

Insurance Agent #3 was busy vacuuming the living room while Agent #12 cleaned the tub and toilet in the master bathroom. The Insurance Agents were having a blast doing household chores. #5 had found a radio and after a few hours of head-scratching and banging very violently on the sides, with the help from #10 and #4 they got it working.

As the party sounds of the 80's wafted through the house the thirteen masters of destruction and chaos from the deepest reaches of Hell danced and scrubbed the entire house into a shining example of what someone could do with a little elbow grease and Culture Club beats dancing in their heads.

#1 had turned out to be a master chef and was preparing everything that he saw on a cable food channel. #9 had mastered the skill of minor household appliance repair and was enjoying the task of taking apart and putting back together everything from the toaster to the dishwasher. #2 sat and worked for 4 straight hours putting together a quarter of a 100 piece puzzle he found tucked away in the back of drawer. The other Agents encouraged him to keep trying to finish it as they realized #2 was a few humps short of a camel.

*****

The Death sat in his office holding the phone to his ear, waiting for someone to pick up. Finally a nurse answered the other end and told him that Barnaby had left and she couldn't find him. When he tried to delve deeper into the subject the nurse told him that the phone was for official Medical Center use and if he wanted to talk to his friend he should try him on his cell phone.

"Did we give Barnaby a, um--" he looked down at the paper in front of him, "a cell phone?"

"No I don't think we did," said DANZ & C>500TP, "I could check, though, if you want me to. But I believe all we gave him was a nice pair of clothes and cute little novelty button."

"No matter. I'm sure he was in a rush and that's why he hung up on me. Or at least I hope that's why he did it."

"I think you should have given the assignment to someone a tad bit more reliable."

"Like who?"

"I don't know-- maybe me?" she said coyly.

"Ach! Das ist es sollte I gewesen sein dumm!" said The Death of Germany, Austria and Arnold Schwarzenegger Fan Club Members.

"Oh yeah right, send the least people-person death ever to wear a cowl. This takes tack." She scoffed.

"Bien, entonces debe haber sido yo," said the Death of Mexico, Guatemala and El Salvador.

The entire room burst into unforced spontaneous laughter.

"Odio cada uno de ustedes!" screamed DMGES as he stomped out of the room in a huff.

"Oh come on now," said The Death trying to ease DMGES feelings, "We didn't mean anything, please come back. We're really sorry. Aren't we?"

"Yes," said DANZ & C>500TP.

"Ja," said DGAandASFC.

The Death of Mexico, Guatemala and El Salvador shuffled back into the room, his head bowed in full sulking mode. He could really pout with the best of them.

"Now," said The Death, "This is Barnaby's job and I don't want to hear any more about it. What we need to do is help him with whatever he is doing."

"But we don't know what he's doing. He won't pick up the phone."

The Death rubbed his bony fingers together, leaned back in his chair and calmly said with the slightest bit of menace, "That's where we get creative."

*****

Barnaby tracked down Ketty mopping up what he hoped was water, but after everything he'd witnessed today he wasn't going to ask. He walked stealthily over to her and gently tapped her on the shoulder. Hoping her instincts for violence wouldn't kick in and wouldn't spin around and smack him.

"I thought I told you to leave me alone." She said, glancing up for a split second.

"I need your help." He pleaded.

"But you're death, what could you possibly need me do?" Barnaby hated sarcasm, it was it his major pet peeve with the entire race.

"Oh, just come with me."

He took her by the hand and led her to the elevator. As they stepped onto the elevator and the doors closed, the adjacent elevator opened up and Jeremiah walked out. He made his way over to the reception desk and coughed politely to get the nurse's attention.

"May I help you?"

"Yes, I'm looking for Dana Plough"

"I'm sorry, she just left."

"Oh," said Jeremiah dejected in a way usually reserved for prisoners who had just finished their last meal and knew in their hearts they should ordered the kung pow chicken. "Can you tell me where she went?"

"She probably went home."

"Could you tell me where that is?"

"I'm sorry, that's privileged information. If you want an autograph or picture you can sometimes see her on the GNAN tour."

"Right. Okay thank you."

"You're welcome."

Jeremiah left the hospital and headed back to his hotel. He was looking forward to taking a tour of a major American television studio, but it would have to wait until tomorrow. Besides, he hadn't eaten all day and there was bound to be some good pubs around. He could really use a pint, a sandwich and some good, down-home spun stories to lift his spirits.

*****

Dana Plough and Satan weren't talking and it made the ride back home very uncomfortable for Manuel. Dana Plough had never been one for stimulating conversation; she found it beneath her to carry on any dialogue longer than a brief chat about the weather with anyone from the working class. The working man was a group she fought hard for on the air and had earned her many awards for her loving and caring nature [All successful people say they fight for the little guy when in public. When in private they bathe in tubs of Crystale while dining on beluga caviar off the breasts of three-thousand dollar a night hookers].

Manuel turned the radio on to see if that would liven up the mood in the car.

"Please Marco, could you turn that off; I have a headache."

"Sorry ma'am."

"I really don't know why you're upset. It was only a joke," said Satan nonchalantly.

"You set Dr. Arneau's office on fire!" she scowled.

"They put it out." He shrugged, knowing very well the gesture probably just made things worse.

"I'm not talking to you right now, is that clear? Now Marco, would you be a dear and pull into the next burger joint, we really need something to eat."

"I'm not hungry," offered Satan.

"We are." She looked at him with the displeasure usually reserved for the worker behind the counter of the DMV, after waiting in line for 2 hours only to have them go on their lunch break when it's your turn. "The baby and me."

Manuel pulled up to a talking cow's head outside a fast food restaurant called _The Moo Meat_. It was a very popular place in the Valley to 'eat all your favorite 'bovine delectables', as a very annoying ad campaign had suggested through all types of media. It featured a character called Moo-reen the Cow who apparently was a cannibal, or its cow equivalent, who craved thick juicy hamburgers and would perform a variety of death-defying stunts for the local cattle rancher and his family while they were outside trying to enjoy a family picnic.

"Give me two double Holstein burgers with extra slaughterhouse sauce, a side of French fried hooves, a small cola and a chocolate cow pie," she shouted into the disembodied cow head.

"Your total comes to eleven dollars and twenty two cents. Please drive around to the front," a squeaky-voice said from the head, jumping an octave in either direction with each syllable.

Manuel paid for the meal out of his own wallet, because it seemed that neither of his passengers had any cash on them and they were very embarrassed by the whole ordeal.

*****

Barnaby raced up and down the third floor of _The Richard M. Nixon Memorial Medical Center and Cocktail Lounge,_ dragging Ketty behind him. They walked like most people run in sand. They searched room after room, throwing doors open exposing anyone in a Jonnie and a face full of shame to the world.

"What are you looking for exactly?" questioned Ketty.

"Someone who is going to die soon."

"Oh well, that. Good luck finding anyone here that fits that description. What with this being a hospital and all."

"I've had just about enough out of you."

"That's funny, I being the one who's been kidnapped and dragged around this place by force. But you've had enough from me. Well, I guess I should go and leave you alone."

"Wait." Barnaby stopped abruptly and paused for a second. He turned on a dime, grabbed her arm and led her in the other direction.

"What is it?"

"You'll see." He smiled, now he was going to show her how he worked. Old school style.

They stopped by the room of Mr. Harold Lupus, age fifty-two. He had been admitted into the center for routine minor surgery [i.e. nip and tuck] and was resting comfortably in his bed. He was being attended to by Evelyn Krauss, a cherubic, button-faced nurse with enough energy to power a small sun for a few hundred millenniums.

Nurse Krauss had just changed the bandages on Mr. Lupus,' um, wounds, and was pouring him a glass of water when a strange man and an orderly came bursting into the room.

"May I help you?"

"No," said Barnaby.

"What are we doing in here? This is just a typical run of the mill eye tuck and botox case," Ketty asked him. She tried to avoid the plastic surgery wing of the hospital. People who'll do anything to themselves in the name of self-distorting beauty creeped her out.

"No it isn't; I had my appendix removed," fibbed Mr. Lupus.

"Your appendix is in your belly; why do you have bandages on your face?"

"That's quite enough. Mr. Lupus needs his rest from whatever kind of operation he did or didn't have." Nurse Krauss beamed with a smile that was reassuring and at the same time eerily chilling. She had the disposition of a three-legged elephant trapped inside a hamster wheel.

"I'm sorry," said Ketty, "We were just going, weren't we?"

"Listen, this man is going to die in forty five seconds," said Barnaby.

"I am?" It's never good to be the last guy in the room to know something. Especially if that thing is that you're about to die.

"No you're not, don't be silly," reassured Nurse Krauss, "this man is clearly delusional."

"You can say that again!" echoed Ketty

"Thirty seconds," said Barnaby staring intently at his watch.

"I can't believe I'm going to die!"

"You're not going to die!" yelled both women at the same time.

"Twenty seconds, wait for it."

"I knew I should have gone to Mexico to have this done. Frank from accounting said they take great care of you down there. A-one service, don't let people just up and die."

Every eye in the room watched Mr. Lupus with scientist's regard. He was a lab rat in Barnaby's maze, and everyone was wondering if it could get to cheese before its body collapsed under the weight of the cancer-testing tumors killed it.

Mr. Lupus was merely a vain man wandering through a self-conceited country. He needed to be told he was handsome, not because he wasn't, but because others opinions was the only way he could judge himself. And now he scared that he was going to die. Not because he was scared of death, but because the scars hadn't time to heal yet.

"Repeat after me:" said Nurse Krauss, "you're not going to--"

"Three, two, one." Barnaby tapped his watch, "Huh that's odd, he really should have--"

Beep-- Beep-- Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep wailed the heart monitor.

"There we go!" said a proud and slightly confused at the fact he was 3 seconds off Barnaby.

As the heart monitor flat-lined Nurse Krauss found herself caring less for poor Mr. Lupus, whose only sin was vanity and perhaps not heeding the advice of his colleague about going to Mexico, than with the seemingly remarkable precision with which this other guy had predicted his demise. As the sound of the monitor buzzed through the room Nurse Krauss snapped out from her daze and called for assistance to help revive her patient.

As a crack team of doctors and nurses working on Mr. Lupus tried everything in their power to grant him another chance at life and a 15% discount off his next choice of cosmetic surgery, a light formed inside the room, unseen by everyone except Mr. Lupus and Barnaby.

"It's no use," said Barnaby to a stunned Ketty, "It's his time to go."

"But how?"

"I told you, I work for Death. You just didn't want to believe me."

*****

Mr. Lupus sat up in his bed, or rather the spirit of Lupus sat up; the body of Mr. Lupus was having its chest cracked opened while thousands of volts of electricity surged through his heart.

He was being rudely ignored by everyone in the room except for the guy who just earlier had been scolded for telling him he was going to die. The light that was a mere a dot seconds ago grew to fill up a good section of the space around him and a hooded figure in black appeared from it.

"Well, I guess this it?" said Mr. Lupus, disheartened by the knowledge he had just spent all the money he put away for the last seventh months had gone to waste. "I suppose I should have used the money to take my wife on that cruise."

"She did tell you not to come home again if you did this." Said the hooded voice of the woman standing next to him.

"I guess she gets the last laugh."

"Especially since she filed a huge life insurance policy on you the other day."

"She did? Well that's just like her, always thinking only of herself."

Mr. Lupus exited into the light and The Death of Australia, New Zealand and Countries with a Population less than 500 gave a knowing wave to Barnaby as she followed him through.

*****

"I don't understand anything of what's happening anymore." Ketty said confused at the transaction she just witnessed as she left Mr. Lupus' room.

She found a chair in the hall and dropped in, hitting the pleather with a resounding thud. She sat nearly motionless for a minute except for the odd shake of her head or the movement of her lips as she replayed the events over and over in her head. Suddenly she sat up from her crumbled state. She had the answer to what had just happened.

"It was magic! It was magic, wasn't it? I mean, no one could possibly have known that guy was going to die; this is probably some sort of prank they pull on the orderlies. They're probably all in there having a good laugh over my stupidity."

"There's a little too much blood in there for this to be much of a prank," said Barnaby trying to offer a bit of help.

"But you can't be death, I mean that's ridiculous. I mean, come on, your just some weird guy who latched onto me—"she realized what she had just said "Why did you latch onto me?"

"You helped me get to the thirteenth floor." He offered.

"Well, that's the last time I do anything nice for anyone."

"And you slapped me."

"So this is some sort of bizarre version of revenge?"

"I wouldn't say that." He didn't think it was bizarre at all. There were much stranger revenge stories peppered throughout history.

Her head now firmly affixed to her palms, Barnaby thought he heard a chuckle coming behind the hands. "See, you're laughing, I knew you'd get over it."

"I'm crying you jerk."

She leapt from her chair and started landing a series of right and left uppercuts to his body. The fury of fists pounded Barnaby in the chest and shoulders. He grabbed her hands and held her body tight against his.

It wasn't a comforting, ' _put your head on my shoulder, everything's going to all right'_ type of hug, more of a ' _I've really been hit by you more than enough today and am holding you to catch a break from your continued pummeling of my soft, bruised body'_ type of hug.

"Let me get this straight," she said pulling herself away from his arms and retrieving out a handkerchief to dry her eyes. "You're--? You are--?" she said trying to grasp the right words, which was hard with all the other words and images fluttering around her brain like a butterfly convention in a hurricane. "This isn't supposed to happen to normal people. This isn't supposed to happen at all in fact."

"Come on, let me take you out and buy an alcoholic beverage of some sort."

"I can't. It's ten o'clock at night and I have to teach school in the morning."

"Don't worry about that, you're not going to work tomorrow."

"I'm not?

"No, don't be silly," he said, placing a calming hand on her shoulder, "you'll be too busy saving the world."

*****

A tornado wearing a custom-tailored Gucci suit came tearing into the house and ran up the stairs yelling profanities that no honorable servant of Hell should ever hear. This vocabulary was usually reserved when torturing former Nazi Gestapo officers, and even then should be chided for not being able to come up with a better vocabulary. Satan entered the house with the look of a man who just spent the past seven years being hit with a bamboo pole repeatedly while being yelled at about not picking his dirty socks up off the bedroom floor.

He headed past the Insurance Agents, who had paused from their celebratory dance party to stand at attention and watch their dejected boss shuffle past them. He paused at the bottom of stairs and surveyed the room.

"Did she go up there?"

"Yes sir," said #3.

"Did she seem mad?'

"Yes sir."

"Should I go up there?"

"I wouldn't sir," stated #2, "She seemed really mad."

"Yes, I believe we just covered her mood, thank you."

#11 nudged #2 with an elbow. The other Agents had been surprised to see #2, since he had locked himself in a trance for the past seven and half hours still trying to finish putting together the edge pieces of his puzzle, to no avail.

"You could stay here with us," offered #5.

"Yes, we are listening to popular music of the Nineteen Hundred and Eighties that keep your feet a rockin' and your boots a knockin'. Coming up is Duran Duran, Men Without Hats and the number one hit of Nineteen Eighty- Five," #12 was enthralled with his newfound proficiency of radio bumper interplay.

Satan gave a good, hard look around at the smiling faces of his trained killing machines and their party. If this were High School it would be the type of party all the cool kids were invited to but only a handful of science geeks and band nerds showed up and spent the entire night playing spin the bottle and being too embarrassed to kiss someone of the opposite sex. Instead opting to eat their weight in cheese doodles.

"As nice as that sounds I'm going to go upstairs and face the consequences of my actions."

"Which were--?"

"Three glorious hours of hot, passionate, unbridled lovemaking unequaled and unparalleled in the history of the known universe," he said."Nine months ago." Satan headed up the stairs and paused to turn around and address his minions, "The place looks great by the way."

As the Agents watched him ascend the stairs and head into Dana Plough's bedroom they could hear shouting coming from the room. This didn't faze them one bit for they were all on cloud nine with their boss's compliment and the soft cool voice of Ms. Sheena Easton singing _Morning Train_ wafting through the air.

*****

Beer glasses and a half eaten plate of nachos filled the table at Erwin O'Shea's Sports Bar and Grill. Barnaby and Ketty sat watching a football game between two Southeast college rivals on the giant television screen that took up an entire wall.

"I can't believe you can drink that much," said a rather tipsy Ketty.

"You obviously have never hung out in the Greek God section of Heaven."

"Obviously!" She slouched back in her chair and smiled as she watched Barnaby put back another beer. She was having fun; drunk fun, but fun nonetheless. After all she'd been through in the day's events she needed to have drunk fun.

"So I am-- when I am going to die, mister death man?" laughed Ketty through slurred speech.

"Thursday."

"That's like in-- In? Today's--?" she gave up trying piece together a calendar of previous events through her drunken haze. "That's soon!"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you for the past hour."

"Sorry, mister buzz kill death man. I don't even know your name. Is it Mr. Deathman?"

"No, it isn't Mr. Deathman, although that would be an improvement."

"I'll be the judge of what a good name is or not. Now what is it?"

"Barnaby." He said ashamed of the moniker he'd been saddled with.

"You don't look like a Barnaby. Why do you have a Barnaby name?

"I only got it yesterday."

"Well, it's a stupid name."

"Thank you." His lips pert with the knowledge that this whole getting made fun of because of his name thing wasn't going to end soon.

"I like you, Mr. Barnaby Deathman."

"It's just Barnaby."

"Like Madonna?'

"I don't know what that is."

"Can I ask you a question?" she pointed a trembled finger in what she thought was his general direction. Or at least where one of him was. "Why aren't you drunk? You've had waaaay more than me and I'm smarshed. Smarshed? I mean to mean smashed."

"I don't get drunk."

"Well, la-de-dah for you. You can drive me home then. Can you drive a shift stick car thingy with the wheels and stuff?"

"I can't drive a car."

"Oh, you'll be fine; you seem like a quick learner."

On that note Ketty passed out face down on the table. Barnaby sighed, paid the tab with a forty percent tip [because waitresses rely on tips to earn a decent living and because Barnaby had never tipped before]. He lifted her up and helped maneuver her limp body out to her car.

"How hard can this be?" Barnaby said to himself, trying to figure out where the key went. After a few unsuccessful and bodily shocking attempts to start the car by placing the key in the cigarette lighter Barnaby pulled the collapsed Ketty out of the car, threw her over his shoulder and started towards his hotel. "I wanted to walk anyway."

*****

4 DAYS BEFORE THE BIRTH

"My fellow Americans, I have come to here to speak to you about an unspeakable evil that is among us. A great force of darkness has surrounded us on all sides and is closing in at a furious pace. It is now the time for all the people of the world to stand together and work as one to defeat the enemy at our gates! I have witnessed the acts of these oppressors of goodness first-hand and I know what they can do!

'They will offer you a better life, riches beyond your wildest dreams, and the knowledge of the universe, but do not fall for these slick snake oil salesmen peddling a quick fix to eternal happiness. They are here to destroy us and our way of life. We must fight! We must allow our way of life to survive and to thrive for the generations to follow! Nature says the strong will survive, and I believe, no-- I know, that we as a human race are stronger than any force that may want to harm our delicate balance in the universe.

'When the riders of the black storm come seeking to steal our morals and our rights we will stand and fight. We will rise up against the evil and tyranny that will rain down with great fury in the days to come. We are strong and we will survive. A new dawn has risen and with you this dawn will bring thousands of new days, filling the Earth's sky with the brilliant sun of freedom. So when we leave this room let us leave with the knowledge and ability to persevere over those who wish to destroy us. Vampires are Everywhere! I thank you. And God bless us all!"

The room was silent after the speech by Patricia Van Helsing, the great-great-great-granddaughter of Professor Abraham Van Helsing, the famous vampire hunter of lore. She was gaunt and disheveled with large purple sacks under her eyes. She stood on a handmade dais in the center of the recreation room of the _Jonathan Harker Prison for the Mentally Deranged_ in front of other patients of the asylum.

A doctor in a white lab coat and a patronizingly soothing voice walked over to Patricia and laid a hand on her shoulder.

"It was a very moving Patty."

"Thank you doctor." She said, her eyes fixed firmly on her shuffling feet.

"Why don't we take a walk and have a chat."

"Okay."

The doctor led her out of the day room and into a quiet room at the other end of the floor. He turned to Patricia and smiled, then bent her neck back and with two long fangs ripped into her jugular vein. Her lifeless, blood-drained body collapsed to the floor, and as the doctor exited the room a light formed around the body of the dead vampire slayer.

Patricia's sprit sat up and saw a seven foot skeleton in a robe walk towards her. He pointed to the light and she went without fear or hesitation only pausing briefly.

"So Dr. Panos was a vampire all along?"

"No," said The Death.

"No?"

"No."

"So there's no such thing as vampires? And I've spent my entire life in pursuit of the delusional daydreams in my mind after all?" she said devastated.

"On the contrary, vampires do exist." Said The Death, shaking his head in dismay over what had taken place. "That guy was just deeply disturbed."

*****

Jeremiah showed up at six am and joined up with the other tourists in the lobby of the GNAN building, clutching his ticket in his hand. Half the people waiting for the guide were giddy with anticipation of seeing real-life celebrities, while others were loudly expressing their feelings of despondency that they couldn't get into a taping of a popular game show where they would get the chance to compete for brand new car, but more than likely a lifetime supply of instant oatmeal.

Most tours of the building had guides who were fresh-faced recent college drop-outs with no real outlook for the future except to make a little cash for beer money.

Jeremiah's group got Gus, who was more apt to play the gruff but loveable teamster in the studio's newest ride, _Welcome to National News: Now you too can be demeaned by people you feel are less qualified, but in reality are far better human beings than you will be ever be_.

The tour started on the ground floor and everyone was given an extensive forty-five minute film presentation about GNAN's glorious eight year history and its founder's über-heroic feats of Zelig-like historical inaccuracies.

It fascinated Jeremiah that a man who had built up a multimedia global empire had the time to lead England's conquest of Europe. He was also fascinated that he had the time both attend and act as a surrogate midwife at the birth of a small child in Bethlehem's less savory Stable District.

After the first two and a half hours of exploring everything from the commissary to the walls of cubicles on the first four floors of the building housing the accountants, advertising salespeople, auditors, human resource staff, coordinators and varying degrees of personal assistants whom the group was encouraged to photograph and according to Gus were the backbone of the company [This is true, however they make for a less than awe-inspiring tour] and what they were doing was exhilarating [This is not true either, people who work fourteen hour days for just above the state minimum wage is not exhilarating and makes for a less than awe-inspiring take-your-daughter-to-work day.].

The group was getting the sinking suspicion that the hard earned fifty-five dollars they forked over for the tour was going to waste [This, however, is very true].

They had finally arrived at the bustling center of the corporate hive, the GNAN News Studio. Before Gus could start his rambling _'this is where the magic happens speech'_ , Jeremiah raised his hand.

"If you would all just wait until the end of the tour to pose questions there will be a brief Q&A session and complimentary coffee."

"Yes, but I just wanted to--"

Gus raised a hand. "The end of the tour sir. If you please?"

"Yes sir, but--"

Gus's hand never moved from blocking Jeremiah's face, and if Gus couldn't see you, you weren't asking any questions. "Okay, if you'll follow me, we'll now head down the hall to the make-up room where your favorite correspondents go to look as alive and as un-pasty as humanly possible." He droned as monotonously as possible, while still collecting a paycheck.

Having a polite upper crust British accent helped in some aspects, such as talking small guerilla armies into overthrowing, then erecting, fascist regimes in already war-torn regions. Assisting CEO's of businesses to move their factories to small South Asian countries where they get around child labor laws and pay five cents a month for the manufacture of ill-fitting clothing.

And, on more than one occasion, getting a democratically-elected official to disobey his wedding vows and either have sex with the glamorous starlet or to get what was commonly referred to as a ' _Dorchester Double_ _Dip_ ' under his desk by a naïve and slightly overweight intern. It did not, however, help when trying to get people who were locked into leading a scripted tour, horribly-written by Tammy from publishing, to take time out of their schedules to answer questions.

Jeremiah found an opening to escape and slyly slipped away from the tour as they were ogling over the chair where Pat Robertson had become hazy during a make-up session due to an overabundance of hairspray and mentioned that he like to wear women's clothing while cleaning his garage.

He found Dana Plough's empty office and entered the room; he was rummaging through her file cabinet when he was surprised by a young woman.

"May I help you or should I just call security?" said Juliet.

"What? Oh you scared me." Jeremiah was pretty good at covering his ass. "No, no need to be upset. My name is Walter Mitchell from the London office; I was just looking for Ms. Plough."

"Well Mr. Mitchell, I doubt that Ms. Plough is in that filing cabinet."

There are three simple rules when being caught red handed in bold faced lie; they are:

1: Start with the basics: A good lie needs to have a solid base to build more lies upon the initial one. That lie needs to be able to take on a plausible life its own, with its own history, events and people, who if you could reach them could most definitely collaborate your lie.

2: Never give up, never surrender: Even if being presented with indisputable facts that prove your lie is in truth a lie. Don't be discouraged from berating that person into perhaps rethinking their stand that you are not in fact the Queen of England here on a top secret fact-finding mission on whether or not Canadians are actually hockey-crazed, Molson-swilling, Gay marriage-loving, sock monkeys.

3: If all else fails, RUN: it is a well known fact that most people are lazy and out of shape and will give up chasing you after a few feet.

"Do you know where I can find Ms. Plough?" he questioned in his best authoritarian voice.

"She's not here, she's on maternity leave."

"She had the baby already!"

"No, she's just taking the next few days off to prepare; she needs to rest for the big day."

Juliet had a tone in her voice of someone who was hiding something very big and wanted to tell someone desperately.

"So, she's home."

"Yes, she's home."

"And where does she live again?"

"And who did you say you were again?"

"Walter Mitchell."

"From the London office?" When presented by unknown entities, always ask a lot of questions. It makes you feel important. It also makes you look like you know what you're doing, when in fact you don't.

"Yes."

"Well it's a good thing you came today Mr. Mitchell."

"It is?" Jeremiah was starting to think he may have met his match is the _Pulling the Wool over Someone's Eyes for Your Own Sneaky-Handed Schemes Olympics_.

"Yes, Mr. Bidwell is here and I'm sure he'd love to see you." She said, a wry smile starting to creep across her face.

"Mr. Bidwell?"

"The president of the company."

"Oh, that Mr. Bidwell. How is old Larry?"

"Perry," corrected Juliet.

"Yes, of course- Perry." He was really applying rules #1 and 2 "I just, you know—um--, call him Larry. It's an old-- um-- you know--, an old nickname from--, um-- University?" Juliet didn't correct him, so he went with it, "He doesn't really need to see me now, we just had lunch the other day and he's probably quite busy-- this being his company and all. I'm sure he's-- he'-- oh screw it."

And, then exercising rule #3, Jeremiah took off like a bat out of hell past the glowering Juliet and headed for the elevator. Behind him were three security guards lurching towards him. He pushed the elevator button vigorously until a door finally opened up.

The guards were closing in on him as he furiously hit the button to close the doors. With the guards just feet from catching him the doors closed and started to descend. Jeremiah let out an exasperated sigh and wiped the sweat from his brow.

The elevator opened up at the ground floor and Jeremiah cautiously exited and found that there seemed to no one looking for him. Another tour was about to leave, this one led by a squeaky-voiced teenager named Mandy who bounced up and down with her ample bosom flailing about her body like a rabid Chihuahua on a rollercoaster. This action gave the men in the tour a much-needed reason for why they were there and not out golfing [and their 50 dollars worth].

Jeremiah decided that Dana Plough could wait, seeing that she was still a few days from giving birth, and he could take the tour again. Besides, he hadn't gotten to see the green room where opposing pundits rekindled lost romances by performing an extremely difficult position from a long thought missing page of the Kama Sutra.

*****

The dust whirled and kicked up as a gust of wind rushed through the stables of the Vier Bylae Ranch about two hundred miles southeast of Dire Dawa, Ethiopia in the Ogaden Desert. Onaiwu Iyare stroked and patted the horses; they had been unusually jumpy these past few days.

Onaiwu had taken to sleeping in the stables to keep a keen watch over his trusted wards. For ninety-six generations the Iyare family had been entrusted with the safety and grooming of four horses for a small business named CWF&D Inc.

No one had ever met any representative from the firm but implicit directions for the care and breeding of the horses were carefully laid out and monthly checks to cover all the costs were delivered very promptly.

One white Arabian horse, one black stallion, a red Clydesdale, and a pale Akhal-Teke were to be housed in a black and gold stable separate from all the other horses. When one of the secluded died another pure bred from the same lineage would take its place, the horses were well kept and fed, and above all else to be respected.

This is how it had happened for ninety six generations and Onaiwu was very skilled at keeping the family business humming along with the precision of a Swiss watch.

It was hot and dry and the sun was directly overhead. Ethiopia was a natural oven and the long hours on the ranch made for some unpleasant times around the heaps baking horse manure. The heat was one thing, the smell made for a lifetime of wondering why all your meals tasted a bit like a sick badger.

Onaiwu called for another rancher, his cousin Abebe, a skilled horse whisperer. Adebe headed over to the black and gold stable to give Onaiwu a second opinion on the Clydesdale named Selam.

Selam was big, beautiful and powerful, who until the last few days had been genial and temperate. Recently it had seemed to get more and more temperamental as each hour under the Ethiopian sun slipped by.

"I do not know what is wrong is Selam, cousin. She has become the horse of a warrior and demands to be taken into battle." Worried Onaiwu.

Abebe put his head to hers and closed his eyes. A river of silence echoed through the stable as the man and beast became one thought.

"This is not Selam."

"Of course it is Selam; I was with her all night. I would know my horses anywhere."

"I mean, it is not the Selam we know. She has changed her spirit. She is not what she always was."

"What is she now?"

"War," said Abebe.

The two cousins looked at each other with confused stares. Onaiwu gently brushed the horse's long red mane and it gave a mighty neigh. He peered into its eyes and could see only blackness in what had been the gentlest of horse's soul. He scanned the rest of the stable, his gaze affixing to each horse individually. There had been a change, but it was getting to the full moon and many animals were apt to show a change in personality. This was different.

A clamor came from outside the stables and Onaiwu and Abebe rushed out to see. a helicopter circled overhead and landed a few hundred feet from the entrance to the ranch.

Onaiwu shielded the sun from his eyes with his hand as he watched a man climb out from inside and start towards him. The man was out of place in the African dessert; he wore a very expensive Italian suit made of cloths Onaiwu had never seen before and was carrying a leather briefcase he wore shackled to his wrist by handcuffs. Abebe ran to meet up with his cousin and the stranger, but stopped when without looking, Onaiwu put up his hand to yield his cousin from coming any closer.

With the whirr of the helicopter's blades coming to a rest the man removed his sunglasses, revealing the most magnificent crystal blue eyes. He was pale-skinned and fair-haired and, even with being dressed in exquisite garments, and reasonably never having met a sun ray he liked, he somehow didn't seem out of place.

"Mr. Iyare?"

"Yes."

"I'm from the firm."

"Yes"

"CWF&D."

"Yes?" Onaiwu had never expected this day to happen. It wasn't a good omen. And the steeds he had been entrusted with weren't exactly visitor ready.

"We need to talk."

Onaiwu nodded in acceptance and motioned for the man to follow him as he led him towards the stables. He grabbed a handful of oats and fed them to Selam; as it nibbled the treats from his palm he stroked her glorious red coat and smiled.

"This is Selam; she is very good."

"She's a beautiful horse Mr. Iyare," said Mr. Reed. An Italian, Onaiwau deducted by his accent. Mr. Reed spoke slowly and clearly, he spoke not as if to a child, but like a man whose job it was diffusing bombs while the Russian mob stood over him threatening to cut off his thumbs if they all blew up. He was well educated and better bred, much like Onaiwu's horses. He could tell if Mr. Reed had papers they'd all be in order.

"Fikre," said Onaiwu pointing to the White Arabian, "he's a handsome horse, well taken care of. Very nice and well behaved."

"I'm sure she is, but--"

"Desta," Onaiwu racing over and grabbing the bridle of the Black Stallion, "he's a very good worker, very strong, very fast."

"Mr. Iyare--"

"This-- this is Brehane; she is the best of all. Never tires, never gets upset, she is the perfect horse.

"They are beautiful creatures. A fine legacy for you and your family." Mr. Reed said serendipitously.

"I am getting the impression that this is not merely the once every two thousand years inspection, Mr. Reed?" said Onaiwu, hoping that this wasn't the day Mr. Reed came to close the ranch he and his family had run for 96 generations.

"You know that CWF&D have greatly appreciated all the work your family has put into the business these past few thousand years. But the time has come that we must close up shop and bring the ranch to an end."

"We have worked very hard here for you, my family and I for many years," he begged. "We have no place to go. This is our home."

"And I understand, but the time is nigh for us to go in our separate directions. We need these four. The other horses are yours and your men to keep."

"Thank you, but--"

"Also," said Mr. Reed setting the briefcase down on a bale of hay and opening it up, pulling out a slip of paper, "this is for your generations of loyalty to the firm."

Onaiwu took it and looked it over. He looked it over some more. He looked at Mr. Reed, who smiled. He looked at the paper again to double check that what he was reading was not a hallucination, and decided that even it was a hallucination he would take it. Because twenty million dollars was a whole lot of money where he was from.

"That's to be divided up between your men; I believe you have thirteen at last count, so that comes to roughly a little over 1.5 million each."

"Thank you." Onaiwu wanted to say more. 'Thank you' just doesn't seem the proper response for a certified check for twenty million dollars. He concluded there was probably no real way to respectably thank him and Mr. Reed didn't seem like the type of guy who needed extra reassurance.

"I do need your men to be out of the ranch by dark today if that's all right with you."

"Yes." Nodded Onaiwu.

"And one other thing Mr. Iyare?"

"Yes, anything."

"My firm will be sending out some people to collect these four horses in the next couple days. It would much appreciated if you, and only you, would stay and look after them until they arrive?"

"Yes, yes." Nodded Onaiwu.

"Very good. It was a pleasure meeting you Mr. Iyare. I wish you luck in your future endeavors, whatever those may entail."

"Thank you."

"And oh, Mr. Iyare?"

"Yes?"

"I wouldn't invest the money; it would just go to waste sitting in some bank. Go out and have a good time Do things you have always dreamed on doing. Remember, money doesn't last forever," said Mr. Reed putting his sunglasses back on. "And neither do we."

And with that Mr. Reed disappeared into the helicopter. He watched the happy faces of the men as they crowded around Onaiwu who was waving the check wildly and jumping for joy.

*****

Ketty emerged from the bedroom of Barnaby's penthouse suite. She was wearing one of the hotel's plush terrycloth bathrobes and a look of pained anguish on her face. Her feet stumbled as they hit the seam in the carpet dividing the two rooms.

She looked pale and disoriented, using her outstretched arms to try and feel the world around her. The deep purple bags under her eyes and the pattern of the hotel pillow creases lining her face told the story of one woman's alcohol-fueled bout of trying to keep a pace that would eventually lead to a lifetime of doubts about really happened that night.

"What time is it?" the words bounced and echoed in her head like tiny jackhammers tearing up a road through her eyeballs.

"Ten."

Barnaby, who was reading the morning paper in a large leather chair by the window, attempted to give a warm and sympathetic smile to his guest, but warm and sympathetic just weren't his thing.

For a man who had drunk her under the table he was remarkably lucid and aware of his surroundings. A tray of food sat in the middle of the room and just the sight of the half eaten plate of eggs made Ketty's stomach curl up in a tsunami of nausea.

"I can't believe I slept until ten. I haven't slept this late since college. Why didn't you try and wake me up before this?"

"Oh I'm just kidding you, it's not ten."

"Oh good. So, what time is it?"

"Noon."

"Noon?"

"Well, twelve fifteen, but I rounded down, seeing that you felt ten was too late to rise and greet the day. Not that by the look of you, the day wanted to be greeted by you. Besides, you had a lot to drink last night."

"How did I get here?" she took a good look around and for the first time noticed she wasn't in her own apartment." And where the hell am I?"

"My hotel room."

"Your hotel-- oh God."

Ketty finally noticed that she was wearing a bathrobe. She pulled back one of the lapels cautiously inquiring to see if what she feared she was wearing beneath the robe was in fact what she was wearing. She saw skin and nothing else. Another wave of nausea filled the pit of her gut.

"Why am I naked?" she tried to yell, but her head just wouldn't let her do it. "Wait-- don't answer that. Wait-- answer that and answer it now, buddy. Wait-- don't." if she could she would have slapped him, but the sound of hand slapping face would have sent shockwaves through her brain. "I don't want to know what happened. I was drunk and things take on a life of their own. But man, I had to be really drunk. I didn't mean that. You seem like a real nice person or whatever you are, but I just don't go around--okay, I can't take it. Why am I naked?"

"I got you undressed last night when we got back here. It's not like I haven't seen a naked person before, you'd be surprised how many people die naked. Thirty-nine percent; that's a fact you can amuse your friends with at your next dinner party."

"What gives you the right to take off my clothes?"

"Well, I didn't have much of a choice in the matter. You basically started the whole act, going on and on about having to be comfortable, but couldn't get your shirt over your big head." He was so nonchalant about the whole experience "It was really quite cute, the way you were trying help me while pawing at me to try to get me to make sweet, sweet love to your body."

"I what--?!?" yelled Ketty with a mix of horror and bewilderment.

"I'm kidding again." He gave a huge guffaw at his Oscar Wilde type wit. "You passed out, then woke up to throw up all over yourself, then passed out again. I sent your clothes downstairs to get dry cleaned, though I'm not sure what they'll be able to do. What did you eat yesterday, anyway?"

"Thank you?" She didn't feel like on commenting on his query about the food; just the thought of eating anything besides an aspirin and a glass of water made her wish she was dead. "But that still doesn't give you the right to see me naked."

"I'll remember that the next time you're laying face down in your own vomit."

Ketty wanted to argue the finer points of etiquette but was either too hung over or too embarrassed to delve deeper into the subject matter. She made her way, barely, over to the sofa and lay down, covered her throbbing head with a pillow and inaudibly moaned.

Barnaby sipped the last few drops of coffee and went back to the paper, where he was learning all about the fascinating world of cat shows. There was one happening that weekend in Orange County where kitties from all over the world would compete to be the best kitty in the world. A title that puzzled someone who had seen cats and had never noticed them to be particularly vain.

Ketty moaned again under her pillow. He would never understand the intricacies of the human spirit and their inconceivable seeming lack of being able withstand a night of binge drinking. He tossed the paper on the table and walked over to the window, throwing the curtains open, spilling radiant sunlight into the room.

Ketty felt the warm soft glow on her feet and lowered the pillow from her clenched embrace; the light seeped into her every pore of her body. It then raced to her head, permeating it with the intensity of a balloon being exploded by overfilling it with helium.

"Time to get up and face the day, Sunshine." He was really enjoying himself at Ketty's nauseated expense. "We've got a lot to do today and we can't spend it moping around here like you've been continually beaten by a ball peen hammer."

"Sledgehammer," she mumbled.

"Excuse me?"

"I feel like I've been beaten by a sledgehammer."

Barnaby smiled from ear to ear and little bit farther around the hairline, "There you go. Now you're getting in the spirit."

*****

"I don't know why we're here. You should be at home resting. We have a plan, and you're not doing a very good job of following said plan."

Dana Plough still wasn't talking to Satan as they traveled the maze of hallways in the Hilton Hotel and Convention Center. She had been scheduled to give a speech to the _Girls for Responsible Undertaking and Making Beloved Ladies Everywhere Society_ for six months and wasn't planning on giving up being in the spotlight one last time. It was one of the few chances she got to talk to young women about the trials and hardships she had to endure everyday in the competitive world of national news under the ever-widening scrutiny of men.

It was really a wonderful day of men-bashing and cookies. A leap back in time to a more innocent age when young girls wore petticoats and joined quilting bees whose greatest form of rebellion was to not use patterns.

Dana Plough had spent her years from the ages of two to sixteen in a society simply called GRUMBLE, and she counted those days amongst her other GRUMBLE Girls as the only happy experience of her childhood. A young lady dressed in a torn shirt revealing a lacy black bra and velvet skirt, with black lipstick and piercings covering a third of her face came towards them.

"Just give her room to pass and for God's sake don't make eye contact." It was the first words she had spoken to Satan since the night before. He was happy for the interaction, even though he could tell a wannabe gothic ghoul from the real thing. Dana Plough moved him towards the wall to give the girl plenty of passing room. The girl slowed her pace as she neared the obviously frightened Dana Plough.

"Dana Plough?'

"Yes?"

"I'm Rebecca; I'm here to show you to your dressing room."

"You're with the hotel staff?"

"No. I'm the secretary of GRUMBLE Girls."

"There must be some sort of mistake; I was supposed to speak to the _Girls for Responsible Undertaking and Molding Beloved Ladies Everywhere_." Dana Plough did not like this hussied bastardization of her childhood one bit. Not one little bit.

"Yes." Rebecca had a way to chill you with her eyes while melting you with her voice.

"But--"

"For some reason I pictured this whole fraternity of girlhood to be different. I was expecting an army of blonde Stepford cheerleaders gnawing through my bones with their high pitched squeals and constant upbeat perkiness," said Satan with a new found respect for his betrothed.

"But--"

"That's Missy," stated Rebecca.

"What's a Missy?"

"The president; she's everything you'd expect and more."

"Oh thank the lord!" Dana Plough erupted.

"I don't know. I kind of liked Becky here," replied Satan.

"Rebecca," she said as if he had taken her favorite pony and left its head in her bed.

"I'm so happy to be here," Dana Plough was starting to perk up at the revelation that this girl was an anomaly, not the norm, "You know I was the Northern California GRUMBLE treasurer three straight years, a record at the time, but I don't like to toot my own horn.

'But, I was in charge of the highest-grossing Peanut Butter Days in the history of the girls. It was really exciting to be there in the midst of making a great mark on society and outselling those little bitches from the Texas sect. You should have seen the looks on their smug little faces when it was announced we had won, but you probably know all about that. This is a lifelong dream of mine and I'm just so honored to have been asked to speak at your national convention."

"Don't be. We wanted Diane Sawyer, but after what happened last year in New York she wouldn't touch us with a ten foot pole."

"What happened last year?" Dana Plough dreaded the answer.

"Yes, what did happen?" said Satan anxiously anticipating it.

"I'll let Missy tell you about it. It was really her riot and she is one who got hosed down by the cops with pepper spray after they pulled her half-naked and screaming bloody murder off the deputy mayor with a good sized chunk of his hair as a parting gift. But I've already said too much, I'll spoil the story. Here's your room, you've got about twenty five minutes before you're on."

"Thank you Rebecca, this was a wonderful insight on a chapter of Ms. Plough's history that had somehow escaped the files."

"Whatever." She lamented. "If you need anything else, find somebody else."

And with that Rebecca disappeared around the corner. Satan stood smiling at Dana Plough, who stood in a frozen state appalled at what had happened to the organization of her beloved childhood memories.

Dana Plough pouted. "This was supposed to be one of the crowning achievements of my lifetime. I was going to go down in the annals of the GRUMBLE books as the greatest GRUMBLE girl ever. How in the blue hell am I to compete with someone who started a mother-flipping riot?!"

*****

A small man wearing a bowler and dressed in a dapper tweed suit with bulky coke bottle glasses boarded Delta flight #2453 to Grenada. He made his way to his seat where he sat holding on to a small package. A flight attendant had offered to store it in the overhead bin, but he refused, saying it was too valuable to be out of sight for a minute. He compromised by putting it under his seat and sat back to enjoy the sixteen hour flight.

*****

Most qualified and reasonable scientists will tell you that the universe is ever-expanding and infinite in space and time. They are in a word: wrong. The universe is the same size it has always been when it was created a few billion years ago out of a small burp from a cosmic speck in the middle of nothingness. This small expulsion of gas created a large space filled with planets, suns and stars, both binary and Ringo.

The universe actually only seems to be growing because so many people fill it. There are now fourteen thousand and twelve inhabited planets in the universe and only one, the planet of Kilgorgeben, has never seen war, famine or catastrophic horrors. This is due to its absence never needing the universal hunger to control every last square inch of his or her being in the name of whatever deity they were worshiping at the time.

Kilgorgeben is located three hundred and twelve billion miles from Earth and on a white sand beach in the small island country of Brecklonport, The Death sat on a wicker chair sipping on a piña colada [Because every island resort town in the known universe has a bartender who makes the world's best piña colada]. He was soaking up the local atmosphere by watching a group of native women do a provocative dance that had evolved from a much more provocative and erotic dance until white people had found them and taught them the gift of shame [Ah, white people. There the same everywhere you go].

He had figured now was a good time as any to take a much needed holiday since his job was probably going to end in four days and he had saved up quite a lot of vacation time.

The planet of Kilgogeben had been a popular getaway for those working in the afterlife for their abundance of hospitality and an over eagerness to please in a way very few in the universe knew how. A shadow cast by DANZ & C>500TP interrupted his sunshine; he removed his sunglasses and smiled as only a skeleton can [Which is exactly the same for all expressions].

"Ah and how is everything with Barnaby working out? All things going in the crapper I take it? Because why else would you interrupt me when I'm here."

"I didn't know you were on holiday."

"I would have imagined that my festive Hawaiian shirt and frozen alcoholic beverage with the cute little umbrella would have been a dead giveaway. Get it?" no one got his jokes, which was a bone of contention [pun intended]. "No matter, what seems to be the trouble?"

"I'm a little worried about--"

A well-tanned, sandal wearing waiter came over and stood impatiently next to her. With his cargo shorts and bowtie, he had an air of a mid-afternoon performer at Chippendales. He was carrying a tray full of assorted frozen concoctions with a variety of fruit as garnishes. He had a broad smile, showing off rows of very expensive and extensive dental work.

"Would you care to try any others of our delicious drinks?" he offered as snooty as he could.

"Can't you see we're in the middle of a conversation," glared DANZ & C>500TP.

"I'm sorry miss, but Brecklonport is not the place for seriousness. It is the place for happiness and fun under our two beautiful suns."

"Be that as it ma--"

"You heard the man," said The Death, "This is not the place for such trivial matters."

"Trivial matters? The entire state of the universe is at stake and in the hands of Barnaby. Who is out there cavorting with some- some woman he met. I seriously think that he should be taken off the case at once. In fact I demand it!" she caught herself out of the side of her mind's eye standing up to someone you sit down at all times for.

"Well, this certainly not the place for jealousy," the waiter, full of himself for his sudden onset of sassiness chimed in.

"I am not jealous! Please. He's an adult and can do whatever he wants with whomever he wants. All I'm saying is that if he even so much as touches her in any way that isn't purely professional I'll rip his head off and serve you a margarita out of his severed skull."

"Sounds like a bit of jealousy to me," said The Death.

"He took off her clothes last night. Her clothes! He saw her naked and I guarantee he had some thoughts about hitting that."

"All right, all right, I'll tell you what I'm going to do. First, you go back and type up a report about everything inappropriate he's done so far and I'll read it. And if it seems that he needs to be dismissed I'll see it gets done."

"Thank you, that's all I wanted."

With that she left to write the most scandalizing report ever written since Attila the Hun's wife wrote a scathing account exposing her husbands' penchant for Roman whores and not lifting the seat when he peed.

"Now where were we? Oh yes, the drinks."

The Death peered at the tray and lifted his finger to his mouth to contemplate his next choice. They all looked so tempting. So he decided to do what any good vacationer does when on foreign turf.

"I think I'll try one of each."

*****

The diner was small and dingy, but had a nice greasy spoon feel to it and a waitress was always there to fill up a coffee cup as soon as it emptied. The place was filled with the stereotypical pack of patrons who seem to spend more time at such places than they do bathing or going to the Dentist.

Ketty was starting to come back to the world of the living. Ten cups of coffee will do that for a person. The throbbing in her head had been reduced to a minor nuisance and she could now finally keep both eyes open without feeling as if she'd lose one of them.

"I have to go to the bathroom," said Ketty, rising from their booth.

"Again? This is like the fifth time you've gone. Maybe you better slow down on the coffee for a while. I think you're caffeinated up enough."

"Not until I feel good enough to genuinely kick your ass for getting me naked last night. Probably two more cups."

As he watched her disappear into the ladies room he motioned to the waitress who rushed over brandishing a steaming pot of coffee. There was a rustling over at the counter where the local flavor were intently watching the black and white television screen. Frank, the owner, had refused to purchase a color television due to the fact that most of his customers had declared that if they could have a nice big screen television that they'd would never leave.

It wasn't if Frank didn't enjoy having his regulars around as much as they were, he just liked the idea that at some point during the day they left for a few hours.

Barnaby got up and stared up at the screen; there seemed to have been an incident where a grizzly bear from a local zoo had escaped and was causing havoc on the city streets. There was a loud gasp from the communal counter area as they all stared agape out the window. Barnaby, curious to their stares walked over and joined the spectators. Much to his, and everyone else's surprise, was that the commotion on the television was right outside their diner. Much to the chagrin of the owner, the television didn't mention it.

Barnaby decided to do what anyone in his position would do when faced with the fact that a deadly animal was lurking nearby: he went out to meet it, face to face. Barnaby came through the door where he was greeted by a very large grizzly bear, twenty local and state police, and a wildlife sanctuary employee with the name Alvarez emblazoned on the right side of his khaki shirt and a cute little koala bear with the words ' _to protect without harm_ ' who was aiming a very large tranquilizer gun.

"Please sir, go back inside. This is a very grave situation. You mustn't be out here. It is very dangerous to both you and the animal!" yelled Alvarez over a megaphone that he proudly brandished like a balding man uses an Italian sports car to conquer a mid-life crisis.

"So what's your name?" said Barnaby to the bear, ignoring the screaming Alvarez.

"They call me Mr. Finklestein."

"I'm sorry; that's a horrible name."

"Tell me about it," said Mr. Finklestein.

"Will you please go back inside before somebody gets hurt!" screamed Alvarez. This was his parade and some guy from a diner wasn't to rain on it by being mauled to death.

"I really wish he'd stop that. It's getting on my nerves."

"Tell me about it," said Barnaby, "I'm Barnaby by the way." The art of small talk with a bear was something Barnaby was proud of. He had listed it on his resume under special skills. "So what are you doing in the city? I mean, I have to be here; you got a comfy zoo to stay in."

"Have you ever lived in a zoo? It's terrible; artificial rocks, people gawking and pointing at you all day long. They stand there eating their popcorn and their hot dogs and don't bother to share any with us. It sucks. And don't get me started on my roommates. Man, talk about a bunch of useless bears; I swear they found them next to a nuclear reactor."

"Will you kindly step away from the animal, you freaking idiot!" Alvarez was losing patience with the man who was blocking his line of fire. He had been working for the zoo for almost sixth months and hadn't gotten to shoot anything yet.

"Will you kindly shut that damn thing off!? Can't you see I'm trying to have a civilized conversation?" Barnaby screamed back.

Meanwhile, back in the diner, Ketty had returned from the bathroom to find half the diner hovered around the television screen laughing and pointing, while the other half was gathered at the window doing the same. She looked around the room for Barnaby, who didn't seem to be there, but was probably in the men's room. She sat back down at her booth and grabbed the cup of coffee in front of her. She called over to the waitress.

"Can I get a refill if you're not too busy?"

"Sorry, the guy with the bear told me to cut you off."

"The guy with the bear? I don't know any guy with a bear."

Ketty's head slowly moved in the direction of the crowd and up to picture on the screen. The television was small and the picture wasn't the best, but she could more or less make out what was happening.

She then let out a shriek and ran out of the diner. She made it about two feet from the diners front door, then pinned herself against the wall when she realized that she was only feet away from the biggest bear she had ever see. In her petrified state she could have sworn she saw Barnaby, having a heated discussion and wildly talking with his hands to the beast.

"So I point out to him that half of his body was sticking out of a meat grinder, and he still doesn't believe he's dead!" Barnaby said as he and Mr. Finklestein laughed.

"Barnaby?" Ketty could barely get the word out as she was glued with fear to the building. Anyone who wasn't two inches from her mouth would have been hard up hearing the tiny squeak that her mouth let out.

"Oh great, another one," Alvarez said to the police commissioner, "Why is it all the crazies come out when faced with a dangerous and deadly situation?" He grabbed his megaphone again, "Ma'am please go back inside before someone gets hurt." He rolled his eyes and muttered softly to himself, "although most of you deserve it!"

Ketty slowly and with great precaution made her way back inside the diner. Once in the comfort of a non-bear having establishment she collapsed on the floor. Her breath heaved deeply as she fought to regain some consciousness of the situation. She stared out the door at the two figures, surrounded by a police force that all had guns pointing in their direction.

"Oh screw it," Alvarez said to no one in particular and pulled the trigger. He grimaced with the idea he was probably out of a job "Oh crap!"

Barnaby was in the middle of a hilarious story about a traveling circus and three acrobats who had fallen off their rigging during a hurricane in Sacramento when he felt a slight sting in his ass.

The world started getting fuzzy and Mr. Finklestein seemed to suddenly break into some sort of mambo. His eyes rolled back into his head as he went crashing to the ground with the full force of a sequoia tree.

"BARN-A-BEEEEE? Aaaaare Youuuu O-Kaaaaay?"

"Why are you talking like that Mr. Finklestein?" said Barnaby lying on the pavement staring up at his giant friend. "Are you on drugs?"

A moment later another shot was fired and the bear came crashing down next him. Barnaby rolled over and looked at Mr. Finklestein who was becoming woozy from the power of 200 cc's of tranquilizer that he had been hit in the neck with. Barnaby rolled over to face the bear.

"I didn't know you could fly Mr. Finklestein?"

"I didn't know you could fly either. But it's fun," on that note, Mr. Finklestein passed out into dreamland and began to snore.

"Nighty night Mr. Finklestein. Mr. Finklestein," Barnaby chuckled to himself, "What a stupid name."

Alvarez and Ketty rushed over to the downed body of Barnaby and stared at him with amazement. They watched his pupils begin to overtake his irises transforming his blue eyes into a deep molten black.

"He should be dead," Alvarez turned to Ketty in a fascination usually reserved for a boy's first contact with the Sears catalog's bra section. "I mean he should be dead twenty times over. There were enough tranquilizers to down a four hundred pound bear. No human should be alive. And he's still awake!"

"You shouldn't go 'round making people go all dizzy with your special medicine, Mr. Wearer of the Khaki shorts." Scolded Barnaby softly.

"Barnaby? Are you okay?"

"He shooted me in the bottom."

"We've got to get to a hospital now!" said Alvarez waving over a pair of EMT's. This was supposed to be a special day, the day he got to shoot something. And that something wasn't supposed to be a man.

"Barnaby, we're going to get you all well. These men are here to take you to the hospital and you'll feel much better." Ketty patted him on his sweaty head.

"Noo, nooo, no. No hospital, es muy muy malo. I am speaking the Spanish. Eres una señorita joven muy agradable. That means, uh, that means--." He searched for the words, but all he found in his brain were fireworks and an old Road Runner cartoon "I am speaking the Spanish."

"Yes, now let's get you in the ambulance," said a lanky EMT with a slight lisp due to a permanent smile plastered across his long face.

"No! I talk with the woman now." Barnaby shouted at the EMT, or to no one in particular. Ketty leant over to hear Barnaby, "You take me to vroom-vroom beep-beep."

"Vroom-vroom beep-beep?"

"You know, VROOM-VROOM BEEP-BEEP," he said while participating in a game of charades that only a small group of people, who ate the mushrooms they found growing under a parked van at Woodstock would have understood.

"You mean the car?"

"Car! Ha, that is a funny word. Car. Caaaarrrrr, I like the sound of that, it is silly." If Barnaby had ever heard the 'Just Say No' campaign, he would have chuckled at that too. Now.

Ketty tried persuading the others present, against their better judgment, to help her take Barnaby to her car. Even though there was a bit of dissention in the ranks everyone could agree that that since he wasn't dead and clearly should be, his safety was clearly out of their area of expertise and they may as well get him on his way so the crowd of people who had been hovering would go away and the streets could get back to normal.

"I'm going to sleepy time now," Barnaby euphorically collapsed in the arms of Ketty and Alvarez. They poured his limp body into the backseat of her Chevrolet Monte Carlo. The door slammed shut and Ketty thanked Alvarez for his help getting Barnaby back to the car, but had a few choice words on his lack of judgment of shooting helpless creatures and Barnaby with tranquilizer darts. As she drove away Alvarez helped get Mr. Finklestein into his truck and wondered what the man and bear could have possibly been talking about.

*****

"Fellow GRUMBLE Girls, I have not come here today not only for you to bask in my glory, but to learn from overflowing wisdom. To teach you a valuable lesson that I have discovered in my eleven years of working in public broadcasting. The last three at the number one cable news channel in the world. I have learned that no matter how hard a woman works at being an honored journalist, while still maintaining and upholding the values that each and every one of us holds so dear to our GRUMBLE Girl hearts, a man will always try to hold us down."

A cheer went up through the throngs of young women filling the assembly hall. Dana Plough had them eating out of the palm of her hand. These were her people, young ladies with strong family values who strived to make the world better without the needless thumb of a man grinding their hopes and dreams into dust.

"Whether it be in the boardroom or at the highest levels of state or federal government, there will always be liberal, hippie, communist, bastards' trying to tell us what is right and what is wrong."

She thought she had heard the crowd boo at her last statement, but quickly decided they were saying booya, a modern colloquialism for a good job coined by a popular sportscaster.

"We must stand up and fight for what is rightfully ours and take it with both hands, never letting go of our ideals for a better future. We are GRUMBLE Girls and we don't take no for an answer!"

This seemed to get the girls back in the right direction as a few ' _you go girlfriends'_ and ' _hell yeahs'_ were blurted out.

"When our distinguished Secretary of State told me on my popular show _Plowing Ahead with Dana Plough_..."

The mention of her show seemed to rile a good portion of them up into a hate-filled frenzy, as they hurled some unique and some not at all lady-like curse words in her general direction. She shuffled her papers as she tried to regain her composure.

"Um, _Plowing Ahead with Dana Plough_ ," she repeated herself softly, trying to find her place in the speech, "She stated that all women should learn from past mistakes in history and use those lessons to build a better future. I believe these points are a building block for the discovery of our lives and our bodies, as long as those discoveries, of course, are not with another person of the same sex."

"You Suck!" yelled out someone in the audience; this caused a loud roar of applause from her fellow comrades in ears.

"Now please, there will be time for questions after the speech, thank you. Now where was I?" A half eaten apple flew past her head and the crowd burst into thunderous laughter. "Now, if we are going to get through this as mature adults we are going to need a little decorum in here. Hey, it's not that I haven't had those types of thoughts before; there was this one time in college where my roommate was changing and I thought, for a second, about what it would like- but that's neither here or there. We are not here to discuss my sex-life; we are here to discuss my accomplishments."

"Tell us more about your roommate! Was she hot?"

"Listen people, you all can't be a bunch of raving dykes!"

Satan, who had been listening from the wings, turned to Rebecca and smiled, "I think she's got a good handle on this. But just to be on the safe side, I'm going to step out before the murderous rioting begins."

In the back of the room Jeremiah sat and listened silently to the spirited debate that had erupted into total chaos. He tossed another apple to the screaming girl sitting next to him and she hurled it violently towards the dais. He stood up and surveyed the room then turned and exited, leaving Dana Plough in the midst of the second biggest riot in GRUMBLE history, a fact that she would later grumble about it not being the biggest.

*****

Actor Jonathan Frakes was in the midst of a marathon autograph signing session where he tried desperately to talk to fans about the wonderful book he had just had the pleasure of reading.

"You see here it says," he read to a particularly uninterested fan, " _I saw when he opened the sixth seal, and there was a great earthquake. The sun became black as sackcloth made of hair, and the whole moon became as blood_.

_The stars from the sky fell to the earth, like a fig tree dropping its unripe figs when it is shaken by a great wind. The sky was removed like a scroll when it is rolled up. Every mountain and island were moved out of their places_."

"That's the Bible; you're just reading from the Bible."

"Well yes, that part is from the Bible of course. But, this is a different Bible. Am I mentioned in the Bible? I don't think so. Here in chapter seven, you see," he pointed to a specific passage mentioning him by name, " _Actor Jonathan Frakes_ , see it? It mentions me right there."

He pleaded with her to no avail to try and follow his incoherent rambling. He pounded the book on the table, becoming more and more riled up at her unwillingness to listen to reason. As she walked away she turned around to yell, "You're crazy. I like Leonard Nimoy better anyway."

"Is Nimoy in here? Let me check. Nope. Leonard Nimoy isn't mentioned in here at all! He doesn't save the world! He doesn't fight the great armies of Hell in a universal war between good and evil! He doesn't ride off into the sunset in a blaze of glory while angels on high sing his praise! And besides, this isn't the Bible! It's totally different from the Bible! And even it were the Bible, would you see Nimoy's name in it? Huh? Would you?" the young lady had disappeared from sight but not earshot, "Come back- you haven't gotten your autograph yet!"

He sat back down in his chair, straightening out his suit and regained his composure, "Next." A young man awkwardly hesitated before making his way gingerly up to the out of breath and red-faced actor. He cautiously laid down a hand-drawn picture in front of Actor Jonathan Frakes and tried his best to look happy to be there.

"Well what's your name, young man?'

"Benji."

"That's a nice name, and a beautiful picture you've drawn."

"Thank you."

"Have you ever seen this?" showing Benji a copy of _The_ _Last Days vol. XII: or what to do when it finally does happen._

"No sir."

"Well you're in luck; I'm going to read to you from it." The beam his insane smile blazed could light the night sky. "You might want to pull up a chair; this is going to take a while."

*****

Dana Plough returned to her dressing room to find Satan relaxing on the sofa doing a crossword puzzle in pen because real men don't need erasures. He had found an old copy of the New York Sunday Times Magazine stuffed behind a file cabinet and since Dana Plough was rather indisposed he figured he'd keep himself occupied until she returned. He looked up from his puzzle and saw a very angry woman covered in chewed up apple glowering back him.

"So, how did it go?'

"I can't believe what just happened out there. It was a madhouse, a complete madhouse. I've never seen anything like it before. This is not the GRUMBLE I knew and loved as a kid. These were viscous, spiteful, ugly little hellions. With fantastic throwing arms."

"Why do you think I came?"

"Let's just go. We have to get to Sacramento."

"Why are we going to Sacramento?"

"Because I need to take care of some family business before the world comes to a screeching halt."

"Family business?"

"Yes, I do have a family; I just didn't sprout from a cabbage patch. But we have to take this gently; I haven't spoken to my family in years."

"Why not?"

"Have you met my family?"

"No." Satan had never needed to meet her family. He had barely needed to meet her. Family was a sore spot with him, what with his father throwing him out of the house all those millennia ago. He didn't need family, and he didn't need to meet hers. But he was going to because he knew he was a good guy deep down.

"Well, you'll have to meet them to get the full picture of what the Plough family did to permanently scar me."

"Sounds like fun, what are we waiting for?"

"First, we have to go back to the house so I can change. I can't show up after twenty-five years looking like a half-eaten apple pie."

*****

Barnaby bolted upright from his drug-induced slumber. His eyes darted around the darkened room as he tried to remember who and where he was and why his ass hurt. He had little bits and pieces of strange images scattered around the back of his brain. None of them made any sense, like the parts of 3 jigsaw puzzles thrown together in a pile.

He tried in vain to swallow, but his mouth felt as if it were chock-full of not so delicious cotton. He reached out weakly for a glass of water before he would lose consciousness again from dehydration.

Ketty, who had been sitting by his side, quickly grabbed the glass and held it up to his mouth. He guzzled the entire glass and let out a satisfying sigh of relief when the inside of his mouth no longer felt like it had been used to fire pottery.

"How are you feeling?"

"I had the most wonderful dream." He said regaining some semblance of wherewithal/ Although what he thought were memories were a bit off-kilter, "You were there and a Spanish speaking bear wearing khaki shorts was there and I was stabbed in the ass by a baton-wielding, megaphone-yelling madman. It was so won-der-ful."

"That wasn't a dream. Well, it's sort of true; you sort of got the facts mixed up a little. You were shot by an animal tranquilizer dart and we assumed that you'd probably not make it through the night."

"Well, I showed them!" he was quite proud of himself for teaching people who thought he would die that he didn't. It's the little things in life that keep you going.

"Yes I guess so. Here, eat something," she shoved a chocolate bar in his face at which he turned both his nose up and his face away from.

"No really I don't want any, thank you."

"You have to eat something, you need your strength."

"I have plenty of strength. Watch."

He threw off the blankets and jumped off the bed in one fell swoop. Raising his arms in a triumphant glory before his knees buckled and he plummeted to the carpet at the foot of the bed. Sometimes the brain is willing to do what the body cannot, like taking on Mount Everest Sherpa-less after a lifetime of eating nothing but fried foods and smoking three packs of cigarettes a day. Sure you'll start off invincible, but after a few miles you're yeti food. Barnaby's body was still packed with enough heavy sedatives coursing through his veins to make a door jamb seem like K2.

"Just suck it up and eat the damn chocolate."

"But I don't like chocolate."

Ketty shoved the candy bar into his bleating mouth before he could say anything else damning about the one constant in her life, chocolate. Men and money had come and gone, but the gooey goodness of Snickers never did. Barnaby's face contorted over a few seconds into several hundred unique expressions, all illustrating his distinct displeasure with both the taste and his being bested by someone who just hours ago was so hung-over she couldn't hear someone across town sigh heavily without wincing in pain.

"Well now that that ordeal is over with, will you please help me into the sitting room? I would like to sit on something other than the floor. Though, I must say they do have rather nice carpeting here."

*****

Michael Ryan had spent the last twenty-six hours in a Las Vegas casino playing a $20,000,000 jackpot slot machine. His face was becoming as ashen as the ends of the cigarettes perched permanently suspended on the old women's lips that sat beside him. It was probably the knowledge that he had spent all of his savings, maxed out his credit cards on cash advances, or borrowed the twenty thousand dollar marker from the casino that was causing him to sweat profusely and his left arm to twinge. That, or he was having a massive heart-attack.

He dropped another five dollar chip into the slot and pulled the giant lever. His eyes attached the array of bars, lemons and dollar signs spin dizzyingly in their rapid, flashing colored whirl. The sections stopped, revealing two bars and a cherry. He closed his eyes tightly and massaged his tingling arm, dropping another five into the slot and giving his luck yet another chance.

He rubbed his chest and stiffened his brow as the lights and bells from the casino floor danced in his head. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead, moving his hands down his face, pulling the skin from his jowls to one of his chins and then letting go, causing his neck to snap back under the weight of the fat deposits that sat like huge bags of sand around his mouth. He rolled his shoulder, trying to revive some life into the muscles that had all but shriveled since his marathon sitting session began.

A sharp pang went through his heart and he grabbed onto his bosom. He squeezed, trying to combat the pressure of his corroded artery that was getting him back for the years of neglect and Philly cheese steak breakfasts he had regularly enjoyed since his divorce.

His large frame made a thud when it came barreling down on top of the machine. The saliva dripped from his gaped lips into the bucket of casino chips that sat under his chin.

"Let me ask you a question." Echoed a voice in his head.

The most beautiful woman he had ever seen was sitting next to him on the previously empty stool. She had long, flowing cherry red hair and lips to match. Her skin was pale, as if it were would burst into flames at even a drop of sunlight. She wore black from head to toe, but through the thick robe he could tell she had one killer body.

"Okay?" he said, trying to match his wits against the slot machine bells.

"If you were in a bed with a woman and she was feeding you chocolate candies while stroking your hair and rubbing your leg and you didn't do anything to stop it, you'd be a major league asshole, right?"

"Uh, well--" Usually beautiful women didn't give Michael the time of day. Now they were asking him for relationship advice?

"I mean, it's not like she's a great beauty; she's okay, nothing to write home about. Plus, she's got like a pig nose. Not an actual pig nose, but you know-- it's turned up in a way that's neither appealing nor useful."

Michael looked down and noticed that he was standing over his body, which was being ignored by the gamblers that walked passed him and sometimes over.

"Am I dead?"

"I know that men have some sort of primal urge to bang anything with a working vagina, but really, she's like a two-bit hussy. I mean, she's probably been with like at least five, six men, which I know doesn't sound like a lot. But still, I know about these types of women, all miss goody-goody and then they jump your bones at one crack of a smile."

"I have no idea what's going on here." He was confused about being ignored by the throngs of slot monkeys. He also didn't know if the woman talking to him could hear him. She didn't seem at all interested in anything he had to say.

"I mean, they were practically having sex right there. How does that happen? You don't just go around doing any woman who shoves a bon-bon down your gullet."

"I know they say you're not supposed to go into the light." Said Michael to no one in particular, since no one in particular was listening. But he was starting to get uncomfortable. "That you're supposed to fight the temptation, but what the hell, how bad can it be? It might be nice."

"And here's another thing- he's supposed to be on a job, not getting his jollies with every girl that bats an eyelash in his general direction."

"Well, here goes, I'm just going to head into the light now. It was nice meeting you." Michael once again attempted to sway the conversation back to him, to no avail.

Michael Ryan ran faster through the brightest, and for him, calmest light than anyone in the history of dying had ever done [The previous record was set by Jonas Winchell of England in 1420 when presented with a ride on the Official Catapult of Death after watching his wife get shot through a brick wall]. After he threw himself at full force through it, the light evaporated and DANZ & C>500TP was left alone, staring off into space, babbling to no one who would listen.

"Well, I for one am not going to sit idly by while he--" she glanced over to her ward but discovered that both he and the light had disappeared. She stood up, tugged on her robe and putting her hands on her hips, gave an aggravated snort, "Men! They're the same everywhere you go!"

*****

The Insurance Agents were lined up for the daily inspection that was to take place at precisely at nine a.m. It was like clockwork the way the Devil ran his ship, really something to behold. It was ten p.m. but now he was just now going through the motions.

"Ms. Plough and I are going to be leaving town. We'll be back late tomorrow night. Until then I have all the faith that you will all do what must be done to ensure that the things that must be done will get done."

"Of course," said #12.

The Agents had been worrying, in silent deference about the state of his mental health in this time that they had planned for centuries. This is all he had talked about morning, noon, and night for the better part of three millennia, and now he seemed distracted. He seemed more concerned about pleasing the human woman than ascending to his rightful throne in heaven.

"This was a bunch of baloney", said #9 earlier in the day while playing a rousing game of charades. The other Agents agreed, but discerned than their master had some sort of divine plan; that, or he was just plain whipped [a word they had just learned from a television program about cheating boyfriends and the woman they impregnate].

Agents were not predisposed to thinking for themselves, but these past few days they had been left to their own devices while being pent up in the house. When a group of obedient, mindless behemoths are left alone their minds start to progress to questions of their existence in a dictatorship.

They had listened to the radio, read newspapers, and watched television and felt that they were missing out on something tangible. They saw commercials for theme parks with rides both fantastic and splashy. They heard about a shop where people made sandwiches to your specifications right there in front of you. #6 had read that there was a place called Tijuana, Mexico where if one was so inclined, one could get something referred to in _Señor Jose's South of the Border Erotic Rendezvouses_ ala ' _taking a hit to the old pocket piñata'_. They were feeling left out of the world they were trapped in, while the boss was probably taking the woman to _Splish-Splash Village_ in a fantastic land called Sacramento.

Dana Plough came barreling down the stairs, dragging a suitcase behind her. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and gave her man a tiny pout with curled lips, accompanied by puppy dog eyes. The muscles in his jaw fought hard to come up with anything that resembled a smile as she gestured to the suitcase at her feet. He picked it up and gave a half-hearted embarrassed grin to his troops.

"I guess we're leaving now. Number Two, you're in charge until we return."

The other Agents shook their heads and gave a team-effort furtive glance to Satan, all tilting their heads in #2's direction and giving the universal ' _you don't want to do that'_ face.

"Delay that order Number Two. Number Five?" He examined the body language of his troops for a sense of the mental capability of his last pick; they all agreed as they shrugged their shoulders in a show of unity that it was certainly better than the alternative. "Number Five you're in charge."

"Are we going to do this or not? I don't have all the time in the world, seeing as times are about to come an abrupt end any day now." Dana Plough caterwauled.

"Yes dear."

"And we need to stop and get ice cream before we hit the road. I'm in the mood for rocky road. Or am I craving mint chocolate chip? Well, I'm sure I'll figure it out before we get there. Of course I'll probably need to stop for a burger and a rotisserie chicken too while we're at it."

"Yes dear."

"And don't forget to grab a couple of bottles of vodka on your way out. The baby is really parched"

The Agents watched their master with a mixture of fear and heartbreak. The man who had once gotten entire countries to claim dominance and moral superiority over the world was now a shell of himself. They marked one last defeated shrug of his shoulders and a subdued squeak of, "Yes dear."

*****

Father Jeffrey was busy extinguishing the candles that lined the small altar of Saint Margarita of Cascia at the back end of the church. He thought of the busywork he found for himself as a sort of gift from God, especially since Monsignor Linkletter was waiting for him to join him for dinner in the rectory.

It wasn't that Father Jeffrey didn't enjoy the company and wisdom of the elder bishop. It was more the queasy feeling in his gut he would get while watching the eighty year old man shout out the answers to Wheel of Fortune puzzles while spoonfuls of pureed beets dribbled down his chin.

As he blew out the final votive he noticed a woman sitting at the end of a pew in the middle of the chapel. He opined that God had sent yet another reason he would be conveniently late for supper.

As he approached he observed, from the motion of her long mane of golden brown curls to be crying. He tried to keep the creaking of the floorboards to a minimum as he neared the distraught woman, trying not to interrupt her solemn talk with God.

He slid into the pew behind the woman and sat quietly, attempting to find an opening where he could console her. He sat silently, listening to her crying, which became more and more hysteric the tighter her hold on the rosary beads she clenched in her palm became. He reached over the back of the pew and touched he shoulder, hesitantly patting her back as it heaved up and down with the motion of her sobbing.

"Is there anything I can do to help you ease your pain?"

"What makes you think I need consoling?" said the woman, still staring straight ahead.

"Your uncontrollable weeping is somewhat of a give-away. I'm a priest; I'm very learned in the ways of emotional despair. It was one of the first classes I took at seminary."

"Is that a joke?"

"A bad one, yes. I'm afraid that humor wasn't a prerequisite for the job."

Father Jeffrey was a fresh-faced priest, a young man in his mid twenties fresh out of the seminary. St. Margarita's was his first assignment, and he was finding that the act of dealing one on one with the laic public was proving much more difficult than he had originally expected.

He had been a shy kid and as he grew older he had been left with two options: One, go into the priesthood, which had been great for his self-confidence, as most priests aren't that judgmental when it comes to being silent.

His second option was leaving everything behind and becoming a hermit. An occupation that he had dreamt about through much of his teenage years as he laid awake in his bed on Saturday nights staring at his stacks of comic books that lined his bedroom.

The hermit life was sounding better with each passing day that he fought hard with his crippling shyness, and with the fact that there were no openings at the moment for those priests wanting to accept a vow of silence.

He followed the woman's stare to the giant, and a bit gaudy, platinum and gold-leaf covered cross that centered the apse. "Magnificent, isn't it? It was brought over here from Spain in the early eighteenth century. I always like to think that it's a testament to how much of the world is made of one people with a common goal."

"It's attractive," said the woman, fighting back her tears.

"Would you like to talk about anything that's troubling you?"

"What makes you think anything is troubling me?"

"Well, for one, you're crying."

"I'm not crying, father," Juliet turned around to face Father Jeffrey, her face red and tears streaming down her face, "I'm laughing."

"Oh," said Father Jeffrey rather relieved at the proposition of not having to console someone in distress, "Would you like to fill me in on the joke? I like a good joke."

"Really?"

"No, but I thought I should say it any way."

"Have you ever had one of those weeks where everything you believe is totally destroyed and the world gets so much smaller?"

"I've had quite a few of those."

"Well, I'm having an absolute doozy of one." A manic grin overtook her face. "I don't even know why I'm here; I'm not even catholic."

"You're holding the rosaries." He said gesturing to the worn and sweaty beads.

"Oh yeah, I found them on the seat. Tell me father, do you believe in heaven and hell and god and the devil and all that stuff?" she paused, remembering her schoolgirl days. Nuns slapping her knuckles with a ruler, when she would question the existence of an unseen deity who was much more concerned with what every single person did on a daily basis than any omnipotent being should be concerned with. "Of course you do. But do you really believe in all that junk?"

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't." he smiled a smiled that people try to use when faced with a situation that they're not versed enough to deal with. "And I don't consider any of that junk. There's a lot of craziness out there in the world and sometimes it doesn't always make sense.

'Some people refuse to believe in God because they can't see him. But I say we see him every day in flowers and the sun and in the goodness of the others around us. It's much easier to believe in the devil because of what sometimes seems to a world on the edge of corruption and destruction. But I haven't met anyone who's met the devil, either."

"I have."

"Well it may seem that way sometimes, but--"

Her eyes became a veiled window into her soul. He thought he could literally see her very essence peering back at him from behind her eyes. It was perhaps the single most distressing thing Father Jeffrey had ever seen. And he'd seen Monsignor Linkletter naked. "No. I really have. He's impregnated my boss with the antichrist and in about three to four days she'll give birth and the world will turned to smoldering pile of rubble."

"Did the brothers at St. Patrick's put you up to this?" he whispered, "You can tell me."

"Listen padre." She inched closer to him, making him even more uncomfortable. "I'm not making this up and I'm not crazy and you're not on Candid Camera. The world is about to end and there's nothing you or I can do about it."

"And this is troubling you?" He tried as hard as he could not to sound patronizing to the young woman who was putting her trust in him. It was just that he saw three Rapture addicts a week and it was getting to the point of saturation.

"No. Why would you say that?"

"Well-- the world ending, the antichrist, your boss? These things sound like they'd be a bit troubling to anyone."

"Oh no, I've been promised a very nice seat at the head table."

"Then why are you here?"

"I just wanted to see what all the fuss about before the world is reduced to an ashy pile of embers in a great blaze of fire and brimstone." Juliet rose out of her seat and gave the church a three hundred and sixty degree scan.

She looked down at Father Jeffrey, who didn't quite know what to make of the young woman. "I was expecting more," she paused, patted him on the shoulder and stared at the decorative opulence of the cathedral "grandeur. Oh well." Juliet walked past the silent priest and out of the church, throwing the doors wide in a display of stagy flurry of over dramatics.

Father Jeffrey sat and stared at the cross, then gave each of the mosaics and frescos that lined the walls a well studied glance. He had always been in wonder of churches and their beauty and couldn't understand why anyone wouldn't find them more than adequate in the realm of awe-inspiring grandeur.

"I wonder how hard it is to get a nice hermit job."

****

The room was dark, except for the faint blue glow of the muted television that was tuned to the local news. Ketty perused the boxed graphics over the anchors shoulders for any sign of the nearing apocalypse. She dabbed a cloth do catch the beads of sweat that trickled down Barnaby's brow. With her other hand she reached behind her to knead out a stubborn knot that had formed in the back of her neck over the past two days.

"Barnaby?"

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

She paused, then spoke very gingerly, "When am I going to die?"

"I don't know-- three, four days? Dammit Ketty, I'm an Agent of Death, not a doctor. But to answer your query- whenever that damn woman shoots out her demon spawn."

"But what if we save the world like you keep insisting we're going to do. If that happens when am I going to die?"

"I don't know." His eyes still closed as he secretly begged him to stop talking and allow him to suffer in silence.

"You're death, of course you know."

"No, I don't. It's not like I have each person's death certificate floating around in my head. What do you take me for? The Kreskin of the underworld?"

"I just assumed; since you knew about the end of existence and all."

"It's just that we don't know when everyone is going to die, it's complicated," he tried to figure out a gentle way to explain to her the deceased birds and bees. He'd never had to before, and didn't really know how to now. "And quite frankly, way too much work. We get a list each week of those poor unfortunate souls who must shed their mortal skin to ascend into a beautiful and--" giving a half-hearted attempt at a giggle.

"I'm sorry; I couldn't say that with a straight face. But seriously, the reason we knew about the whole everybody out of the gene pool thing was that the list included everyone on it. That usually rings a few bells where I come from."

"So what you're saying is that you have no idea when I'm going to die if we actually do save the world?"

"That's pretty much it."

"So, basically you're useless."

He struggled to his feet, still woozy and disoriented. The room spun clockwise while his eyes spun to its counter "That's what I've been told."

Ketty laughed and slapped him on the back. Having been taken down with a powerful narcotic tends to throw off one's equilibrium and Ketty did pack a powerful slap on the back. Luckily for him on the way to the floor his head took a nice chip out of the oak coffee and cushioned his fall.

She sprung up from her position on the couch to check on the man she had just leveled with a small force from her hand. He seemed to be all right as he was prying the wooden protuberance loose from his skull, and then he let out a hearty laugh, or perhaps it was moan of excruciating pain.

He cried out as a small trickle of blood ran down his face. "This is the worst day of my entire life!"

"Oh honey please, you've only been alive for three days. It gets much worse than this."

*****

A blood red 1967 Ford Mustang convertible raced up the Pacific Coast Highway towards Sacramento. Dana Plough, wearing a white and gold bandana to hold her hair back against the whipping wind, was devouring her third half-pound hamburger of the trip. The Santa Ana winds dropped the temperature to cool fifty six degrees as they pinched her cheeks a rosy shade of pink.

' _This was living'_ , she thought to herself as the mile markers whizzed past the speeding car like green shooting stars. If she had ever learned to drive herself, or the inkling to spend money on a car, she would most definitely get one these babies. It was sweet ride.

"I think while we're in Sacramento," said Satan, "I'll stop by the governor's mansion. I did get him elected."

"Is there any elected official you didn't have a hand in appointing to their post?" She said as she licked the remaining ketchup off her fingers and took a sip of diet cola.

"It's true. There's not a democratic election, coup, perestroika, or liberation takeover I haven't had some sort of minor part in." he beamed with the pride of a mother watching her daughter spin around like a man woman, knocking the other children to the ground at her first dance recital. "Hell, I even got the Rosenberg's off scot free."

"I hate to burst your bubble buddy, but the Rosenberg's didn't get off. They were caught, convicted and given the chair."

"Huh? Well, that would explain why Ethel has been so snippy."

"Just remember why we're going to Sacramento in the first place. It's to make peace with my past, not for some gleeful gloating about getting some doofus elected." Dana Plough didn't like gloating, unless she was doing it. It was an unsavory benediction in others. "Oh, pull into that gas station will you? I need to pee."

"But, you just peed twenty minutes ago. I don't understand why you can't hold it. Normal people hold it all the time." Yeah, that was mistake. The full bladdered pregnant woman grabbed the wheel and spun the car toward the nearest restroom.

Satan pulled into _Jake's Gas and Snacks_ , after reacquiring the wheel and Dana Plough squeezed out of the tiny automobile that was never meant to hold two and a half people. She ran, clutching her stomach as it bounced heavily, with the rhythmic pounding of her legs hitting the ground as she hightailed it across hard pavement in not so sensible but very chic high heeled shoes.

She threw open the doors and a waft of foul dank air swept out into the night. It was a public restroom that most sane people would never dare set foot in [Like a production of Cats], but a woman with an eight pound hunk of flesh and bone pressing against her bladder didn't have much choice.

Satan pulled into a space and got out of the car heading into the station to load up on supplies he foresaw Dana Plough needing for the rest of the trip. What should have been a brisk, five hour journey was turning into the longest jaunt in the history of man.

He walked into the florescent lit cavern of Jake's and studied the aisles, searching for anything that would appease his passenger. Occasionally he would stop to pull his shoes off the floor, which was covered with some sort of sticky substance that he would just let his imagination deal with. He was reaching for the last bag of bar-b-cue chips that lay under a pile of dust on a shelf when a hand reached in and beat him to it.

"Hey, I was going for that."

"Sorry, I got here first. Besides I'm starved; I haven't eaten a thing since lunch and it may be only edible thing in this place."

"Check the expiration date."

"It's good until December."

"What year?"

"1997? Here take it; my dog wouldn't even touch those."

"Well I'm in luck; a pregnant woman will."

"Where you headed friend?"

"Sacramento, if we ever get there. I swear I've never seen anyone have to stop and pee so much. It's ridiculous."

"You're a good man for doing it. I know she appreciates it, even though she may not say it. I remember when my wife was pregnant with our first. We took a vacation across country in a car. For the next one I went out and bought a motor home, or as I call it the toilet on wheels. I tell you it saved me a lot of headaches."

"Say, you look familiar."

"You caught me."

"I'm afraid I can't place your face though."

"Jonathan Frakes, Actor Jonathan Frakes."

"Oh yeah, from the TV."

"The one and only. I'm headed down to L.A. for a little business." Actor Jonathan Frakes beamed with pride every time anyone acknowledged his fame. Then scolded them for not leaving him well enough alone.

"Movie?" inquired Satan, making the most of speaking with someone who wasn't interested in talking about how good a hamburger she was cramming down her throat was.

"Oh no, something much more important, but I really can't talk about it. You know, top secret stuff and all." He really wanted to tell him all about it. But he was running late and a three hour sit-down about how he was going to be the savior of the world just wasn't in the cards.

"Yeah, I really don't care that much." Small talk was starting to get old.

"Say, do you want an autograph?"

"I'm all set." Satan tried to be gentle, well, no, he didn't.

"Sorry, I can't." Actor Jonathan Frakes had an uncanny ability of not listening to the answer he was asking the question to. [A great trait in Hollywood]. "You know how it is, if I give one then everyone will want one and this place will be a madhouse before you know it."

Satan looked around the store. Except for a clerk behind the counter reading a girly magazine and eating a stick of beef jerky it was completely empty. Unless you counted the dozen or so flies that the clerk had attracted and were hovering around him as if they were bi-planes and he was the Empire State Building.

"I understand- The mobs and all." He nodded with an understood roll of eyes.

"Well, thanks for understanding. Hey, maybe we'll run into each other sometime? I'm doing a signing in San Diego next week; maybe we'll see each other there."

"I wouldn't count it."

Actor Jonathan Frakes slapped him on the back, "Great. See you then."

As he stood in the middle of the empty store Satan stared down at the long since expired bag of chips that sported an eroding picture of a little bear wearing a bowtie and top hat on the bag. It had probably been sitting on the shelf since before the gas station had ever opened. He figured what the hell; the world's going to end soon anyway; why not take a chance.

He went back to the car where Dana Plough was waiting for him, tightening her bonnet. He gave her the chips and shot her an understanding toothy grin. He would soon curse the decision of that purchase, as he would have to make four more pit stops as the chips exacted their ruthless revenge on Dana Plough's intestines, and his patience.

*****

Michael Ryan hadn't been particularly religious. He hadn't been to church since he was twelve, but he was really looking forward to meeting God. He was brought up Episcopalian and after his papers were signed and notarized he got into the line to see the God his parents had prayed to and encouraged with an iron fist to go along with.

He had been waiting for almost an hour, but was now third from the front. After a few minutes a young girl at the front of the line was called in. The massive gold and pearl doors opened and shut behind her and he moved up one more spot.

He paused for a moment when he thought that out in the distance a voice had called his name. He looked around but didn't notice anyone, so he went back to thinking about the three questions everyone gets to ask, which usually ended with number three being: _Where's the hell's bathroom, I really have to pee and it was a really long line!"._

On the horizon he saw a young lady waving in his general direction and as she approached he could clearly tell that she was shouting his name. As she neared he could finally focus on the face of his trumpeter. A wave of fear ran over him and quickly turned the other way trying to pretend that he wasn't there. DANZ & C>500TP spun him around to come face to face with the person she had been searching for.

"Mr. Ryan, do you remember me?"

"Yes?" he said with abandoned meekness.

"Good. Well anyway, you got away from me before I could finish talking with you."

"Yes?"He whimpered in a pleading attempt to stop her ill-placed discussions. He wasn't the shoulder to cry on. Neither in the living world or here did woman look to him to be a rock in their time of despondency. It wasn't in his demeanor to comfort the miserable, and DANZ & C>500TP was the miserable person he knew.

"So, I was watching them just a few minutes ago and you know what happened?" she went on assured he was listening even though she was too preoccupied with her own demands to notice. "I mean you couldn't possibly guess what I saw." She waited a half second for his response. "Oh all right guess."

"You know, I don't really have to meet God. I mean I'm sure he's extremely busy and I'm very tired. I think I'll just go." He said attempting to sneak away while she was preoccupied with whatever it was she was yammering on about.

"She called him honey!" she exclaimed, grabbing him by the collar as so he couldn't get away. "Can you believe it? Honey! Of all the low down, dirty, rotten things to say to someone."

"Honey doesn't necessarily mean a term of love; it may just be an idiom." Michael had resigned himself to the fact he wasn't getting away. But he wasn't to give 110% in the advice department either.

"Don't make me an idiot with your idioms, pal. I know what I saw."

"Honestly, I don't need to see God; I'm not religious anyhow." He tried to wriggle out of the shirt she clung to. It was to no avail, he was a prisoner in an emotional kidnapping.

"Good." She grabbed him by the arm and dragged him from the line. His heels scrapped along the painted floor leaving scuffmarks along heaven's waiting line. "Then you can come with me."

He clenched his jaw in woeful penitence and a small tear started to well up in his right eye. "Oh boy."

*****

3 DAYS BEFORE THE BIRTH

The room was pitch-black, but it felt cavernous, evidenced by the echoes of footsteps bouncing from the tall concrete walls down to the cracked concrete floors. It was ice cold and with only a faint spotlight shining on the grey floor in the middle of the room made it seem like a vaudevillian stage for the soon to be guillotined.

A small man wearing a bowler and dressed in a dapper tweed suit with bulky coke bottle glasses made his way over to the light. Dust circled and scampered among the rays that beat down on his face, blinding him to the rest of the room. The small package wrapped in brown paper was getting damp from the sweat that beaded and trickled down his arms and into palms. He took his place and stood silently. His nose itched but he didn't dare make a move to scratch it.

"Have you done it?" A deep baritone voice resonated from the darkness.

"I have."

"We had our doubts," said a second voice, which could have female, but again could have been male. It was nurturing with a hint of treble that boomed like a balled up fist.

"Yes?"

"You have done well for us," said another voice, more cajoling than the previous two, helping to ease the mind of the small man wearing a bowler and dressed in a dapper tweed suit with bulky coke bottle glasses.

"I have tried to do my best."

"We know you have, and we appreciate everything you have sacrificed for this day," said the first voice.

"Sorry, I'm late. What did I miss?" said a fourth voice that was female in timbre.

"Nice of you to finally join us; it's not as if this little thing we've all shown up on time for is of any importance," said the first voice.

"I said I was sorry. I was indisposed."

"Can we just get back to the subject," said the third voice.

"I've forgotten what we were talking about now," said the second voice.

"Well, if some of us would check our calendars once in a while and be to these meetings on time, we wouldn't have these problems," said the first voice.

"Listen, I don't how many times I can possibly say 'I'm sorry'" said the fourth voice. "It's over with; let's just get back to business,"

"That's what we've been trying to do," said the third voice.

"You don't start in on me too, please."

"It's just that I can see his point; you were very late."

"I had pressing business to take of, all right?"

"Like what?" asked the second voice.

"I had to feed Whiskers."

"What--? The cat?" the first voice was losing what little tolerance he had left.

"Yes, the cat. I can't let it starve."

"How ironic!" screamed the first voice.

"Oh don't start with me. I'm not in the mood. Can we please just get back to business; I have a very busy day planned."

"Fine with me," said the second voice, "Now where were we?"

"Something about feeding cats?" said the third voice.

"I think he was asking where we were with him." Said the second, directed at the small man wearing a bowler and dressed in a dapper tweed suit with bulky coke bottle glasses.

The four looked over to the spotlight in the middle of the room, which now seemed to be curiously unoccupied by the person who was supposed to be there.

"Where did he go?"

"I don't know."

"Wasn't anyone watching him?"

"Why would anyone be doing that? It's not as if he's prone to wandering away. He's never done it before."

"Well he's done it this time."

"We can all see that, Ms. Obvious."

"You don't need to be so snippy."

The voices bickered about the finer points of being late and the lack of consideration it brought with it. They also argued about the proper way to care for a tabby, which didn't seem to have a point to why the man was there.

The small man wearing a bowler and dressed in a dapper tweed suit with bulky coke bottle glasses shuffled into his place in the center of room and gently coughed, trying to grab their attention.

"Where have you been?" asked the third voice.

"I had to use the little boys' room."

"And you didn't bother to ask whether it was all right with us?"

"You seemed busy."

"What are we paying you for?"

"You're not paying me anything."

"Are you paying us?" asked the first voice.

"No, should I be?"

"Never mind," said the fourth voice, "Let's just get back to the task at hand."

"Fine with me," said the first voice. He shook off the rattle of the argument and went back to his deep monotone way of speaking to the little man, "Have you completed your task?"

"We've already been over this." Said the fourth.

"We have? Oh yes, well then, um, you have pleased us all. Have you brought what we asked of you?"

"I have."

"We asked?" the first voice scoffed. "Please, we had nothing to do with it. That's your little vanity project he's got in that box." He scoffed again, "We asked!"

"Okay! Fine! I asked?"

"You did?"

"Yes."

"Well, that clears that up."

The little man was developing a sinking suspicion that all of his long hours of hard work were going to waste on people who obviously were not prepared to deal with the overall enormity of the situation that was the end of the world.

"Good, is it enlaced with the priceless jewels I had specified?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't skimp on the rubies. I like rubies."

"I think you'll be pleased."

"Good. Well, you can just leave it there. Thanks for all your hard work."

"Is that it?"

"Don't you have other things to do?" asked the third voice.

"Yes, but--" concerned consternation filled the little man.

"You have been dismissed. We are done here."

"Yes, but I was wondering about the book and the chosen one to whom I gave it. I'm not sure it may have been the best decision. If I may propose."

There was silence.

"Hello?"

Silence.

"Anybody there? Anybody?"

Still more silence.

"Okay." He said to no one there but the echoes, "I guess that was it."

*****

The convertible pulled up to a charming little yellow house with a white picket fence and a mailbox in the shape of a cat. The lawn was meticulously cared for and freshly trimmed, a vibrant color of green usually reserved for an Adam Pynacker painting. The stained wooden shutters that outlined the windows were a rich russet brown with a small heart hand-carved in the center of each.

The house belonged in a book, preferably where a woodcutter's family would happily live until their children wandered off into the forest, ate a house made of confectioneries, then were all sent to prison for assault with a deadly oven on an old woman whose only crime was not wanting her home destroyed by a couple of bratty kids with a sweet tooth.

Dana Plough sat in the car and stared at the house, her hand petrified by the touch of the door handle, while a half eaten licorice stick dangled from her lips.

Her other hand was firmly locked like a vice on the driver's hand as she blocked any blood that might have wanted to flow through it. The past ebbed and flowed over her mind, the memories of childhood crashing on the shore of her adulthood.

Satan pried his mangled hand from her grasp and patted her on the knee. He wasn't sure what the appropriate thing to do was in a situation like this. He wasn't even sure what the situation was. Whenever he had attempted to question her about her parents, she would shove some sort edible food item, and once a packet of ketchup she found on the floor when she had been desperate and out of food into her mouth and pretend she couldn't talk with a full mouth.

He knew what it was like having to embarrassedly walk up to your father and try to act like all that stuff you did when you were younger and rebellious had never happened. He was doing something, and he knew deep down that his dad would be very proud of him for his accomplishments and finally take him fishing like he did with his brother.

"Ready to do this?"

"No."

"Come on, how hard can it be? They're just people. Your parents raised a very successful, beautiful and charming woman. They're probably beaming with pride and telling all their friends all about their big television star of a daughter."

"You don't know my folks at all."

"We don't have to go in if you don't want to."

"Great, let's get the hell out of here."

"Wait, wait."

"No. You said we didn't have to do it and I'm not going to do it. I'm not! I'm not! I'm not! And that's all there is to it, you can't me do it, I won't."

"I believe you just regressed to two years old."

"I can't help it! They make me crazy. My entire life has been one big getaway from the prison that was my youth. You can't expect me to just turn myself in to the prison guards just like that."

A small grey-haired woman in a pink and blue evening coat opened the door of the house and peered out into the car. Her expression went from confusion about what kind of hardened criminal would be sitting outside her house waiting for the right moment to pop out to rape and kill her in what could only be construed as an emotional cry for help, to an expression of pure unadulterated happiness.

She jumped up and down waving frantically, the flap of skin under her arm giggling and flapping in the breeze like a flag made of jelly. She ran screaming like an owl in a wood chipper into the house.

"Well, the jig is up. I think she saw us," said Satan.

"Maybe she didn't get a good look at me. Maybe she thought I was the mailman; old people are always anticipating the Publishers' Clearinghouse sweepstakes in their box."

The woman came running out of the house, feverishly dragging an old man behind her. The man was wearing a t-shirt, a pair of boxers, and black socks, and was having a hard time keeping up with her pace. His legs were skinny and pale white.

The sight to which, when he went to get the morning paper, most of his neighbors would take to keeping the window blinds shut tight until it was safe to look out on the day without losing their appetite for their morning sugary cereals.

The couple came barreling down the walkway and through the gate. They reached the car and hit it with a resounding thud. The woman was out of breath and struggling to keep her balance as the blood poured into the many appendages of her short and stubby body, but kept a broad smile as her gaze never left the woman in the passenger's seat.

"Is it really you? Is it really her?" said the woman.

"Hi mom." Her voice soft and had a musicality to it Satan had never heard before.

"And what am I, chopped liver?" blustered Mr. Plough, bending over the window, pants creeping down his backside, to give the neighbors a reason to nail up their storm shutters on even the sunniest of days.

"Shut up Larry." Mrs. Plough kiddingly jabbed him in his bulging stomach that was encroaching into the car. "I just can't believe you're here! After all these years. I know, I know, you're terribly busy with your career, but really, you could have picked up the phone. I tried to call you, but the number you gave me has been disconnected for the last fifteen years."

"Whoops. Didn't I give you my new one?" shame was also Satan had never seen from her, but she seemed to be exhibiting that also.

"It doesn't matter," Mrs. Plough gently patted her hand and stroked her hair with a mother's loving touch."What matters is that you're here. Oh hey, I just had a crazy idea. Who's in the mood for some carob-flavored hot cocoa?"

"Should we be?" questioned Satan who had been hypnotized up to this point by the bubbling enthusiasm of Mrs. Plough.

"Don't be silly, we wouldn't dare think of drinking anything else. It's very healthy and high in sucrose. More than forty percent than regular chocolate" as if she had been kidnapped and forced to repeat advertising slogans. "It's also rich in pectin, non-allergenic, abundant in protein, and has no oxalic acid. And if I must say, is much tastier. Yummy!"

"Well who am I to argue with a steaming cup of boiling sucrose?" agreed Satan.

"Great. Come on, come on."

Dana Plough stepped out of the car, which broke off her mother's talking to gaze upon on the massive bulge that protruded from beneath her daughter's bosom. Mrs. Plough had been waiting for almost two decades to see her child again, but reconciliation with Dana Plough took a backseat to every mother's happiest day, knowing that she would be a grandmother.

"You're pregnant!?"

"Yes."

"Oh my lord, look at you, you're so big. This really is a special occasion. Forget the carob; this is a celebration, we're drinking Ovaltine!"

"Yum?" declared a worried Satan.

Mrs. Plough took her daughter's arm and led her into the house, leaving Mr. Plough and Satan outside alone with each other.

"So you get good mileage on this thing? I've got the minivan over there." Said Mr. Plough pointing out what was his pride and joy. He didn't necessarily want nor need a minivan, but he cleverly bargained the salesman down to knock off three hundred dollars on the sticker price, even though the salesman had offered to take off five.

A man is only as good as his bartering prowess and Mr. Plough was a man who wouldn't take no for an answer, even if he was undercutting himself in the process.

"She's a beauty." Satan whistled and nodded his head, trying to act impressed about the hunk of brown steel and wood paneling with the words The Beast scrolled onto its rear bumper that Mr. Plough had given a place of honor in his yard, between the hideously nightmarish pipe smoking lawn gnomes and pink flamingos that lined the driveway.

"Well we should be getting in," Mr. Plough might not have known how to haggle, but he was a pro at knowing when a conversation had reached a dead end.

Satan entered first at the insistence of Mr. Plough, who was holding the door open for him while a gust of wind blew open the fly on his boxers, revealing something more horrific than the Prince of Darkness who was standing before him could have ever used as torture in the deepest pits of Hell [Even the devil has his limits].

As he stepped into the living room his senses were hit by a brick wall. Thousands of tiny painted eyes gazed out from thousands of Hummel figurines, piercing his very being.

The cherubic faces of the porcelain children stared a hole through his soul, with their glares fixed tight on his; they mocked everything that may have been right with the world.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" said Mrs. Plough, glowing with the pride of a woman whose existence was run by miniature glass children.

Her life was ruled by the iron fists of a glossy white and cherry cheeked community of fiendish happy-faced characters. A town comprised of people whose very being must have been a result of someone a very dark and painful life full of the types of troubling travails that Dante would have hid under his bed for and cried like a small girl for his mommy.

"I, um, they're uh, what's the word I'm looking for -- frightening."

"I know. I love them so much. It's like they possess me and make me buy them and all their cuddly little friends' right up."

"Have you ever thought about counseling?" Satan said, trying to overt his eyes from the demonic little creatures.

"Don't be silly." Mrs. Plough took him by the arm and led him over to the sofa where Dana Plough sat trying to avert the gazes of what her mother had affectionately deemed her brothers and sisters. "Now you just sit here. The refreshments are coming out in a sec. I made Rice Krispy Treats!"

"I think I lost my appetite," said Dana Plough.

"You are a silly one, aren't you," Mrs. Plough disappeared into the kitchen, but her shrill shriek could still be heard as she yelled from the other room, "Larry, get in here!"

"I have to go now." Said Mr. Plough, a man who had been beaten over forty seven years of marriage into a life of servitude and quiet despair just waiting for the day when he would have the courage to take out his gun and shoot himself in the head.

Satan and Dana Plough were left alone in the room and sat quietly transfixed on anything they could find around the room that didn't have a fishing pole or a pair of ice skates in its glassy hands.

Satan sat and tapped his fingers on his knees, giving out a noticeable sigh every few seconds. In return for his sighs Dana Plough would answer with a slight whimper.

"So," said Satan trying to find something to talk about while they awaited the rich smooth goodness of the chocolaty milk concoction.

"So--." Dana Plough said tapping her fingers nervously.

"Those are your folks, huh?"

"Yep."

"Your mom seems-uh- what's the word? Happy?"

"Very happy. Happy, happy, happy."

"That's a good quality. Nothing wrong with happy."

"Nope. Nothing wrong with it at all. Happy is good. Happy is sound. Happy's what makes the world go round."

"What?"

"Something my mother would say like a war anthem."

"Oh."

"Yep."

The conversation fizzled into a black hole of half-hearted smiles and shrugs of shoulders. The silence was broken up by the ticking of a large wooden clock on the wall and by the intermittent screaming of Mrs. Plough at Mr. Plough about how much marshmallow substitute they should dole out to their guests.

"Wanna go?"

"I thought you'd never ask," exclaimed Satan as he leapt off the couch and bounded over the coffee table in one fell swoop.

Before Dana Plough could pull herself off the couch the kitchen doors flung open and Mrs. Plough, carrying a large tray with an assortment of goodies, came wobbling in.

Dana Plough struggled against hope to pry herself up from the sunken cushions and try a desperate attempt at escape, but it was no use; she was just too big and immobile to get any kind of running start.

She formulated a quick plan that involved plowing down her elderly, beaming-with-pride mother and strewing the tray of chocolate milk and school fundraiser snacks into the air as a distraction tactic.

Those plans went out the window as she came to the conclusion that she had sunk too far into the sofa and remembered that her mother had always been built like a human Weeble; you could knock her over but she wouldn't fall down.

Mrs. Plough sat the tray down and slipped into the space next to her daughter. She grabbed Dana Plough's knee and clinched tight, causing Dana Plough to give a yelp of pain. The face of her little tank of a mother was absolutely glowing with pride that the fruit of her seventy six hours of labor had finally returned to the nest and brought along a child and an utterly gorgeous hunk of man meat. The family dynamic was complete after so many years of being pulled apart. Mrs. Plough wasn't going to let it go and had the grip to ensure that it stayed that way.

"Now, everyone sit down and we'll get better acquainted, Mr. uh--?" Her smile traveled to the desperate face of Satan who was standing by the door, his hand frozen to the knob.

"Mr. Campbell."

"I don't see a ring on my daughter's finger, but I do see a bun in the oven. I'm not sure how they do things where you're from, but here in state's capitol we don't make the children whose seed we planted into bastards."

"Frankness. Good. Um, we haven't gotten around to that discussion yet."

"Mr. Campbell, there is no time quite like the present." Her smiling eyes never taking their penetrating gaze from his, even though he tried hard to find a hiding spot from it.

"Um--"

"It's not that hard," beamed Mrs. Plough, "just ask my daughter to marry you and we'll get to the snacks."

*****

Claudel King was not where most twelve year old boys should be during a school day. But to be fair, most twelve year old boys didn't have their own business.

Claudel's _Maps to the Stars_ was a start-up but he was sure that it would be hitting the big time with a few more suckers, er, sales. People wanted to know where all their favorite celebrities lived and had no sympathy or regard for them when it came to intruding in on their privacy. Besides, if you didn't want strangers muddling through your garbage and taking photos of you in the shower with telescopic lenses you shouldn't have signed that three picture deal with Sony.

He had what he felt was a nice little operation. He had a good corner with a lot of traffic, an umbrella hooked up to a lawn chair, a folding table he had borrowed from the local youth center and a cooler filled with sodas and beer to sell to customers on hot summer days.

He was fanning himself and swatting flies with one of his homemade maps when a car screeched its tires and came to a smoky stop in front of him. He put on his best innocent little kid face, patted his hair into a nice coif, and walked up to the car.

A man rolled down the passenger side window while arguing with the woman seated next to him. It seemed to be a heated discussion about child labor laws and whether or not it was a good idea to buy a map from someone who looked more shifty and underhanded at twelve than most adult used car salesmen.

Claudel waited patiently, preparing to give his best sales pitch, while the squabbling in the car died down. After a moment of silence Barnaby stuck his head out of the window and exchanged polite smiles with the twelve year old entrepreneur, whom on closer inspection did have a certain worldly look about him.

"How much?"

"Well, depends on what kind of a man you are sir." Claudel said in what he deemed his best air of sweet speaking haggler. "I can see you're a man of well defined qualities and predilections. I believe you don't want to ask the question how much, but rather the question; how much is the enjoyment of a _Claudel's Map to the Stars_ going to provide me?"

"I see."

"For God's sake-- How much is the damn map?" Ketty screamed out frustrated by the little salesman's propriety for selling more bull than crap.

"Five bucks."

"We'll take it," said Barnaby.

He handed the boy a five and took the map, handing it to Ketty. She opened it up and perused the siesta-red crayoned, hand drawn houses on the map.

Claudel had seen this look before and slowly started to back off towards his stand. Ketty closed the map and waved a finger, calling over the pre-teen Donald Trump. Claudel inched closer to the car, a rehearsed smile pursed to his lips.

"Any troubles, ma'am?"

"Well, I have a few." Her eyes never left the gaze of her targeted pitchman "Who are these people? I've never heard of most of these stars."

"Oh very big stars," pleaded Claudel in his worst sales pitch, "Past, present and future, they're all there. Take a look and find your favorite, or perhaps you'll find someone who soon will be."

"Let's cut out the prepared presentation for the tourists, mister. I didn't fall off a turnip truck and I didn't pay five bucks to find out where Tom Humlow lived, whoever the hell he is."

"Fine actor, played Sleestak warrior number five in three episodes of Land of the Lost. Next Olivier many people were to have said about, um- Tim?"

"Tom Humlow?"

"Exactly."

"I want our money back."

"Sorry, no refunds after you've opened it up."

"Why you little--!"

"Never mind," said Barnaby, "Her house is on here."

"You see, the man knows what a good map it is." He smugly grinned.

"I suggest you head back to school as soon as possible. I'm calling social services as soon as we leave here young man."

"No you can't," barked Barnaby, "we have to get to Dana Plough's house."

"You heard the man, now drive". Shouted Claudel, although he knew he was pushing buttons that would launch nuclear missiles of a major ass kicking.

The car sped off, trailing with the sounds of unhappy customers. Claudel headed back to his wicker office, keeping an eye on the vehicle to see if it made any sign of doing a u-turn. The car pulled around the block and out of sight.

After a few minutes Claudel settled back and cracked open a beer, resting his feet on top of his makeshift desk. This was turning out to be a pretty good day; he had sold one of his maps and didn't need to find another corner because of it.

*****

Satan had half-heartedly proposed and Dana Plough had half-heartedly accepted in order to bate the appeasement of the browbeating mother hovering over her. Her mother's hand clenched her thigh squeezing tighter with every 'um' and 'I don't know' that stumbled from her daughter's mouth.

Glasses of chocolaty Ovaltine were clinked and Larry Plough was slapped upside of the head on account of as mediocre as her daughter's engagement had been, it had been hundreds of times better than what she had gotten out of her man.

"You see, wasn't that nice? Now we can get down to having fun."

Mrs. Plough had an almost psychotic way of changing both the mood of the room and of herself in a split second. If she had believed in drugs she would be a pharmacist's best bet for sending his kids to Ivy League colleges.

Dana Plough pried her mom's hand off her thigh and shook life back into the veins that had died being pinned under the tree of her grip. She turned to her mother and took her hands, making as much eye contact as she could manage. "Mom, the reason I came here, I wanted to say something to you and dad."

Mrs. Plough leapt up and threw open her arms. A thick glaze poured over eyes as she contorted her round face into something resembling an obsessively clean raccoon at a garbage can feast.

"Come with me; I have something to show everyone!"

"Mom, really, I have to--"

"Nonsense! Now, if you'll just head this way. Believe me it's something you do not want to miss. I've been working on it for years now. It's almost complete!" She had a giddy exuberance that bounced each syllable around the room.

Dana Plough's face was becoming a twisted mess of spittle and a deep shade of red. "Mom! Will you please listen to me for once in your life!" She had become, after just few minutes in her childhood home, a raging bubbling kettle about to explode with furious vengeance.

Through the crimson sea of broken blood vessels that flushed her scalp she stared at the woman whose greatest joy was the day she had given birth to her daughter. She had yet to reach the surface of what had been kept bottled up so deep for so long. She had spent a lifetime under the unwavering blindness of a woman who, if life had given her lemons, she would have denied their existence and made a cherry pie.

"Now is that any way to speak to your parents? You use your emotion scale and count to ten. Once you're able to talk like a lady we'll continue the conversation. It's childish, all this hoping around the room like a mad kangaroo."

"I'm sitting!"

"Come with me Mr. Campbell, I'll show you, and Dana can join us when she's ready to be an adult." She put her arm around Satan and led him through the kitchen door, "Why you ever chose to marry that girl, I have no idea."

*****

The Death was the first to arrive; he stood looking over the vast emptiness of windblown sand dunes as his scythe melted into the hot sand beneath him.

Famine was dressed in a very chic riding outfit, her helmet by her side so as not mess up her new hairdo. Her long black locks fluttered in the breeze as she took her place beside The Death watching the sand dance over her newly painted toenails.

Conquest came next to the top of the dune and lifted his palm over her eyes to shield the sun from its glare and sighed. She was decked out head to toe as if she was auditioning for the role of Brunhilde in the Royal Opera's production of Wagner's Ring, complete with long golden braids and a helmet of horns. She was a large woman with a buxom figure and bosoms that heaved out from under her silvery breast plate.

War was last to arrive. He was dressed from top to bottom in brilliant reds and blacks that glistened like a rainbow in an oil slick under the hot African sun. He towered above Famine like a sequoia as he looked down and smiled under a massive skull helmet made up of some unidentified but obviously dangerous animal, which he wore as more set decoration than anything else [When your job is to inspire wars it usually helps not to be wearing a beanie]. His eyes glowed as he surveyed the landscape and stroked his thick ebony beard with his forefingers, stopping to purse his lips before turning to the others.

The four looked at each other and nodded. No words needed to be spoken, they had been anticipating this day for many years, but none of them were actually prepared for this to be it. It had been a good ride and now it was time for the ride to come to crashing halt. They set out across the dessert, the hot sand seeming to part in reverence as they walked. War stopped and pulled a magnificent silver sword out of his robe, holding it up to reflect the rays of the sun.

"Could you please tell me why we have to walk?"

"Because," said The Death, "That's where we need to go." pointing a bony finger across the flickering sepia landscape.

"I know that, but couldn't we have just met there? What's the point of all this walking anyway? We're Horsemen, for Pete's sake, not walk-men."

Famine picked up a scorpion that had been scurrying by and held it in her palm. She allowed the arachnid to scurry around her delicately slender arm until it succumbed to its primal urges and pierced its stinger through her milky skin. She pinched it between her forefingers and held it up even with her stare, then tossed it into her mouth and swallowed it whole. "Because the journey is part of the job." She said dabbing her lips with a handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve.

"Rubbish! This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever been a part of." War said smoldering under a simmering fury of lost time and blistered feet.

"Would you like to add?" said The Death to Conquest.

"Nope, let's just walk." Conquest said cherubically. Conquest, to no avail, had been trying to make the time between sand dunes as bearable as possible with the art of small talk. She had learned the practice while guiding Mongolian armies through Europe, a group not known for their academic exploits, but fine fellows to sit down and chat with over a cup of coffee.

She had never quite perfected it, which was okay since most armies nowadays weren't interested in how many rabbits one could fit into an average Carthaginian on a really humid day after their bodies were nice and bloated. So she did the best she could with, "How's Whiskers?"

"Same as always," replied Famine serendipitously. "Hungry."

*****

Dana Plough's house sat out in the midst of rolling green grass and neatly trimmed shrubbery that lined the yard. She would often sit and muse over her morning cup of coffee, gazing over the manicured fields of green, about how much a twenty five hundred dollar a week lawn really brightened up the place.

Of course she felt better in the knowledge that she paid a guy known only as 'Joe' when he unloaded a truck-load of Illegals who would work from day to night for just twenty dollars a day to feed, clothe and house their families. A stone driveway wound its way through to the massive iron gates, which were fettered between the tall, ivied brick walls that screamed ' _STAY OUT!_ ' accented by the large sign that read: STAY OUT!
The car idled across the street as Barnaby watched the tiny sliver of house he could make out through the trees. He held the binoculars examining the Agents inside the home and wondered aloud to himself if they were indeed doing what he thought they were doing. After a few minutes of curious peeks from behind his puzzled brow he decided that they were indeed dancing. And actually doing it quite well.

"What exactly are we doing here again?" asked Ketty.

"We are doing recon work, which stands for reconnaissance; it's what the military uses for gaining information about-"

"I know what recon is!"

If Ketty had not been taking three days a week yoga classes at Missy's Easitorium for the past three years she would have burst a heart vessel from the stress of the last two days spent with this supposed savior of the universe.

"Then why did you ask?"

"I meant, why are we just sitting in the car doing nothing? We can't see a thing from here. I'm no expert, but wouldn't we be better served if we actually went in the house to look for whatever the hell it is we're looking for?"

"Exactly."

"Exactly what?"

"We are looking for whatever the Hell it is."

"Listen, this has been wonderful, but I'm going inside."

"No, we can't go in yet."

"Why not?"

"Because we have to wait until dark. Recon happens at night." Barnaby was adamant about sticking to the reconnaissance handbook, even though he hadn't read it. "We'll be hidden under the darkness of night."

"So your brilliant plan is that we're just going to sit here in this car for six hours until the sun goes down. Is that it?"

"Don't be silly. We'll wait eight hours." He thought for a moment, and reconsidered his crazy notion of sitting in a car 8 hours so he could sneak into a house full of large killing machines and do something he wasn't quite sure what it was. "Maybe nine. That way we'll know its dark enough."

Ketty could physically feel a small aneurism clotting inside her brain and silently prayed that it would kill her quickly. She squeezed and rubbed the steering wheel causing a squeak under the force of the traction.

She breathed deeply and counted backwards from ten, a lesson she had learned from her yoga classes. She rolled her head around her neck, making a gruesome crackling sound as the pent up vertebrae snapped beneath the tension.

"I am not going to sit here in a cramped car for eight hours waiting so we can break into someone's house to look for something we have no idea what we're looking for in the first place. We're leaving."

"But--" he pleaded helplessly.

"We're leaving." She said through clenched teeth, still holding tight to the steering wheel beneath her sweaty palms.

"Where are we going?"

"I don't know, but we're not staying here."

She started the engine and put the car into drive and sped off down the tree lined boulevard towards town. The shadows of the palm trees caressed her face as she peered out from under her sunglasses at the winding road before her. She wasn't much of a drinker and it was only noon, but right now she needed something stiff and hard and at least one hundred proof.

"Are we coming back later?"

"Don't talk to me right now."

"But--"

"Silence!"

"Fine," Barnaby huffed, "There was something else I wanted to do anyhow."

*****

The Death of Australia, New Zealand and Countries with a Population less than 500 total People stepped out from behind a large bush trimmed in the shape of a flamingo and watched the car drive off down the road. She reached behind the topiary and yanked out Michael Ryan, who was feeling a mixture of paranoid nervousness about the crazed look in the eyes of his tour guide and a sense that somehow he had done someone very wrong when he was alive and he was now experiencing some kind of cosmic time-out for everything he had ever done.

He would have tried to escape during one of the numerous occasions she had turned his back on him to stare a hole into the two people they were tailing for no apparent reason except to try and conjure up some sort of romance out of two people who didn't seem to like each other much. He would have tried to escape except for the fact that he didn't know how he kept getting places and was not even sure how to get back, although sometimes running free amongst the streets of southern California as a ghost seemed to make a lot of sense.

"Did you see that?" she said, "Did you see how they were all over each other? It makes me sick."

"I really didn't see anything like that." He sighed.

"Well than you're not looking at it hard enough."

"I looked pretty hard."

DANZ & C>500TP spun around on her heels and grabbed Michael by the collar. Her nose pressed up against his, her bloodshot eyes inches from his. Her panicky breathing through her clenched teeth said to him he should really start just going along with whatever she said.

"That's because you're a man."

Her words danced in the air and pounded his face, landing a couple of whirlwind rights to his temple. As grip on his shirt tightened, and as the cotton started to strangle his vocal cords he attempted to talk but nothing came out. He labored flaccidly to manage a slight gulp. DANZ & C>500TP let go from the tug of war with his larynx, causing Michael to fly through the air into a rosebush.

"Is this Hell?" He said as he stood up, picking the thorns that had lanced his nape. Looking at the hyperventilating woman hovering over him fixing for round two of their one-sided verbal pugilism, he gave up.

'This is Hell isn't it? I mean, where else could it be? I'm being punished for everything that I ever did while I was alive."

"This isn't Hell, you numbskull". She began to run down the road at full pace. Michael Ryan stared at the sight of his trim captor pounding the pavement as her long locks flowed in the breeze. "Now hurry up and come on. We have to catch up with them before we lose them."

He watched her fading into a dot over the grey horizon and started to run after her. "I knew it. This is Hell."

*****

"Well, what do you think?" said Mrs. Plough, glowing with motherly pride.

"I take back everything I said about the hummels. This is the creepy room." Satan stared in bewilderment at the sea of bright pink flowers on pinker wallpaper, glossy and soul-less porcelain faced dolls sitting piled high upon shelf after shelf, and the dizzying assortment of fuzzy, nondescript pastel animals that made up the bedroom. "Is it just me or did a Muppet throw up a diseased flamingo?"

"It's Dana's room." Mrs. Plough beamed. She was in shear heaven as her eyes took in the collage of hot pink ambrosia that comprised her daughters' childhood bedroom.

"You put it back to where it was when she was six?"

"Don't be silly, this isn't a child's room. This is exactly the way she left it when she moved out after college."

If Dana Plough had graduated from college when she was still in preschool the room would still have been too girly. Even for the most Disney princess-crazed, bubble-toed moppet was a bit more discerning concerning decor. This could not the room that spawned the future breeder of the end of civilization, he thought to himself.

Satan stood silently next to his betrothed's eerily innocent mother when Dana Plough burst into the room with a pained look of a half-eaten gazelle in her eyes. It was a look that every teenager rolls with their eyes at their parents when being dragged out on a Saturday evening to the mall for back to school shopping, knowing that they'll see kids from school whom they never talk to but want to impress in order to get into the right clique. Only to be deceived by their fifty degrees below cool waving triumphantly to all her little classmates.

Dana Plough's eyes popped out as she froze, bewildered at the memories that cascaded over her in a river of bright lilac and lace. She groaned muttered to herself, as she left the room, something about her childhood, her mother, and a rabid French poodle named Missy. Mrs. Plough watched her turn the corner, never allowing her broad and euphoric smile to disappear from her mouth. She turned back and put her hand on Satan's shoulder. "Let's look at photo albums!"

"Oh goody?" maligned Satan.

*****

Stephen Mulraney had written three books, hosted a hit television show and was featured in a raunchy teen sex road comedy. This would have been fine and dandy if he hadn't also been the world's most famous clairvoyant, a fact that the after-life viewed as blasphemy.

The after-life doesn't have any ill-will towards people who talk to the dead; the after-life was happy to have them around to converse with the dead [The dead drive most workers in the after-life insane with their inane blabbering about the meaning of life and why there isn't a bigger selection of fixin's in Heaven's many salad bars], but they took exception to the ones who lie about it.

Mulraney was a shyster and a crook. Worst of all for him, as he would find, was pissing off people who had long memories and a whole lot of power. He would be subjected to a horde of rather cheesed-off individuals when the time finally came that he would be in a position to actually talk to the dead.

He confidently occupied center stage at a local community college's theatre. He wore his trademark black turtleneck sweater and khaki dungarees. His large brown eyes shined through a pair of expensive designer glasses that he wore for the art, not for the vision.

A headset microphone shadowed his chubby cheeks, which seemed mismatched on his slender face. He peered out from the spotlight that caressed his ego and smiled at his waiting and screaming audience. He was a rock star of the diviner world and wore the approbation like a rainbow-colored robe.

He ineffectually but purposely tried to call his admiring fans with his patented " _two finger shush of love_ " motion. This move consisted of putting his index and pointer to his lips then sending a huge kiss to his bated audience that would make the Dating Game contestants seem like ice cream cone-eating virgins, riling his admirers into another frantic frenzy.

His smile beamed and if someone squinted hard enough they could have sworn that when the light hit his teeth just right, sparks flew. The man couldn't converse with the dead, but he had the living eating out of the palm of his hand. His legions sat, their seats mere edges to teeter on, for Mulraney to go into his "trance", during which he would become a vessel for anyone with a willingness to part with $400 for a chance say hi to grandma.

He sorted through the waves of raised hands until his glance fell on a young lady sitting halfway up the hall. He pointed and she shrieked. It was sheer mastery of crowd control, if you wanted your crowd to be raving lunatics.

He quickly dispatched her fears that her recently deceased father hadn't been happy with her new career move, and proved his other-worldly conversation by telling her that she really liked chocolate chip cookies as a child. This morsel of knowledge helped to appease her worries, and the whole bit about a child liking cookies wasn't much more than an easy lay-up by the con man in the black turtleneck.

Barnaby raised his hand and his eyes locked on the snake oil salesman in wizard's clothes. Mulraney tried his best to avoid the tractor beam that was pulling him into a conversation with a man whom, he knew deep down inside that he didn't want a dialogue with. He may not have been able to hear the voices of the dead, but he could certainly hear the voices in the back of his head telling him to eschew the conference.

But, there are certain things people just have to do, like slow down to a snail's pace at highway accidents that happened across the median from them. People's desire to see blood and others' misfortunes will always trump decency. Barnaby's hand was an accident across the highway, and Mulraney just had to slow down to see the monstrosity of tangled steel and flesh.

"Yes, the well dressed man in the dapper suit." His finger fixedly waved towards the harsh gaze of Barnaby's stare.

"Thank you, Mr. Mulraney," Barnaby rose from his seat purposefully, methodically. The audience let out a small unified gasp, though none of them quite knew why.

"And which loved one would you like to converse with, or rather have me translate for, so to speak." His pearly whites glimmered under the spotlight.

"It's not so much that as I have a question."

"Well, I don't necessarily," started Mulraney, unable to pull himself from the unease of his certain downfall.

"It's just a small question."

Mulraney could feel his heart beating through his sweater, and then it seemed to stop. In fact the entire room seemed to fade into a dark abyss of the piercing eyes of all the dead that he never once spoke to.

His affected upper-class Northeastern accent faded and his true Midwestern drawl crept across his lips as he answered. "Sure," he gulped. The lump in throat was dry as a bone and felt like a razor as it bobbed around his Adam's apple.

"Well, it's more of a morality song really." Barnaby flashed him a smile that put Mulraney's dimpled toothy grin to shame. He stood and adjusted his suit jacket and loosened his tie as he cleared his throat and looked around the room and the hundreds of devoted faces that were transfixed to his lips. "Can I get a beat?"

"We don't have a band." As the words were spilling out Mulraney's mouth, attention turned to the sound of a drum beat carrying through the air. His eyes became small and crossed as the beads of sweat that had been pooling on his well made-up forehead began to trickle down his nose.

"I brought my own." The smile that permeated Barnaby's face had grown wider with every second that he had Mulraney on the ropes. The beats of an unseen drum were soon accompanied by the twinkling of a baby grand piano, or at least that's what it sounded like.

When listening to a live band with no actual equipment or players it was a tad hard to put your finger on just how big the piano actually was. "Oh, we got trouble," said Barnaby as he slide-stepped through the aisle onto the steps of the auditorium.

"We got trouble?" echoed Ketty in a soft voice, tugging on his jacket.

Barnaby looked down at her concerned face. She was a deer caught in the headlights of Barnaby's effervescent glow in the knowledge that he was in finally in the spotlight in this world he had been so forborne to discover.

The room darkened and a spotlight hit his face, cascading off the glowing aura that seemed to grow with each breath he took. He took a step down the aisle without ever seeming to leave his feet. "Yes, we got trouble." He said as he took another step, "Right here in L.A. City."

"Right here in L.A. City," a large woman sitting knee high to the gliding Barnaby said as she felt the unconscious need to get into the action. It seemed to her as if the husband she had buried two years previously and had come to Mulraney's dog and pony show to reconnect with had been slightly nudging her, the way he had often done when he was alive, when the stranger with the invisible band and lighting crew had begun to speak.

"Yes ma'am, right here in L.A. City," He reached down and gave his spontaneous chorus girl a gentle kiss on the top of her feathered and cheap drugstore dye-colored head and whispered, "Joe says to move on and stop making the dog wear those ridiculous clothes; it makes him feel sad."

"Joe or the dog?" she whispered back.

"I'm going to stray on the side of reason and say both." Barnaby leaned down and kissed her on top her multifaceted headgear and took another step down toward the sweating Mulraney.

"This is an atrocity!" shouted the growingly uneasy Mulraney. Words that even he himself didn't have the audacity to believe were spilling from him in a frothy mix of fear and envy "This man is a sham and a con artist. What he's doing is totally and utterly impossible!"

"Impossible, you say? Well, let's try another shall we?" Barnaby's smile now seemed to have taken over his entire face. His skull had become one giant toothy grin as he hopped down the steps, "Is there an Anada Houle here?"

A hand shot up across the room and Barnaby zeroed in like a cat stalking a three-legged mouse. "Hi Anada, glad you could join us. You're grandmother says you should stop seeing that guy."

"What guy?"

"Lionel. And you knew that. You were testing me; I like that." He grinned, "She says you've got to end the relationship before you get hurt."

"Why would I? Lionel would never hurt me."

"Well no, not physically, but he will crush you emotionally."

"Why?"

"Because he's gay sweetheart."

A fevered hush ran through the audience as all eyes turned from Barnaby to Anada. It's not often one gets the lowdown on a stranger by another stranger who seemed to know everything. No one in the audience knew Anada from Eve, but it was that grain of dirt that Barnaby dished everyone could call their own.

"That's ridiculous," a lump wiggled and nudged its way into her throat as a bright crimson masked formed on her delicate skin.

"Is there a Frankie King here?" Barnaby said, glancing around the audience. A tall thin man wearing a look of total desperation stood, his hand raised just above his ear.

"Frankie? Is it ridiculous that Anada's boyfriend is gay?"

The lump that had formed in Anada's throat made a quick jump across the room and landed squarely in Frankie's Adam's apple. "No," he coughed through apprehensive breadth.

"And he should know; he's been sleeping with Lionel for three months."

Frankie King's eyes shot to the floor, trying not to look Anada in hers. The floor seemed to be much friendlier than the beet-red and clenched-jawed tornado that used to be Anada Houle that stood across the room. At least the floor didn't have eyes that pierced your soul while ripping out your innards and feeding on your dead carcass.

"Well, I never," huffed Anada.

"And that should have been your first tip off."

Ketty, who had made her way through the oohing and aahing crowd, joined Barnaby by the steaming jilted lover who had just been dumped by a boyfriend who wouldn't find out until four hours later he been outed in a room full of strangers and a very pissed off man in a black turtleneck sweater. "Are you finished?" she whispered to the now full head on glimmering white smile that used to be Barnaby.

"Yes."

"And are you happy?"

He looked around the room at the stunned and silent spectators and a flicker of doubt began to fester in his mind. Had he really needed to put these people through this, and more so, should he have really exposed himself to a mass of believers who were never going to doubt anything again.

He then turned to Mulraney who stood furious in a lone spotlight in the center of a stage, his face brewing with an anger usually reserved for IRS agents who come knocking for a small sit down about all those "necessary expenses" you've been taking off for the past five years.

"Yes. Very."

*****

There were 5 stacks of albums piled eight high lying on the coffee table. It had been three hours since Mrs. Plough had sat Satan down for a trip down memory lane that had increasingly become a super highway. She had just shut the last page on Dana Plough: age eleven, and was searching through the stacks for age twelve. Larry Plough had fallen asleep in his recliner, upright, as he was prone to do.

He had learned several years ago to nap whenever he was in the house with his wife, and if he couldn't sleep, he had mastered the impression of seeming like he was. The sounds of an old man snoring wafted through the Plough house as Satan sat captured by a devoted mother who had single-handedly kept the Kodak Company from bankruptcy.

Satan's hand crept down his face as he attempted to get some semblance of blood back into his head. His eyes drooped as he kept one eye on the forty pages of Dana Plough's fifth grade dance recital and one eye on the gaudy wooden cuckoo clock on the wall.

The Ploughs didn't believe in caffeine in any form [He had decided after hour two of mind-numbing, excruciating boredom that without caffeine there would be, if he had anything to do with it and he most certainly had, a special place in hell for these types of people]. Dana Plough had somehow persuaded her mother after a few choice exchanges to allow her to bring it in to the house. She jumped at the chance to get out of the house, the three blocks to the coffee shop felt like a prison furlough she has earned for the good behavior of not beating someone to death with one of tomes of childhood memories. That had been over an hour ago and Satan was starting to become punch drunk from the never-ending life history in pictures that raced past his glazed-over stare.

"Isn't this exciting?" Mrs. Plough beamed.

"That's a word," His clinched fists fixed under his legs trying to hide his struggle to keep from either going cross-eyed and fainting from the utter boredom or from punching his elderly host upside the head. He was wondering which feeling could win out in his drained brain first. And although the violence toward a seventy year old woman sounded fine, he knew he probably need to run after the punch, and at the moment he couldn't feel his legs.

"And here she is preparing for going up the stairs."

"You must have been very proud of that day."

"Oh yes. We've always been proud of our little Dana. She's our princess. How could we not be proud? I just wish we had a subscription to the Lake Forest Register."

"Why?"

"Don't be a silly goose."

"Okay. I'll try." He had met many geese and they were all from silly, they were just plain mean. "What do you need the Lake Forest Register for exactly?"

"Because she works there. I think that if you got her pregnant you should really know some things about our Dana."

"She doesn't work for the-- Why do you think she works for a small town newspaper?"

"Because she does." Mrs. Plough was worried that her daughter has gotten herself involved in a man who had little interest in what Dana Plough did. And not being totally immersed in everything her little princess, was to her, THE original sin. "Are you sure you know Dana?"

"Do you?"

"She's worked there for almost twenty years. Right out of college. We're so proud of her; what with her being managing editor of a major publication and all."

"There are two statements in that sentence that are so very, very wrong. Don't you watch television?"

This statement seemed to have shocked Mrs. Plough, who let out an astonished gasp holding her hand against her heart. He had never seen eyes bulge out of a person's head as far as Mrs. Plough's had. Her look of sheer horror and unqualified bewilderment had him totally beat as to what she could possibly have been so taken aback by. He seemed to have struck a nerve and was now going to dig into the nerve to see how far down the wound was.

"So you've never seen Dana on the television?"

"How could I possibly do that? I'll tell you Larry and I saw the TV once. We went over to the Carters down the street to see what all the fuss was about; it was October of Forty Eight, I'll never forget it. We sat down to all gather around the set to watch some guy called Milton Barley or something like that. And do you know what we saw?

'A man in a dress! I mean, can you believe it? A grown man prancing around in front of millions of people in ladies clothing! That was first and last time we ever watched that horrible thing. I said at the time, 'if this is the kind of thing they'll put on the television, we don't need it.' I was totally shocked and disgusted about the whole situation. I thought I would just die!"

"Well I guess it's a good thing you stopped watching sixty years ago because you'd have been in the grave years ago."

Mrs. Plough looked at him with perplexity. To her there was no way in the world that you could fall down further down the slippery slope of morality than a man in a petticoat. She was puzzled that this man would have the audacity to even joke about her innocent little girl being part of that horrible industry where she might be in the presence of people who thought that sort of low brow humor was at all funny.

"Although we do like going to the movies. I like that Jimmy Dean fellow."

"You mean James Dean? I believe Jimmy Dean makes sausages."

Suddenly the front door swung open and Dana Plough entered, carrying two large cups of steaming hot coffee. The two hours away had done her a world of good. She was now smiling and rejuvenated, as only getting away from the elderly can do to younger people. Satan's eyes caught the steam rising from the Styrofoam cups and leaped off the couch.

"I thought I'd never say this, but thank God!"

"You don't believe in god?" asked Mrs. Plough.

"No. I believe in God. I just never thought I'd be thanking him."

*****

A shadowy figure crept behind a line of bushes. It was dressed in military fatigues and the green glow from night vision goggles pierced through the thicket. The figure found a soft bed of dried leaves and situated itself, peering at the house on the horizon.

It reached into its vest pocket and pulled out a candy bar, he gently unwrap the chocolate so as to not give away his position. As his teeth tore through the bar he gazed into the house through an open window to see thirteen extremely large men dressed in numbered tee shirts doing a poor man's version of the Electric Slide.

The wrapper dropped to the ground and swirled in the light breeze around the dead leaves. He looked down, then back to the house, then back to the paper. He sighed as he leaned over to retrieve the litter he had produced and stuffed it into his pants pocket.

After his eco-friendly project he turned his sights back on the commotion inside. His long fingers scratched his head under the wool cap, a piece of spying uniform he wished he'd forgotten in the hot California night.

He heard footsteps and voices approaching his position and dove into the bush. He watched the feet of two people, a man and a woman, travel past him as he laid still, dampness soaking through his clothes on the soggy ground that had a few hours ago been thoroughly watered by underpaid immigrant gardeners. The pair had gone from his sight as he slowly rose from his leafy protection and returned to his re-con work.

*****

Actor Jonathan Frakes was happy to be in his home again. It had been a long fourteen city trip of autograph signings and speeches and his voice and wrists were killing him. He dropped down on the couch, cracked open a beer and opened the massive book that sat on his lap.

It was his third time through _The Last Days vol. XII: or what to do when it finally does happen_ and it never seemed to get old, especially the parts about him. In the book he was the ultimate hero in the war between heaven and hell, an intricate part of humanity's ongoing existence.

He was well versed in fan fiction, but this was something all together new. This was a work by someone who really knew the true him-- a man who could, if asked, save the planet from the dark nightmarish forces of evil.

His eyes raced through the pages of sepia, written in fine calligraphy; whoever the author was, they had spared no expense in making it a grade 'A' project. Although the pages were yellow and crumbly and seemed to have been written hundreds of years ago, Actor Jonathan Frakes had resigned his skepticism for the book to its fine craftsmanship in ensuring what was a really good read.

*****

The mustang raced south along the highway, Satan and Dana Plough wore their smiles as badges of honor as they had escaped twelve hours of what would be known, for as long as the Earth still existed; the longest day ever. Dana Plough's hair whipped through the air, her tangled locks like overgrown ivy climbing her face.

The trip to Sacramento wasn't a colossal waste of time. Although nothing between her and her parents was resolved, she had got to see them before her torturing began. And she wanted to remember them as they were, living, and not the shells of themselves as red hot pokers were being crammed into open cavities.

She wanted to tell them how much they meant to her in her life, mostly bad, but a little good. She wanted to them to bask in her glory, to tremble in her image as a media goddess. She had to settle for the astonished look as she they stood on her childhood steps where she had played in simpler times, as they went as grey and solid as poured cement at her parting words.

"Bye mom and dad, I love you--. And, oh yeah, the baby's daddy is the devil. See you both in hell!" They hadn't been able to reply, as their arid tongues were dangling from their gaped mouths.

She knew the whole ' _see you in hell'_ shot was probably unnecessary, but it was both fun and true. She could now watch the world around her destroyed in a fiery rage and be all right with everything.

In the chaos that was to come she took solace in the knowledge that she had made peace with her life; even if that peace of mind was to shock and humble the loving parents who had bore her so she could complete her fate as the chosen vessel for the destruction of humanity.

*****

"Why can't we just go through the backdoor? They're all in the living room. No one would even know we were here," said Ketty, dangling from the limb of a tree outside Dana Plough's house, a wayward branch jutted into various nooks and crannies where she wished no vegetation would have never ever have visited.

"That would totally ruin the whole purpose of what we're doing here," replied Barnaby, who was fighting with gravity by trying to hold himself up as he pried open with a second story window.

His body was beginning to lose a high stakes game of Twister between the frame of the house and the tree. His right hand slipped from the window pane to a loose tile on the house while his left foot jumped from a sturdy branch to a small, moss-covered, flimsy twig to the right of his left hand.

"And what exactly is the purpose of this?"

"The element of surprise."

"So, we're going to surprise them by having them wake up in the morning to find our dead, mangled bodies lying in a heap outside their breakfast nook window."

"That's one scenario."

"I'm leaving," she took a long look at her position in the giant oak tree, "How do I get down from here?"

"You can't leave. We just got here."

"No, we didn't just get here. We've been in this damn tree for forty five minutes."

"The window's almost opened." He grunted as peered down on her with big doe eyes. Barnaby's child-like whine grated on the teacher in her. If he had been one of her students she could have lectured him on the importance of attempting to become more grown-up, but this man didn't seem to have a genetic disposition to learning at any level.

She gave the sixty or so feet to the ground another once over and decided that falling to her inevitable lengthy hospital stay of drinking pureed vegetable soup out of a straw and the uncomfortable silence during the daily sponge baths [Hospital sponge baths are not given by porn stars as a prerequisite for hot woman on woman sex as most popular movies lead us to believe and are often given by the one person who would make anyone go celibate] was worth giving Barnaby another few minutes. Besides, she had finally gotten the branch in a rather comfortable position.

"Two minutes, then I'm climbing down and I'm finished with all of this silliness. Do you understand me? This is it. I can't take it much longer; this isn't how I want to spend my last few days on earth, hanging outside some strange woman's house, dangling from tree limbs with a crazed man-child."

"That's the spirit!" A huge smile crossed Barnaby's lips and he tugged on the window.

*****

A small man wearing a bowler and dressed in a dapper tweed suit with bulky coke bottle glasses sat fidgeting on a plane from Grenada to Los Angeles. He muttered to himself about how for years he had been a faithful servant, never questioning, always following. He complained under his breadth about the years of planning, of research, of selflessness he had put up with.

He spoke wildly about the time and effort he spent being a wonderful person with no ego and no motive, only doing for others while putting his life on the back burner for the good of mankind. He protested to no one for about two hours before he had worked himself up into such a snit that he fell asleep from the mental fatigue.

The man decided that if he was going to be used in such a way, he would take matters into his own hands. He would be the hero of the day and be fitted with the other worldly robes and crowns that he had spent his existence in the darkness and the shadows to procure. He was going to take matters in his own hands. And they be damned who may try to stop him.

*****

Barnaby had given up on trying to open the bedroom window. When the downstairs dance party had cranked up the volume to revel in Michael Jackson's _Thriller_ , he smashed through the glass and climbed inside. The room was dark and bare; it was a room to which not much thought was given except for sleep.

Shadows from the various grooming items that lined the dresser cast an air of despair along the blank white walls that gave the room a hint of mystery built on familiarity. He took out a small flashlight that had been tucked into his pants and shined it around the room until it rested on a small safe that doubled as a nightstand.

Barnaby crept towards it, trying to soften the sound of his footsteps from the ears of the Agents a floor below.

"I think we found it, Ketty." he whispered "This is what we're looking for. Ketty?" His glance flowed back behind him to see that his accomplice in breaking and entering was not behind him. He made his way back over to the opened window and saw Ketty still hanging on for dear life to the branch she had been perched on for the past hour. "Why are you still out there? I got the window open."

"Yeah, thanks so much for the invite, but I'm just going to hang out here for a while if you don't mind." She hung for dear life, her nails embedded into the hulky bark.

"Of course I mind. We're a team. Teams work together."

"Why don't you be a team with yourself for a while?"

"Because there's no 'I' in team, although there is an 'I' in warriors, and we're more warriors than a team, so think of us as more warriors than a team and you can do it."

"Fine, come out here and help me."

"That's the spirit."

Barnaby put one foot out the window and felt for a sturdy tree branch to support his weight. With his right foot bracing his weight on the window sill he inched his left foot down the branch that had been much mossier than a branch should have the nerve to be.

He twirled his arms, trying to use the force of his flapping arms to balance his anatomy to avoid going where certain parts should never go. As his toes were becoming parallel to his belly button he decided that perhaps the sixty foot drop to the ground wasn't such a bad thing after all.

Perhaps it was the stretching of his groin or the vertigo caused by the slip that had left him looking like a human T as his head was now pointing directly toward the ground, but he had no time to be diffident about what was to happen next.

In a feat usually reserved for acrobats, gymnasts or certain ladies you pay a little extra for, Barnaby swung himself from his toes and caught a large branch with one hand while grabbing Ketty with the other. While in mid-swing, he tossed her through the open window and with a one and half tuck, landed on the branch he was dangling from seconds ago.

Ketty, who had pulled herself up from the broken glass-laden floor to catch the triumphant landing, was speechless, but was able to do a small clap in response to what she was pretty sure had never happened.

Barnaby caught her eyes and grinned enormously, threw his arms out to his side and bowed. He tanned himself in the soft glow of the spotlight that surrounded him in his mind, which quickly became a rushing cold wind.

He was woken from his boasting to find himself hurdling face first toward the ground, which seemed to take a few hours. But in reality he landed with a large splat in one second, flat.

Ketty, who had stopped clapping long enough to bring her hands over her eyes, finally peeked out and down to survey what damage had been done by the falling mass of black turtleneck and woolen hat. Her silent horror was directed at the large lump of mangled body parts, tree limbs and wet leaves sprouting out amongst the large roots of the oak tree.

It wasn't moving, which was always a bad sign, especially since the lump seconds before had been breathing and genuflecting.

"Barnaby?" she was pretty certain he would be dead if he was alive to begin with. "Are you all right?"

There was no answer, no movement, and no sign of life at all. Ketty was now on the second floor of someone's whose home, only a few days ago, she'd have gladly broken into to spray curse words in bright red paint, but was now a prisoner locked in a high tower without the hair to ensure a princely escape.

"Barnaby," she tried again hoping to get some sort of response. A long pained moan rippled from the lump below. "Barnaby- is that you?" Another moan bustled from the pile. "Are you okay?"

"I think I'm broke." Barnaby whimpered from the pretzel shape in which he had been supplanted. He spit out a few loose leaves and dirt clods that had made their way into the craw of his mouth and coughed, sending a sharp pang around the roller coaster of his spine.

"Do you need me to come down there and help you?"

"No. Just give me a few minutes to straighten myself out." There was a rustle, some moans and a few cries of pain. "Which way are your feet supposed to point?"

"What?"

"Never mind, I'll figure it out." There was a large crack that echoed up to the top floor window. "Ow, that wasn't supposed to make that sound."

"Let me help you," pleaded Ketty.

After a few more bone-curdling cracks from the darkness the tree began to sway. Barnaby rescaled the tree and popped his head inside the window. "Now, let's get to work. I'm not sure how long I'll be able to keep myself together."

*****

The figure in black crept from bush to bush, running and doing summersaults between each. He reached the tree, where he watched as Barnaby's foot disappeared through the shadowed canopy into Dana Plough's window.

As his head fell to level, he crept back to the hidden den of thorns he had made from the garden's rose bushes. He pulled out another candy bar, slowly ripped the paper off and, tearing into it with his teeth, never letting his glance escape the window.

*****

Barnaby staggered towards the safe by the bed, still trying to regain some semblance of motor ability. His knees buckled and his arms flailed by his side as he scuttled across the floor. Ketty wasn't sure whether she should be concerned about his physical well being, or laugh [When in doubt: Laugh] at what would have been a cheap effect in a Laurel and Hardy meet a monster movie.

He bent his head to one side and circled his shoulder blade around as it made perhaps the most hideous crackling sound since the time Old Lady Wilbraham grabbed her husband's neck and squeezed hard after finding out that he had been spending a little too much time milking the cows.

As he reached the safe he collapsed on the bed in exhaustion; the fifteen feet from the window to the bed had been one long trip. "I'm just going to lay here for a while." He said as he stared up at the ceiling, gently closing his eyelids, which were one of the few parts of his body that only hurt a little.

The moans and creaks from his body filled the room like a small town cheap haunted house presented by the local chapter of elks. "Make yourself at home." He motioned with his arm to the barren room around them.

"Maybe we should just go?" Ketty was starting to get an uneasy feeling about the time they were spending there; not that the act of breaking and entering into the home of the mistress of the Prince of Darkness with a small army of large, mutant, muscle-bound freaks a floor below was helping any.

"All right, just give me an hour or so and we'll be on our way. While you wait, why don't you do a little detective work? I'll supervise. From here."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to break into that impenetrable safe."

"Oh, so easy work?"

"It's not that bad."

"You just said it was impenetrable."

"And your point is?"

Ketty wanted to scream. In fact, there were many times in the past few days that her partner in crime and punishment had made her lose her mind. As the sounds of Cyndi Lauper's _Girls Just Want To Have Fun_ slipped through the vents of the bedroom Ketty nervously went to work on the unbreakable lock.

Her hands trembled as she listened to Barnaby walk her through the art of safe-cracking, something she was starting to wonder if he knew anything about himself.

She alternated turning the lock clockwise and back, listening intently for small clicks from inside the large steel box she had propped her ear against.

It had looked much easier in the movies; breaking into safes was usually a two minute montage of sweaty men acting secretively until finally, in a triumphant act, the door of the safe slowly opened and smiles were handed out amongst the room. This wasn't the movies and she didn't have the luxury of an overzealous editor to make the hour go by faster.

"This just isn't going to go down Barnaby. I can't do it."

"Oh well, there probably wasn't anything in there anyways."

"Wait just a damn minute. You just had me spend an hour on the floor breaking into this thing for probably nothing?"

"It would have been cool if we had broken into it."

Ketty stood silently, the look in her eyes becoming more and more enraged. She balled up her hand into a tight fist and leapt. She landed on the strewn Barnaby with full force and began to rain down a fury of left and right hands onto his chest.

"Hey, I've broken my neck in eight places here," cried Barnaby, trying to pry off the pint-sized Rocky Balboa.

"Let's try for an even dozen, shall we?" the fists of Ketty were pounding him with a rage that was often left for Crossfire debates.

"Don't make me wish you into the cornfield!"

*****

Four large crates surrounded Earl as he packed them with a wide array of other-worldly killing armaments. He pulled out a large scythe, bright flashes of white and blue flicked the air as the blade hit the overhead lights just right.

The tool had been constructed out of the purest of steel, a blade so sharp that it could cut through a man without having to touch the flesh. As he perused his magnificent work, there were three knocks on the door. "Why can't people just read the freakin sign?" he griped as he rose from his work and walked over to the intercom. "One more time please."

"Excuse me?" said a female voice on the other end.

"Knock one more time please."

"Why? You know I'm here."

"Listen. There are rules. I can't just go around opening the door for every Tom, Dick and Harriet who decided that it was okay to just knock three times. I have a business to run here. So if you wouldn't mind, just knock the requisite four times. That would funtastic!"

"Just let me in."

"Not until you knock again."

"Fine!" Another knock followed and Earl smiled. He knew the four knock rule was stupid, but it was a fun little game he got to play. When you own a shop that is only frequented when the universe is in dire straits, you have to find ways to pass the time.

He buzzed her in and sat and waited at his desk. It was better to have people come to you, it added to the suspense of the place. The door opened and the click of heels on the cold cement floor showed that the owner of the pace was on a mission and wasn't up to playing games.

Juliet came around one of the tall cases, her arms whipping through the air like two propellers by her side carrying her faster to her destination. It was the walk of someone who had had a very long day and was now ready for the next person to put that last straw on her back so she could finally wail off and clobber someone.

"Welcome, young lady, to Ye Olde Crazy Lodi's Arms Emporium. We have a funtastic sale on aisle seven. Silver bullet special, for all your unwanted werewolf needs."

Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning Juliet's hand was around the throat of Earl, her grasp getting tighter as she pulled him close to her face. Her breathing was rapid and small white pools of spittle filled the corners of her lips. She moved his head, which was getting blue with every pulse from his struggling veins, so that they were eye to eye, a location that was extremely uncomfortable for Earl for numerous reasons.

"I'm not in the mood for any funny business, do you understand me?" Earl struggled to nod under the pressure that was keeping his head from doing any movement at all. "I need swords. I need big swords. And I need them now."

Her grip relaxed and Earl shot back, trying to get any semblance of stature back in his body or reputation. He had dealt with nasty customers before, in his business they were the most valued, but there was something about the grip of that small vice that made him reconsider the early retirement to a nice island in the Pacific he had dreamt of.

The eyes of this woman were beady, and not in a good, _oh she's probably one of those women who'll marry you and kill you on the honeymoon night after a marathon love-making session way._

"Swords?" he smiled, straightening out the mess of wrinkles she had put in his clothes, "That we can do."

"Funtastic," she smiled back. "My assistant will be in shortly to help you pack up the car."

*****

"Why are we even here?" Ketty sat on the edge of the bed, her hands propping up her head, which was feeling heavier than usual. Little sleep and dealing with Barnaby was beginning to be a recipe for a brain tumor.

"What are we looking for?" she groaned, "And, if we find it, how do we use it? Can you tell me any of this? Because if you can't I don't how much longer I can keep doing this. I can't keep up the pace of saving the world when I don't know how we're supposed to save it in the first place."

Barnaby stretched out and sat up, putting his hand on her shoulder. "What do you want me say?"

"I just want a morsel, a penance, a glimmer of hope that what we're doing here is making any kind of difference. I want to believe in you. I do. But right now-- all of this, I can't see the light at the end of the tunnel; all I see is darkness and I feel like you're keeping the hood over my eyes."

"I just--"

"Anything." She turned to him and stared into his eyes. A tear streamed down her cheek and Barnaby could see that he was losing his only ally. He could feel her drifting from him and the cause. He could feel himself drifting down the same river, and over the next few miles were going to be rapids.

"The baby." He pronounced in his best professorial speech "Once it's born, we have sixteen hours."

"Why do we only have sixteen hours?"

"You see, once it's born it doesn't have the power to destroy the world, it's an innocent, a shell for either good or evil. I know its cliché, but the child has the choice."

"What choices could it have after being alive for a half a day?"

"Through new eyes will a new earth be born. Through those eyes it will determine whether the world is a vessel for goodness or if it should be destroyed before it can destroy itself. Sixteen hours will show the child what millions of years of evolution the human race has squandered.

'When the time comes the child will be placed on the throne and it will make its decision. We need to find out where the throne is located. We need to stop the whole thing before the throne thing is even done, but if we don't, we at least have to stop the seating."

"But what if the child deems the earth to be worthy of living?"

"Because the only two people the child will be in contact with for those sixteen hours will make it clear that it isn't."

"Oh." This news didn't make her feel any better. But at least it was news. The tunnel now had a light at the end, although that could have been the rain of fire of brimstone in the distance.

"So, we need to find out where the throne is," he said, struggling to get to his feet. He wobbled, grabbing out for anything to help him with the balancing act his spine and brain were at odds with. "You know, in case our first plan doesn't work out."

"And our plan is?"

"We have two or three days to figure that out."

Barnaby opened the nightstand drawer and picked up a book that lay hidden under a stack of papers. He snapped the little silver latch that kept it secret from the world and rifled through its pages, a focused furrow in his brows. It was bound in pink leather with a daisy embroidered on the cover. "Found it," he said nonchalantly.

"What?"

"Diary." He waved the book over his head to catch the attention of Ketty's blurred eyes.

"You can't read that. It's personal."

"It was sitting in plain sight."

"It was in a drawer, under a bunch papers, locked, in a house we broke into."

"If she didn't want us to read it she should have invested in a better security system." Barnaby struggled to keep focused on his new-found treasure and after a few ill fated attempts at deciphering Dana Plough's diary, he gave up. It had been a long day and any attempt at trying to reason with the handwritten gibberish that Dana Plough had delivered amongst the pages of her journal would have to wait until he had a chance to get a good night's rest or a man-to-woman dictionary [Also known as another woman].

He laid the diary on the bed and listened as a noise from the master bathroom turned his attention to the opening door.

Barnaby shot up from his slumped position on the bed and Ketty, who had fallen asleep amongst the twenty or so pillows piled on Dana Plough's bed, leapt from her slumber with the awareness of a cat that had been three miles away and heard the sound of an electric can opener in its house.

The two burglars stood at attention as they watched the door to the bathroom slowly open to reveal in the back light the glorious shape of a very large man, or thing; in fact, upon further examination it was more of a man-thing, or, to be more precise, Insurance Agent #2.

Number Two knew he wasn't allowed in the upper part of the house; that decree had been burned into the consciousness of the Agents from the first minute they arrived, but when a man-thing's gotta go, a man-thing's gotta go.

The giant stopped and stared at the two people he caught in Dana Plough's bedroom, as Barnaby and Ketty stared at the guy they had caught coming out of Dana Plough's bathroom. At the rare times when a person or persons are caught by another person or persons doing what they are not supposed to be doing, but not knowing that the other person or persons don't know that they are not doing that, the person or persons who are more mentally capable at deceiving the other person or persons will usually get away with whatever that person or persons were doing, and in this case Barnaby and Ketty had a slight advantage [Of course a drunk goat would have an advantage ninety-three percent of the time over Agent Two].

Of course, the person who speaks first usually has the upper hand. "What are you doing here?" asked the bewildered Number Two.

"We? Doing here?" echoed Barnaby as his eyes raced between Ketty and Number Two while his brain raced with possible answers as to why on earth two people would be scurrying around a stranger's bedroom in the dark in the middle of the night. "We're here on um, on official business. Yes, we're mattress inspectors. You know, that time of year again. But everything seems to be great. The mattress is within acceptable comfort levels. So, I guess we'll be going."

"Okay." Shrugged Number two.

This threw Barnaby, as he hadn't in a million years thought this would be something he would ever had gotten away with. "Okay," echoed Barnaby as he headed towards the window, Ketty tailing behind him.

"Wait a minute." These words were never good as someone was making a getaway. Ketty and Barnaby stopped in their tracks and did a slow turn to catch the voided gaze of Number Two. "Why are you here again?"

"Why?" If stammering was the equivalent of a brain aneurism, Barnaby would have dead from a clot the size of Mount Rushmore. "Because, we are, you know, we--," tricking a mentally feeble minion of Satan was going to be harder than he thought.

"--are here doing a survey for National Jewelry Monthly," Ketty piped in, "And we've noticed you have some very nice pieces." She picked up a necklace from off the dresser and held it up to the moonlight, the diamonds proving to be a shiny object that no one with the IQ of 28 could resist gazing at. "This one in particular is exquisite. See how it shines, how it gleams." The diamonds weaved and spun their hypnotizing dance before his darting eyes as he watched the great ballet of light.

"Yes, I do. It's very nice."

"Great- keep it as a souvenir!" Barnaby tossed the trinket to #2, grabbed Ketty and led her to the window.

"Okay, but--."

This was getting farcical. The buts were becoming a hazardous sidebar to the escape route Barnaby and Ketty had paved. A path through the carpet between the bed and window was becoming worn with the constant returning to the scene of the crime.

This wasn't what worried Barnaby the most. The worrisome aspect about the constant standoff with Number Two was that sooner or later, he was going to be recognized.

The after-life was a big place, but there are certain occasions when people get together, and when people get together, even though they may not talk, they still recognize each other. They traveled in the same circles. Luckily for Barnaby, for now, he was dealing with something that stood on the outskirts of the parties [It's hard not to be noticed when you're a minion of Satan, except when the big guy is standing there too] and not a ' _hey look at me, aren't I wonderful' kind of guy_ '.

Number two was a wall flower, but sometimes those are the most dangerous types. Wallflowers watch, and to watch you have to look. Barnaby was trying desperately to get the behemoth not to look.

"We're here about the cable."

"Oh?" it was the type of ' _oh_ ' that was reassuring, because it was the type of ' _oh_ ' that meant the person who was giving the 'oh' didn't know what the speaker was talking about, but was willing to accept the statement as fact [Much like an art major sitting in a physics class on string theory].

"There's nothing wrong with the cable is there?" Being cooped up in Dana Plough's house all day, there was one constant that ran through the Agents' everyday conversation and that was, 'thank god for cable.' Cable television is something that some people will attest to being the devil's tool, but in fact, cable television was invented by mere mortals who had no desire to make this a shrine and bow before the dark overlord of the underworld, but merely as something to impress women with whom they tried to pick up in bars.

There was a break of silence and then a noise, not a noise that any of the participants in the upstairs debate club wanted to hear.

*****

The front door opened up wide and Dana Plough entered with Satan close behind, juggling her suitcases and trying to look as cool demeanor in front of the troops. Being the supreme leader of Hell wasn't exactly a physical job, so he was a little more out of shape than he would like to admit.

It felt good to be back; there was a lot to get done and not long to get it done by. Plus, anything was better than spending time with Dana Plough's parents. A lesson that all men learn the first time they have to spend an uncomfortable weekend sleeping in the same bed as their beloved while her folks lie awake in the next bedroom thinking of ways to break up the lovers.

Dana Plough had made her way to the staircase and turned around to determine how far back her baby's daddy/indentured servant had fallen.

A smile crept passed her lips as she watched him breathlessly attempt to keep pace. She knew that no matter how powerful a man was, or how many armies of the undead he controlled, they were no match for a woman's wiles.

Sampson had fallen to these charms and now Satan was sitting in the barber chair. She wiped a few stray hairs from her lips and opened her purse pulling out a lipstick a shade of red that would have made the Queen of Sheba blush. She slowly applied the waxy balm as the throngs of onlookers wept silently inside while biting their cheeks just enough to draw a small drop of blood with the wanting of being that lipstick.

She was, to put it gently, a prideful woman. She had had aura of unmitigated aplomb and was going to do anything in her power to insure that after she was finished with you, you wouldn't. She found a rather sadistic glee in the knowledge that anyone who passed by her temper would leave with an icy sensation of utter failure and a sinking feeling that whatever hopes and aspirations they had would soon go the way of the dodo.

The woman who could, in one small phrase or raised eyebrow, reduce everything someone had ever wanted to a delirious drivel. Many would leave her side with sense of self-delinquency that would never compare to the lofty goals of her own. Dana Plough had confidence. And her confidence was power.

*****

Ketty looked at Barnaby. Barnaby looked at Agent #2. Agent #2 looked at a small shiny necklace that lay in his palm. Barnaby, hearing footsteps looked at Ketty. Ketty, hearing footsteps looked at Barnaby. Agent #2, hearing footsteps looked at the necklace. Ketty ran. Barnaby ran. Agent #2 ran.

*****

The dark figure moved under the tree outside Dana Plough's window and stared up. He heard what sounded like a herd of elephants stampeding toward the window above him. He took a step back.

*****

Satan opened the bedroom door as the curtains fluttered in the breeze. He wondered if he had heard a crash outside, but chalked it up to being tired. This had been one hell of a day [Pun intended] and he was ready for it to end. If there had been a thud, it could wait until morning to investigate.

*****

Ketty was first out the window and hurtled towards the ground with a tremendous speed. As she landed with a thud onto a thick pile of leaves underneath, she knew how the apple felt when it hit Newton. She lay on the pile and sighed, and then the pile of leaves groaned.

Barnaby came through the window with a bit more force. The door was opening up as he jumped, causing him to glance back. That moment of confusion had caused him to trip on the way out, catching his pants leg on the window sill. The topple shot him spiraling downward towards the darkened ground, like tornado passing through a pinwheel. Luckily, his fall was softened by very big pile of leaves. The pile of leaves moaned.

"Ketty?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you a moaning pile of leaves?" he asked the whimpering heap.

"Yes."

"Oh good." he would have felt awful about hurting an inanimate mound of dead vegetation. All non-human life was valuable to him.

"But not the only one." She groaned.

"Death of The West Coast of the United States including Nevada, Arizona and Hawaii?" said the camouflaged figure from underneath Ketty.

"Jeremiah?"

Jeremiah removed the hood and night-vision glasses from his face and gave his best pained grimace. Smiling hurt a little too much under the weight of two people who had just seconds ago come barreling toward him from the heavens. It was good to see a familiar face, although it was a tad bit confusing as to why.

"Barnaby?" Ketty asked, picking a twig out of her hair.

"Barnaby?" asked Jeremiah.

"Don't ask. I'll explain everything once we get out of here." Barnaby jumped up and dashed across the lawn, leaving the other two confused discomfort.

"Where are you going so fast?" yelled Ketty to the fleeing blur.

Barnaby looked back just long enough to point and scream, "Dogs!"

As he scaled the brick wall to safety, he exclaimed once more, "Really, really big dogs!"

*****

2 DAYS BEFORE THE BIRTH

"--Nine months passed and the young woman gave birth to a child. The child she bore from her womb was neither of human nor demon, but of a new species. A species that would walk the earth during night and hide from the light. One that would thrive throughout the years of the evolving world. One that would drink of the blood of his mother's clan."

Jeremiah and Ketty sat side by side their mouths agape at the two hour story told by Barnaby. They looked at each other in silence and nodded in reciprocal confusion.

When he finished, Barnaby sat back in his chair and threw his hands behind his head as a last act of relishing in his storytelling glory.

Ketty sighed as she was wont to do after one of Barnaby's nonsensical ramblings in the face of cataclysmic disaster that was to befall the whole of mankind. Sometimes she wondered if he really cared about stopping the end of the world, or if he was just here to make her life miserable until her inevitable end.

They had gone back to the hotel to share the information the two sides had gathered over the past four days; information that was pertinent to helping save humanity, a group that both Ketty and Jeremiah had invested their entire lives in trying to be part of.

Time was running out, a fact that seemed to escape the Agent of Death who sat back and sipped his vanilla flavored coffee and reveled his own world; a world that was going to be destroyed in less than two days. But, Barnaby had assured himself that there was plenty of time to get in a few stories and maybe a nice nap before it all went down.

"Well," Jeremiah still trying to wrap his head around the tale, "It was an interesting story, but it still doesn't explain why you're here."

"That's a story for another time," said Barnaby taking a sip of coffee.

"We don't have another time. The antichrist is going to be born in two days. Why did you waste time telling the history of vampires?"

"Exactly." Barnaby said as if everything in the soon to be a big ball of smoldering gas Earth was okay. "Don't go all porcupine on me now."

"What? That doesn't make any sense at all." Ketty decided to defend Jeremiah against the verbal desecration of the English language that was being spouted by her partner.

"It makes perfect sense." Snapped Barnaby.

"Porcupine isn't a verb. A porcupine is a spiny rodent. A porcupine is a noun." Ketty replied.

"I think it's more of an adjective really." Assured Barnaby as Ketty stared at him in hanged bewilderment. "You'll see. In the future, everyone will be using the phrase porcupine. It'll be the thing to say. The people of the future will know what it means."

"You don't even know what it means."

"That's not for me to decide. That's for the future to decipher." Declared Barnaby as if knew instinctively the silliness had ended.

A fog of Haziness and doubt crept over Jeremiah and his face contorted into a shape that spoke volumes about the sheer confusion and exacerbation that filled his heart. The idea that the world was basically in the hands of someone whose job it was to make people's lives miserable, by taking it away, perhaps wasn't a well-formulated blueprint for triumph.

Barnaby saw the look and decided to get on with the information exchange before Ketty took Jeremiah's side and started hitting him. Something he didn't look forward to, as he had already been hit too many times by the pint sized jackhammer. "Okay, I'll catch you up on events while you people catch up on some other characters in the book for a while."

Ketty and Jeremiah's eyes darted around the room to try and figure out to whom or what Barnaby could possibly be talking. The room was empty except for the three of them. Ketty face was mystified with an expression of someone who was used to Barnaby but hadn't really become comfortable with his foibles. Jeremiah scratched his head and turned to Barnaby, "Who are talking to?"

"Exactly."

*****

Juliet awoke with the glimmer of cold steel in her eyes. The morning sun raced through the Venetian blinds that had come with her apartment. She had planned to put up some nice curtains, but never got around to decorating. The space she had carved out for herself in her seventy-five square foot studio apartment had become merely a vessel to lay down every once in a while.

Her eyes battled against the brightness of the sun's interrupting rays, as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Sleep? This was something new and wonderful Juliet had discovered last night. For the first time in nearly two years she had slept, but more than that, she had dreamed.

Dreams were something she thought she would never possess again. She had hallucinated a few times over the past couple of years due to lack of sleep, but this was different; this was sleep dreaming. And it was wonderful.

She dreamed in glorious colors of blues and red swirls as they raced and danced through the subconscious ballet of her innermost fantasies. It was one of the most amazing transgressions of her life, getting eight solid hours of sleep. Her eyes opened to focus on the gleaming point of a sword that rested just an inch from her gaze. It was just enough to very quickly jerk a person from a magnificent, magical land of rest.

She sprung to her feet and through the haze of sleep tried to remember the result of the surrounding weaponry that resided in the one room of her apartment with her. The small room was crammed with over-sized swords meant to put fear into the hearts of man, and to kill whomever they didn't.

She remembered bringing in the WMD's, but in her sleepiness had forgotten that they were so close to her orbital lobes. It was a sight that would make even a heroic soul wet the sofa bed.

Juliet slowly rolled out of the way of the tip and lifted herself into a seated position, wiping the crust that had grown over night around her eyes. She massaged the back of her shoulders, which had become a huge knot throughout the night, and gave a small yelp when she hit a rather painful knot that had worked its way into a tangled ball of anarchic nerve endings at the base of her nape.

She surveyed the room as the sun hit the finely pressed metals, causing an unholy prism of lights to bounce off the bare white walls of her surroundings.

She looked down at her hand; it was throbbing under the bloodied bandages that were wrapped tightly with gauze. She had found out the number one rule of heavenly domination and warfare: weapons are extremely sharp; sharper than normal really; the metal could slice through air causing a pocket of oxygen would fall to the ground.

She had accidentally touched one of the swords unloading it from her car and had bled for the better part of two hours. This helped a lot with the sleeping.

Juliet picked up her phone and dialed.

*****

"Yello," answered Henry Angler, who had been reading the newspaper at his favorite café. "Yes, I've got a pen. Okay." He started to jot down a list that he was being dictated over the phone between the grids of the sudoku puzzle he had been trying to enjoy.

"I can get the twelve cases of Dr. Pepper, three hundred feet of electrical cord and the stuffed Snoopy doll. But the vile of Ebola virus and the industrial strength catapult is going to be a little more difficult." He held the phone from his ear as Juliet screamed obscenities through the receiver. "Okay, I'll do the best that I can."

A few more choice words came his way over the headset. "All right, I'll do better than what I can do."

He hung up the phone and perused the list he had been given. This was going to be more work than usual. He had gotten somewhat used to the irrational wants of his boss and in return her boss, but this was strange even for them. He took one last sip of his coffee and took another bite into the half eaten Danish that lay on his plate and got up.

He looked at the clock on the wall and sauntered out the door. Seven o'clock in the morning. Where was he going to get a weapons-grade nano-virus at seven o'clock in the morning?

*****

Actor Jonathan Frakes was still sleeping. It had been a rough night the evening before and he was in his comfortable pajamas. The cool ocean air nibbled at his cheeks as it swam in from the open windows of his bedroom. He opened one eye and caught the morning sun wishing him awake with its soft orange glow. He turned over in the bed, put a pillow over his head and went back to sleep. It had been a rough night.

*****

Loman stopped by Ketty's apartment to bring her a bagel and see if she wanted to carpool into school that day. He rang the bell thirteen times before finally giving up and deciding that she had probably already gone in to get a head start on that day's lesson plans.

He figured that if he high-tailed it over to work quickly he could catch her before the first bell. Obsession to the point of ignorance was an important lesson that Mr. March had taught his fourth grade class; a code he dedicated his life to.

He hopped back into his '82 baby-blue Buick Continental, which was now more rust than steel, and headed toward the school. He made just a quick stop at a florist shop to get a bouquet of roses he would present Ketty with at the end of the day, when he would ask or if all else failed beg, her to chaperone the Sadie Hawkins day dance [Sadie Hawkins Dance: A common once a year get-together for school age children where girls would ask boys to be their dates. And, if one were really desperate, a boy would ask a girl, only to be emasculated for doing so] with him.

He had been planning this day for the better part of six months. She may have turned him down at every opportunity so far, but she could never resist bagels and flowers from a very sad individual with nowhere to go but up.

As he drove his mind started to wonder about the strange man he had seen Ketty with a few days prior while he was out walking [Stalking is for crazy people. Walking and happening to be one hundred yards away from someone at all times is just exercising]. That guy didn't have anything that Loman didn't have. In fact the man she was with seemed to have worn his high-strung, possessed mania on his sleeve, not ensconced so far down in his psyche that his conscious mind could miss what other people could see unmistakably and clear as day. He was sure that she had no feelings for this stranger and would soon be his, no matter what she had told him so many times in the past.

*****

The Death, War, Famine and Conquest were lost. Being lost, especially when one (or four) of you are supposedly impeccably infallible beings is rather embarrassing. But, to be fair, any big empty desert starts to look the same after wandering around for a day and a half. Sand dunes are pretty much homogeneous in the visual variety department. Plus, when one is covered head to toe in large bulky armor, it's more about getting over the next hill than about which hill was the right hill to cross in the first place.

"I'm pretty sure we've been here before," said Famine, wiping her brow and brushing a few stray locks from her eyes. "This one looks familiar."

"How can a sand dune possibly look familiar?" glowered War as he perused the never-changing landscape that stretched in a cascade of uniformity before him.

"Leave her alone," bellowed Conquest, always the first to come to the charge of championing women's rights in the workplace.

"This isn't getting us anywhere," interjected The Death, trying to bring a small semblance of decorum to the expedition.

"Anywhere is better that here," mumbled War. "Wherever here is," he added.

War was an Alpha-male in every sense of the word, and, being a type A personality, he didn't like the idea of being on the same level as woman, even though since the dawn of time he'd had two that were his equals.

He had watched with growing frustration over the past years as humans became in his words, " _touchy-feely, Oprah-watching, tea-sipping, metrosexual-looking, pantyhose-wearing fairies_ [War is of course in the " _Don't ask-don't tell, and if you tell I'll kick your man-lovin' ass" club_ ; and always would be]." It's not that War was totally intolerant, it's just that after a few millennium of thinking a certain way, one gets used to one's own intolerances like a well worn tee-shirt. And he'd had that shirt for a very long time.

The Four Without Horses at the Moment of the Apocalypse stood and scratched their heads as they eyed the wide reaches of sand that stretched before them. The sun was high and glistened off the golden kernels of the desert floor.

Everything looked the same; wind had covered any footprints that would be left to trace back, and their patience was at a premium. The Death looked at Famine and asked casually, "Got anything to drink? I'm rather thirsty."

*****

Actor Jonathan Frakes rolled over and lifted himself out of bed. He stretched his well-toned arms into the air and flexed them in the mirror that stood three feet from the edge of the bed. Damn, he was a good-looking man, if he did say so himself. For good measure he said aloud, "Damn, I'm a good-looking man."

He yawned and stretched again. This was going to be a big day in the life of Actor Jonathan Frakes, he told himself as he smacked the taste of the night before off his lips. Yes, this was going to be a big day indeed.

He hobbled to the bathroom where his morning routine was going to be cut at least by half. Although, he thought to himself, how anyone could possibly get ready in only two hours was beyond total comprehension. Hair-styling alone was a one hour process, and there was no way he could possibly take less time on something as important as one's well-coifed do.

He decided to shower instead of bathe, although he could really use a nice long, hot bath to reenergize the old muscles before a big day of non-stop action and heroic exploits, but some things would have to be sacrificed in the name of bravery.

The razor harshly abraded the stubble that filled his face through the foam of the shaving lotion that tickled his nose. One absent-minded prick later a trickle of blood rolled down his cheek. He reached up and caught the drop on his finger and stared at the gash on his face. _Okay_ , he thought to himself, _maybe this wasn't going to be a great day, but tomorrow_ \--.

*****

Juliet poured coffee into an oversized novelty mug she had gotten as an Administrative Assistant Day gift. A gift that was re-gifted from a goody bag her boss had received for being a guest speaker at a local amusement park and then discarded in Juliet's lap. She had then accepted the mug as a "gift" out of sheer spite for the fact that her boss hadn't given her so much as a cost-of-living raise in the years she had worked for her.

She figured, in a moment of self worth that an oversized stolen mug was better than nothing. She added her regular twenty-two teaspoons of sugar and stirred the whirling snowstorm of sucrose, watching the grains slowly dissolve in the hot brown goo. She pressed the cup to her lips, closed her eyes, and sighed.

She wasn't a big fan of coffee, especially the kind she made, but she enjoyed the combined caffeine-sugar rush it gave her for fifteen minutes at a time. She shook the cobwebs from her head as the spree of caffeinated vigor raced through her body.

She studied the list Dana Plough had given her again and had no idea how she was going to get everything done by tomorrow. Even with the aid of her lackey she knew that she would have to do most of it by herself. She could always count on herself as the only one she could count on in any time of need. She was the master at getting things done the right way, the Juliet way. No one was going to be able to do it better than her. She wasn't being brash, she was being reasonable. If she was President, the country would run like the trains, only with less riff-raff hanging around the entrances.

She glanced down at the paper again, lifted her head and smiled. This was going to be a hard assignment, just the kind of work that was perfect for her. She knew that this was just the opening to finally show everyone just what she knew all along-- Juliet is better than you.

*****

Onaiwu Iyare watched the hands of clock methodically tick the hours away. He had been waiting for years for the bosses to finally arrive, but now they were late and he was getting antsy. Plus, he was lonely; he was used to always being surrounded by dozens of people.

The ranch was continuously bustling with activity, the ranch hands, the kitchen staff, the farmers, wives, and children who had spent generations living amongst the desert oasis were now all gone.

He had never heard such silence in all his life. There was nothing but the occasional feint neighing from the stables outside from the horses that were also waiting impatiently for the strangers to arrive.

The horses were always well behaved, but now seemed to have anticipated the impending arrival of their masters. They weren't in the habit of being left to their own devices to kill time, they were well-oiled machines, and well-oiled machines aren't in the habit of idling. It was time to run free and be part of something larger than the farm in which they had lived from eager colts to ardent adults. They paced and tapped their heels on the scorched ground in anxious expectation of the impending excitement that they felt. Any time now.

Onaiwu Iyare was getting impatient as well, but he wasn't sure why. He had a sinking suspicion deep in his heart that he was losing out on the best days of his life. He also felt, as the words of Mr. Reed rang through his thoughts, these were also the last days of his life.

He never knew what the outside world had to offer, and as far as he was concerned up until now, the rest of world ran pretty much the same way as the ranch did.

But now he was second-guessing his own existence in his world wondering if he was missing out on something wonderful. Like naked women feeding him grapes and singing sweet love songs while they waved palm fronds to cool him [When a man is alone, his mind will always turn to sex, or at least the idea of someone wanting to have sex with him]. These thoughts carried him though the day and night and into the following morning as he sat and monitored the clock.

What he wanted more than anything was something to eat, the rumbling in his stomach made it hard to concentrate on wild women doing wilder things to him. The kitchen was still well stocked, but as Onaiwu had recently found out, he'd never learnt to cook a meal in his life.

Pots and pans hung from the ceiling, huge ovens lined the walls of kitchen, but they were all for naught. He knew what he liked to eat; he just didn't know what ingredients and procedures went into the making of the actual food he enjoyed.

It was getting late and he sensed that he would wait for another morning to come before he got to go and hit the local eating establishment he knew was out there somewhere. The restaurant all his friends and family were awaiting his arrival at, as they stuffed themselves on chicken wings and pizza skins. Whatever those things were.

*****

Famine peeked out from behind the parasol she had been using both for keeping the hot sun from beating down on her head and as a wall between her and War. She had had enough of his constant belittlement and whining.

She never thought that she would hear more complaints from the dark lord of death and destruction than she did from people who'd given their last piece of rice to their child three days ago and were slowly feeling their internal organs shrivel to the size of Macedonian dates.

She squinted at four small shapes coming up over a sand dune about a few miles away from where the group was standing. The figures appeared to be coming closer. She nudged the sunglasses to the tip of nose and peered at the openness of the dessert. She couldn't make out what was coming, but they were coming fast, and moving over the sandy floor as if gliding on roller skates.

These things, whatever they were, were used to this place. As they traveled closer she could tell they weren't as small as she had originally thought; they were actually quite large. And Purple?

*****

The warning signs were everywhere, literally; ' _Danger'. 'Keep Out'. 'Warning! 10,000 Watt Electrical Fence'. 'Violators Will Be Shot (but not before we have a little fun with you first)'_. The last one was most terrifying, as Henry knew that if the government says they'll kill you, they probably will. And that wouldn't be the fun part they were talking about. The Southern California Biokemikal Lab and Reserch Center was supposedly secret, but anyone with a lap top and a spelling aptitude of a first grader could easily find out where it was hidden.

Henry had lived a life of privilege growing up and had been educated in all the top private and prep schools money had to offer, which meant he spent much of his childhood out of the country. It was Mr. Angler's way of making sure his son received the highest possible education money could buy, plus it was good way to insure that Mr. Angler was never caught by his son in compromising positions with any of his constituents who wanted to get a law passed [A time honored tradition of politicians everywhere].

He had tried unsuccessfully to aggrandize his way in, stating that he was both a senator's son and an aide to the one of the most powerful talking heads in the media. When that attempt failed, he tried bribing the guards, but he only had twenty bucks on him and they wouldn't take a personal check.

He finally found a small opening between the fence and a side the mountain that the Lab had be dug out of and decided to climb through. He looked at the signs again.

Ten thousand watts would definitely fry you up quite nice, and if he wasn't cooked up nice and plump like a Christmas goose the whole catching and killing, but first a little humorous torture, would be the death of him.

As he slid through carefully he thought long and deep about what he was doing. He weighed the good and bad, the morality of what he was being asked to do, why he was being asked to do it in the first place, and why he didn't ask any more questions before agreeing to do it. All he could come up with was this: "All this for eighteen thousand a year."

*****

A small man wearing a bowler and dressed in a dapper tweed suit with bulky coke bottle glasses sat on a park bench tossing pigeons torn up pieces of bread out of a paper bag. He spread the food around so all the little feathered rats could get a good mouthful. It was a beautiful day in Merida, the Mexican state capital of the Yucatan, and the sun was leaving a radiant wave of colors over the stoned pavement of the Plaza Mayor, while the Cathedral de San Idelfanso stood casting long shadows in the hot afternoon sun.

A small man wearing a bowler and dressed in a dapper tweed suit with bulky coke bottle glasses was feeling sad, despite the beauty that surrounded him.

The constant chatter of market people selling hammocks in three different languages to the tourists trying to escape their unremitting sales pitches somehow made him a little happier. He had done everything that had been asked of him, and yet he was still taken for granted.

As he tossed another bit of loaf on the ground, he reminisced about his value in the scheme of the universe. He had thought of himself as a major player, but after the last few days he was beginning to see himself as more of pawn than a rook.

He crumpled the bag in his hands as he grew angrier about the way he had been treated. Who were they to ignore everything he had contributed to the cause? How could they just dismiss him with one wave their hands? Why was he sitting here instead of doing something about it?

These questions began to burn deep inside his craw [Craw: located somewhere between the heebie-jeebies and the invisible third nipple 99.2% of people have]. as a tiny bead of sweat started to trickle down his quickly reddening face. He was going to do something about it. If he was going to have to be a hero on his own, and dammit, he was going to be a hero on his own. To hell with those who ignored him, he was going to be rook. Maybe even a Queen.

If he could find something nice to wear.

*****

The cigar raced around Earl's lips as he sat at his desk, which was overflowing with stacks of yellow and pink papers fluttering in the breeze of a small fan. A glass of whiskey swirled in his fingertips as he stared at the invoices. He lifted the glass to his mouth and carefully sipped, pulling a small grin to his pursed lips.

He had been living on no sleep with double doses of grain alcohol for the past few days and was beginning to get drunk, both punch and original. He had been smiling for most of the past sixteen hours, but most of it was due to a large rat that gotten caught in empty jar of peanuts that it had climbed into and that had begun to use his glass jail as a small vehicle to drive around the lot before finally dying struggling with a loose popcorn kernel that had rolled into the jar with it, and, thinking the kernel was a new prisoner, had tried to make it his bitch, only to choke on it. It was the little things that made Earl happy.

He slowly rose from his chair and headed down the long hallways of the Emporium. He reached aisle 24 section 234 and looked up. A broader smile began to grow on his face as he stared at the shimmering glow that echoed from the shelf above.

*****

Manuel DeLuego was busy waxing his car when he got a call. Dana Plough wanted to be picked up, and when Dana Plough calls, you either leave your Caddy half waxed or you find yourself having more than enough time on your hands to detail it. So he packed up his things, started the ignition and drove off toward Ms. Plough's house.

The Beach Boys played over the radio as he raced down the street, his fingers tapping the beat on the steering wheel. He stopped at just one place on his way to pick up his livery, the only liquor store that sold Poka Vsyo.

Dana Plough may have been a mean drunk, but she was even more ill-mannered sober. It didn't matter how much the stuff cost, he was going to have plenty in stock. It may have meant he was two minutes late, but after a few bolts of vodka she would soon forget about what time it was and hopefully fall asleep in the backseat until they reached their destination.

Manuel put the car in drive and headed off, not knowing this was going to be the most interesting trip he would ever be a part of. And since the world was going to end any day now, that was soon to be a given.

*****

The hulking figures were getting closer now and the other three Horsemen had stopped bickering long enough to join in Famine's bewilderment. "Are those-- purple?" asked The Death, pulling down the cowl of his robe and scratching his skull.

"Yes?" War answered, still not sure if that was indeed the right answer. "Yes." He reiterated trying to be confident in what his eyes were seeing, while trying to get his brain to wrap around the sight.

"I thought they were extinct," chimed in Conquest.

"I'm pretty sure they are," said The Death, peering harder at the figures galloping even closer to the four, "I mean they are. Aren't they?"

"Well--?" agreed Famine.

"Well--?" seconded War.

"Well--?" Conquest added just to be part of the collective awe that struck the posse. She hated to be left out of the discussion even when she didn't have an opinion or an idea of what the conversation was about.

"They certainly are, um, purple. Aren't they?" said Famine who had been trying harder and longer than the others to truly grasp what was happening in the dessert before them.

"Purple would be certainly the word for it." said The Death as he started to walk toward the streaking figures in an effort to join up with them a little sooner than the others were expecting. "Definitely purple!"

*****

The Death of Australia, New Zealand and Countries with a Population less than 500 Total People sat on a car parked outside Barnaby's hotel with Michael Ryan beside her. Michael had been dragged around the world and back, like the Patty Hearst of the afterlife.

He was starting to get used to fact that he was a prisoner without any chance of escaping his kidnapper. So against his better judgment and due to the lack of an escape route he decided to just go along for the ride and try to enjoy it.

"Can I ask you a question?" Michael said, interrupting the uncomfortable silence that only he seemed to be feeling.

"No."

"Well, it's more of a statement than a question really."

"No."

"But I really need to get this off my chest." He put his foot down as softly as he could. "It's really important that we discuss this if we're going to be a team."

"We're not a team. Now be quiet, I'm trying to work here," she said off-handedly, never taking her eyes off the room at the top of the building.

"Yeah, but you're not really working, you're just following some guy around. It's more stalking than work if you want my opinion."

"I don't want your opinion. When I want your opinion I'll ask for your opinion. Now be quiet."

Michael sat forward in silence and rested his chin on the dashboard. He watched all the living people pass him by without a notice and reminisced about the time he was alive. Granted, he hadn't been dead for long, but he missed the hustle and bustle of life and all the crap that went with it. It was a lot more exciting than being dead, and his life wasn't that exciting to begin with, but it sure beat staring at windows you couldn't see in. "I'm hungry," he said, turning to DANZ & C>500TP.

"Don't be silly, you're not hungry."

"But I am," he insisted as he listened to his stomach gurgle like a witches cauldron chock full of sour eye of newt.

"No you're not. You're dead. Dead people don't get hungry; it's a well known fact. You don't feel pain, you don't get bored and you don't get hungry."

"But I am hungry, and I know I'm definitely bored. Can I get something to eat? Please? Then I won't ask you anything again. I promise." He appealed to his captors' nonexistent capacity for concern.

"Do you have any money?"

He checked his pocket and pulled out a ball of lint and a voucher for a free meal at a casino buffet, which just made him think of food more. "No, but I'm dead. Can't I just take some and no one will see me? Besides, those hot dogs smell good." He whined.

"Fine. Go get a hot dog. Just let me do what I need to do." She said waving him away with a flick of her hand.

"Thanks." He leaped up and hurried over the cart where the aromas of boiled meat franks filled the air. He stared into the grey water where the slabs of pork and beef floated like a brown sticks in a river of grease.

He smacked his lips and reached down for the biggest hot dog he could find. He lifted the meat to his mouth and opened wide. As the hot dog fell to the ground at his feet he looked at the soiled, dirt-covered morsel and sighed. This was a cruel joke, he thought to himself as he glanced back at DANZ & C>500TP who gave a little smile and shrugged her shoulders. "Why!?" he cried out with discernible despondency

"I tried to explain it to you." She chided, never lifting her gaze from the hotel room window, "You're not hungry."

*****

Four large purple dinosaurs walked up and greeted The Death. He patted one on the head while getting a sloppy wet kiss from the tongue of another.

This specific species of long forgotten reptiles weren't so much extinct as they were never supposed to have existed in the first place, except on children's programming on your local public television station. There's always a bit of truth in lies, but usually those anomalies are left to lies and not the imagination.

The gigantic beasts walked sluggishly nibble on all fours and were built like a heavily armored Volkswagen beetle. They were gentle beasts, notably since this was this first time in the history of their species' existence that they had come across another sentient being.

It was as if they had spent the past few millennia waiting for someone to love, and since they had never seen a human before, in their minds this rag tag band of the bringers of total world destruction were what everyone else on the planet looked like.

The Death patted one on the nose and smiled into its eyes. Conquest made her way over to the beasts next, gingerly opening her hand to let the massive creatures smell the fear that penetrated from her pores. This was the first time she had ever felt fear before, but there was something so unnatural about the animals she was being sniffed by.

Famine and War were less hesitant as they came over, seeing that the monsters didn't seem to care about devouring a walking bag of bones or a living Halloween costume, so they figured a hulking brute of a man with enough weaponry at his side to arm a small Mideast country and a young woman who looked like she'd just come back from the polo grounds had little to worry about.

"What do you think?" asked The Death, turning to the others.

"Why not?" shrugged War crestfallen.

*****

Mr. Reed was worried; his bosses should really have met up with him by now. He really wished they had taken a cell phone as he had insisted they do. He also wished he had stopped drinking shots of Cold Turkey a few hours ago.

It wasn't like he had never been kept waiting before, but they were usually very good at being on time, seeing that they pretty much had the control of time and space at their fingertips. He dumped back another glass of liquor, popped a couple of peanuts in his mouth and ordered another round.

*****

Juliet was running harder than she had run in some time. She wasn't the type to be fantasized by exercise. All through school she was the type of girl who would sit with her friends on the bleachers during gym class, filing their nails and gossiping about the girls who actually broke a sweat. But time was running out, so she had do what she swore to herself for many years she would never do; break a sweat.

She raced up the stairs of the GNAN building because the elevator wouldn't have done her a damn bit of good for this kind of work. She threw open the doors of the thirteenth floor, a floor that wasn't on the elevator's directory, or the building blueprints.

It was dark and dingy, dimly lit by flickering lights that lined the walls. It wasn't the type of place you'd want to spend much time in, and if Juliet had any druthers about it, she wouldn't be there for long.

Finally reaching a small office at the end of the hallway she opened the door gingerly and walked inside. The room was desolate except for a small wooden desk in the middle of the room. A candle sat burning on the desk, dripping yellow wax onto the oak frame. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small key that gleamed in the twinkle of candlelight. She licked her pursed lips and slowly marched over to the desk, gently putting the key into the hole and turning it slightly.

A tiny click came from the drawer as she opened it. She looked down at the dusty silver box that lay inside at the bottom of the drawer.

The box was ornately decorated with signs and symbols that were much different and older than any written language that had been yet unearthed. She cautiously reached in and took it in both hands, clutching it gingerly as she read the inscription, the only one in English on the case, emblazoned with gold leaf lettering.

DO NOT REMOVE

The words rang in her ears as her grip tightened on the box. Even if she had wanted to put it down her will wasn't strong enough. The box had a tighter grip on her than she had on it. She shoved the box into her purse and turned around to be met by a pair of eyes feet away from her, blocking the exit.

*****

Anoki Yamoto was standing over his corpse and pondering life's many questions when he felt the cold hand of death holding his shoulder. Anoki had just finished shooting his first scene in his first movie. He was about to become the next huge action star, or at least that's what his agent told him.

What his agent didn't tell him was that there was a small chance that the gun being used in this particular scene would be mistakenly loaded with real bullets rather than caps. Anoki knew that this was probably irony, how he died, but he wasn't sure how. He did know that after years of struggling to be famous, he would be certain his name would be mentioned on all the entertainment shows for the next week. And that was enough to give him peace of mind in death.

"Tsuitekuru, bokutachi beki deru haya."

"What?" said Anoki, spinning around to come face to face with The Death of Japan, Korea and The Philippines, who sort of looked like his cousin Devon from Fresno.

"Bokutachi beki deru."

"Sorry," said Anoki shrugging his shoulders and looking to DJKP for any semblance that he was being understood, "I don't speak Japanese."

"Izashirazu, sonmei Anoki Yamoto!" DJKP was not in the mood for Japanese people who didn't speak the language. He had spent the last few days having to do not only his job, but Barnaby's as well. It was beginning to take its toll on his psyche, dealing with Americans.

"My name, yeah, I know what you're probably thinking; his name is Anoki Yamoto, he must speak Japanese. Right? Well, funny story, my real name is Jeff Yamoto, I'm third generation American. I changed my name when I became an actor." He ran over to his dead body and pointed down emotionally, "See, this was my first movie, I'm an actor." He starred down at his lifeless corpse and looked back up, "Well, I was an actor. Damn, that was my first movie. Oh well, that's why I don't speak Japanese. Do you speak English?"

"Wakedehanai shinjiru getsunai!" yelled DJKP as he threw up his arms and angrily gestured to the light. He shuffled off behind his ward, muttering to himself how this wasn't what he wanted to do with his life and he really wanted to get back to normal dead people. Americans were more trouble than they were worth.

*****

Mr. Finklestein sat on a fiberglass rock in his man-made mountain getaway. If he had a pen and paper, and if could write, he would almost certainly write an angry letter to his Congressman about the horrible treatment he had received. Being a bear was supposed be all fun and games and pic-a-nic baskets, but living here at the zoo wasn't what he had envisioned his life would turn out to be.

The other bears seemed to be quite content with their surroundings, but he longed for something more exciting. Plus, the crap tourists threw into the cage was disgusting. The sign says Please Do Not Feed the Bears, but if they were going to, he wished it would be more than half eaten hotdogs and cotton candy. He was trying to be healthy [All animals make New Year resolutions, but very few have the mental recollection to remember them past Presidents' Day. This applies to higher thinking animals as well, but they usually only get to Martin Luther King Day] but he was having difficulty with all the temptations that surrounded him.

He harkened back to his three hours out in the wilds of downtown Los Angeles and his thoughts turned to wondering about what ever happened to that strange man he was talking to when they were both gunned down by the cruel darts of captivity.

He wondered if that guy had been taken back to the zoo as well and was living out his existence in a small cage while the gawking stares of snot-nosed children ogled him while being prodded him with miniature souvenir baseball bats.

He liked the idea of humans being caged up like common animals, and for the first time in days a sense of blissfulness crept onto his face. Then he was hit upside the head with a chunk of fried dough.

*****

"This isn't fair. In fact it's downright ridiculous," protested Michael as he stared knowingly at the hot dog cart across the street. "Why are we here? Let's go somewhere fun."

DANZ & C>500TP was getting bored with her stakeout as well, but wasn't going to admit it. They had spent the better part of six hours hanging around outside the hotel and as much as she wanted to storm into the room and catch Barnaby in some sort of wild embrace with his newly found hussy, she couldn't admit to Barnaby that she had spent the last few days obsessing about him and his infidelities.

"What is it with this guy anyway?" he said trying to pry any morsel of tactile information from the woman who sat seething in the adjacent seat. "What's so special about this guy that we're spending all of our time tracking his every move? Are you two a couple?"

"It's none of your business, that's who he is." Her glare told him to stop, but he was going to press on. Besides, what was she going to do? Kill him?

"Listen, as far as I'm concerned we're partners in this right now. And as equals I feel I'm entitled to know just exactly why we're tailing him."

DANZ & C>500TP grabbed Michael by the collar and lifted him a few inches off the ground, staring a hole in him that would have made him wish he were dead. "We are not equals," she said as she brought his nose in contact with hers.

A small bead of sweat trickled down his forehead as he met her impenetrable gaze. This was a look usually reserved for when Yo Mama jokes have gone too far and personal, "You and I are not pals, friends, compadres, chums, amigos, buddies or partners. I have my reasons for being here. I am the only one who needs to know why I am here."

She dropped her lock on his shirt and he tumbled to the ground. "But, we are in this together," he said, "You need me. I don't exactly know why, but you do. If you didn't you wouldn't be dragging me all over this city, you would have left me to get on with my, um, life. So as much as you don't want to admit it, you need me." A lump formed inside his throat as he looked at her face to see if her expression of sheer anger would waver, but it didn't.

His little speech seemed to only have upset her more. He searched around for a place to run, but he knew that no matter how hard or fast or far he ran she would eventually catch up and the repercussions would be a lot worse than if he just stayed and took it like a man.

DANZ & C>500TP reached down her hand and Michael took it reluctantly, he held his breath and placed his hand near his crotch in case this was some sort of trick and a swift knee would meet the manliness he had grown to cherish. "Come on," she said letting his hand go, "let's go."

He thought best to cede defeat. "Where are we going?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Does this mean we're friends again?"

"No. We were never friends to begin with."

Michael followed her sheepishly through the vortex. As the light faded from existence the hotel doors opened and Barnaby, Ketty and Jeremiah entered the fresh L.A. air and headed down the boulevard.

"Did you see something?" Barnaby asked as he exited the hotel, peering at the space where the light had been.

"No." answered Ketty.

"Nope," replied Jeremiah who was hobbling gingerly on his left leg with an ice pack clutched tightly to a large lump on his head.

"I thought I saw-- Oh well, must have been nothing." As they walked out into the setting sun Barnaby turned around to give the spot a last glance. He probably didn't see anything, but he could have sworn he smelt a very familiar perfume. If he could only put his finger on where he'd smelt it before.

*****

Famine led the way, riding on the creature she had named Princess Lollipop, a moniker the others had vehemently begged her to reconsider. She had ditched her horse riding helmet and somehow come back with a stylish pink cowboy hat she wore proudly on her dark mane as she sang from atop her dinosaur.

At the moment she was, as she had been for longer than any of her fellow riders would care to gander, singing at the top her lungs. The song wasn't anything the other three were familiar with, but the theme seemed to strike a germane chord with the current state they found themselves in. It was a ditty about a man, who had ventured out into the dessert, and for some reason had failed to give his mount a name. Not naming your steed was seen as a big no-no to the others, as riding a horse with no assigned designation was seen as a slap in the face to honorable equestrians everywhere.

The Death, War and Conquest were riding a safe distance behind her, as they had been adverse to Famine's camp leader role-playing game. Sing-a-longs weren't the norm when one is headed into the throws of ushering the end of days. They counted the setback of their prehistoric mounts as just that, but warbling the hits of the 60's, 70's and beyond were just too much.

After a few hours of distant obstreperousness they galloped up beside her as they finally came around to her wants and joined in with the chorus. Famine was happy, though she didn't look back at her associates so they could see her gloat. If there was one thing she prided herself on, besides global starvation, was her resolute sense of modesty. She gleefully assumed the biggest grin anyone would have ever seen, if they weren't alone, lost in an ever growing expanse of nothingness, and gleefully yelled, "Everybody sing!"

*****

Manuel watched his boss sitting on a marina bench, silhouetted by the glorious pinks and yellows of a smog infused sunset. She hadn't spoken or touched a drop of liquor during their drive. She hadn't called him Marco or Pablo or Little Mexican Man or Rodrigo; she just sat and stared out the window. It was almost as if for the first time she had a sense of calm about her. He felt through her silence that she knew something terrible was coming. He also felt that she was all right with it.

Manuel took a rag out of his pocket and scuffed a small smudge that had caught itself on his newly waxed car. He blew off a twig from the windshield and sucked in his gut as a couple of young women passed by.

He gave a wink, making the young ladies giggle out of sheer amusement at the idea that a middle aged man had any chance with someone like them. As he tried desperately to look nonchalant at their doe-eyed barbs he glanced up to the sky and noticed a dark cloud moving in from the East. It was ominous and threatening and he knew immediately that he had waxed the car to no avail.

*****

Loman arrived home and immediately rushed over to his answering machine. For the first time in a long while it was blinking. This was it, he reflected; Ketty, who hadn't been seen or heard from for a couple of days, had called on him. She had needed to be her knight in shining armor and rescue her from whatever dangerous situation she had gotten herself involved with.

He pushed the play button with as much anticipation as anyone who had ever pushed a button in the history of time. This was his little red button on the presidential desk, and as the voice on the other end spoke, a huge plume of nuclear smoke rose from his gut. It was his mother, wondering why he hadn't bothered to call her on her birthday.

He couldn't be bothered with anniversary greetings to the woman who bore him into this harsh and seemingly uncompromising world where he was a Mazda in a world of Mercedes. Not when the love of his life, his life-partner, his four-cylinder Toyota was out in harm's highway.

He paced his apartment floor, hollowing a path through the linoleum that lined the rooms of his home. He needed to find Ketty. He needed a plan. He needed a hint to as where to start looking. He was a math teacher; he wasn't a detective, but he'd watched enough cop shows to know a little about clues. And he was determined to find one.

*****

Onaiwu Iyare peered through binoculars at the desert sand that stretched out, encircling his ranch for thousands of miles. He had been given false hope by a pack of vultures he thought had finally come to relieve him from his constant monotony, but they passed him by to gnaw on a hyena who had wandered to far from water. How he wished he was a rotting corpse of a dehydrated hyena.

He had started to miss his family more and more as the hours faded from memory. He had thought this siesta from family obligations for a day would do him good, reenergize his batteries, but as the cat was gone the mouse got bored and started to reminisce about the game.

Every dust cloud brought a twinkle of hope that the ennui was soon to be extinguished, but as the dust settled and nothing came out of its residue his knowledge that he was alone swelled like a pornographer's wallet at a Bob Guccioni estate sale.

For generations this had been a bustling farm of nonstop chattering of tens of people. Tens of people does not necessarily sound like much, but when the lack of voices that tens of people cease, it feels like the end of world. How very little did he actually grasp the reality of his thoughts.

*****

Large men carrying large guns scuttled by, while smaller men in lab coats flashed credentials while eating bologna sandwiches. The hallway was long and sterile, lit by unflattering linear fluorescent light. Doors marked by small numbers and electronic key pads lined the corridor like Christmas tree lights.

Henry crouched down, peering through the small window in the door of room 243 as he planned his next move. He needed to get to room 267, a well guarded room where one needed not only a key and pass code, but an eye-retina scan and handprint to enter. He had gotten this far, with much avail, and now only required the necessary wherewithal to do the really hard part.

He rustled out a cell phone from his coat pocket and dialed Juliet. It was a brief conversation, consisting of her mainly stating that she couldn't care less how he did it and just to do it. His side of the exchange consisted of one word- "yes" [Most men will find that the simple answer of yes will be sufficient in any conversation with the opposite sex, and that when more words are called for, use "you're right and I'm wrong"]. Several times while muttering unholy swears against his boss under his breath.

He hung up the phone and placed it back in his pocket. He looked out the window again and saw his chance at the incredible action movie sequence he had imagined in his mind so many nights as he lay in bed alone thinking of ways to impress women.

A stealthy click resonated in the hallway as the door handle slowly turned. The door moved slightly and out popped Henry with the strength and speed of so many cinematic ninjas.

He sprang at an innocent and oblivious white lab coat carrying a small man with thick coke bottle glasses. With fists flying through the air Henry hit the man with a chop to the back of neck.

The rest of what happened was a blur to Henry, he remembered a gasp from his victim and he remembered someone hitting the ground with the force of an atom bomb.

When he woke up twenty minutes later in a small concrete room surrounded by three very large men with very large guns pointed at his skull, he really wished he'd stayed in bed. Action sequences worked out so much better in his dreams.

*****

A small man wearing a white lab coat over a dapper tweed suit and coke bottle glasses strode into room 267 without a second look from anyone. He flashed his credentials and was sent on his way by security, who all had bigger fish to fry than the new guy who had seemingly single-handedly apprehended and restrained a wild eyed terrorist hell bent on world domination.

It was lucky for him some crazed lunatic decided to attack him and create an interference so he could slide into the room as a victim and not as someone who had just five minutes earlier knocked out and stolen a lab coat from an unsuspecting technician. Of course he had to kill the poor man to get his finger and eyeball, but it was more humane than taking those things off him while he was still alive.

*****

Juliet hung up her phone. She already had enough of her own worries, without having to deal with every little difficulty Henry ran into also. Besides, she figured he'd be fine, he may have been a pain in the ass but he was resourceful. She was confident he'd find a way into the room. She hung up the phone and shoved it back into her purse. "Sorry about that. Where were we?"

"Why are you here? And what do you think you're doing with that thing?" he pointed to the box she clutched in her hands.

"I don't think that's any of your business." She knew that this wasn't the answer the man either wanted or would accept as fact, but she had to give it a try.

The truth was she didn't know why she was here or why she was stealing the box, or if she was in fact stealing it. For all she knew it was Dana Plough's box or Satan's box, or it was this creepy guy's box and he was going to kill her and chop up her into little pieces and scatter her remains on rose bushes for a more natural fertilizer.

"How did you find this place?"

"The Devil told me." It was the truth, although it sounded more like a lie. If he wasn't going to believe a lie he certainly wasn't going to believe the truth. She wasn't even sure she believed it.

"Okay then," said the man as he stepped aside. Juliet just stared in a mixture of disbelief and pride that she had talked her way out of the predicament. She dismissed his sudden backing off as some sort of ruse to get her to come closer so he could beat her over the head with his mop handle.

She stepped closer, making sure he didn't make any sudden movements. She looked in his eyes and he nodded as if to say it was okay and he believed her.

"Okay then," she echoed as she scuttled past him and out the door. She got half way down the hallway and gave a quick glance back to see what the man was doing. He had gone back to mopping the floor and didn't seem to give her a second thought. "Okay then," she said to herself as she exited out to the stairway, "I've really got start using my connections more often."

*****

"All I'm saying is that it's not that big of a deal."

"Breaking into a government facility with the sole purpose of stealing weapons grade viruses is not a big deal?" The man questioning Henry was a typical bureaucrat; someone who had spent his entire life not being amused by anything.

He had spent his childhood finding milk spewing forth from his classmates' nostrils not the least bit humorous. He lived his teen days as a hall monitor and the Student Government Treasurer, while spending his evenings alone in his room building model planes and thinking about how the other kids were just jealous of his highly stylized way of getting down to the business of the situation.

"Well, maybe not a small deal, but really, are you going to miss one or two vials?" gulped Henry.

"That's the stupidest question I've ever heard."

"Believe me, I've asked much stupider questions than that. I mean, people are always saying to me, 'That's the stupidest question I've ever heard.' So you know, well, I think I can come up with something else."

"Shut up!"

"Okay." Henry was not made of stone; in fact, if one were to open him up they'd probably be covered with Jell-o. He was the folding chair of the animal kingdom.

The man unholstered his gun and pointed it at Henry's head. He slowly pulled up to cock the gun and the click echoed in Henry's ear. The smell of cold steel filled his nostrils as his eyes darted around the room trying to evade the stare of the cobalt executioner. The man brought his mouth down level with Henry's ear and whispered slowly and coolly, "I could kill you right here and now and no one would ever care."

"I know you could!" Henry screamed. His shrill voice pierced the air in three octaves too high for a man of his build and masculinity. A tear streamed down his cheek, running into his mouth. The taste of salt filled his palate as his bottom lip quivered with terror.

The man stood erect, hovering over Henry. His finger slide down the trigger and started to pull. Sirens filled the air of the holding cell while flashing red lights danced on the walls like a white guy in a disco. The door of the room flung open and another large man came barreling in panting out of breath.

"Quick! Someone's just made off with two vials of The Jamaican Whooping Fever Pox."

The two men went sprinting out of the room, leaving Henry to flop on the floor in exhaustion. As he lay on floor he noticed the door was left ajar. He watched the manic rush of the lab personnel whir past him in a horrid frenzy usually reserved for Monster of Week movies.

No one seemed to or wanted to pay any attention to him. He tried as nonchalantly as he could to mosey out of the room and down the hall. He stopped and stared at another room that had been left vacant by the commotion.

Room 267 sat there tempting him with its tubes and vials. "But I wanted the Jamaican Whooping Fever Pox." He lamented as he strolled in, hastily grabbed the closest vial to the door, took a look at the tumult that surrounded him, and ran.

As he was exiting through the large metal doors of the laboratory something caught his eye. He stopped in his tracks and stared. His face became flushed and his feet felt like they had become suddenly subject to mafia shoe repair.

His heart raced as he stared at the thing that had caught his soul and squeezed it tight. What he had seen passed his sight and he began to walk slowly out of the Center's isolated gates and down the road. He did not blink or leave his steady pace as he pounded rhythmically down the road. He just wanted to get back to the city and forget whatever it was he had seen.

*****

Actor Jonathan Frakes viewed the storm clouds on the horizon as he sat barefoot on his porch reading the book for the fifth time. Good reading doesn't get stale; it just reaffirms one's purpose in life. The waiting for the day to arrive was eating at him. He really wished for a sign to tell him when to begin his quest to save the earth from total annihilation. He picked up a small bell from the table and gave it a little jingle.

From inside the house came Nancy, his trusted 'servant' for nearly ten years. It was her job to reassure him that remained one of the common people despite his wealth, fame and incredible good looks. "Nancy, I think I'm going to go out for a while. Pack my traveling bag."

"Yes Mr. Frakes," she said, rolling her eyes as she turned her back to him to go back inside the house. She had come to almost appreciate all of her employer's quirks, but his traveling bag was something else.

How anyone couldn't bear to travel without a pair of leather gloves, a pocket knife, twenty 8X11 autographs and a week's supply of _Dr. Langer's Miracle Cream For The Everyday Needs Of A Man On The Go_ was beyond her.

She quickly grabbed the bag and put in the car. When Actor Jonathan Frakes said he was leaving, it meant he would be exiting the premises in a good hour. But if the bag wasn't there in five minutes her privileges for not spending time watching old film clips of him was taken away.

*****

The cottage sat upon a small hill in the outskirts of Heaven, surrounded by bushes of black roses and pink carnations. It was a quaint little home that looked as if it had been pulled out of a fairy tale except that it came with an portentous and foreboding sense that whoever lived there was probably a bit to the left of sane.

The glow of candles flickered from the window as the silhouettes of two figures paced through the house. The more feminine of the outlines appeared to be tearing up the house as papers and pillows flew through the air.

The cascading bits and pieces seemed to serve two purposes; the first gave the impression of an attempt to find something that was hidden or misplaced by the thrower.

The second purpose seemed to be to hit the male figure as many times in the face as possible. From the shouts that accompanied the rush of the harried throwing, it was definitely both.

"Could you be a bit more careful with that? Some of those books hurt," pleaded Michael Ryan. "And what the hell are those pillows made out of anyway? Rocks?"

"If you were more help I wouldn't have to hit you." She scowled and threw a vase at his head, narrowly and purposefully missing.

"I don't even know what we're looking for. If you'd tell me I could help you."

"I don't want you touching my stuff," cried DANZ & C>500TP as a print of Tolstoy's War and Peace, the original unabridged edition [The way it was really meant to be read. The abridged version is much too compact to truly understand either War or Peace], slapped Michael upside the head.

"But you seem to have no problem with your stuff touching me," he said, rubbing a red indent of the word Peace on his forehead.

*****

The 13 Insurance Agents were sitting in silence. It was the last order that Dana Plough had given them before she left for the beach. "Stay put and shut up", were her exact words and the Insurance Agents were nothing if not obedient. There was a concentrated eeriness to their imposed silence.

They had lived for thousands of years with the constant screams of the damned to keep them company. Then they had discovered the wonderful world of human temptations with its twenty four hour cable and non-stop rocking radio to soothe their nerves.

Now there was silence. Now there was just the spongy sound of heavy breathing coming from their companions. It was starting to grate on them; they had no idea how much the toll of relentlessly breathing fire and brimstone had taken on their lungs. The rasps and gurgling of their lungs filled the air with the reminder that they were no longer Satan's number one through thirteen go-to guys. A woman had supplanted them.

Number Twelve began to tap his fingers on the coffee table, tapping out a little ditty he had been humming in his head. Number Four, taking a subconscious cue, began to whistle. Number One joined in as his tongue clicked against the walls of his cheeks. One by one the others joined in with their own accompaniment.

As feet tapped and fingers snapped the room was soon filled with an orchestra of sounds that rung from the walls to the ceiling of the house. The Insurance Agents, without ever looking at the others were happy in their symphony of defiance. Of course, they all kept one eye on the door, in case Dana Plough should show up early.

*****

Judge Raymond J. Little had spent, for better or worse, 40 years on the bench. He had been renowned for at least the last decade as the judge no one wanted to go before; not because of his sternness or heavy-handed grasp of his courtroom, but rather that he had most probably gone off his rocker.

It was hard to become a judge and even harder to get replaced, though many had tried their best to remove him from the bench. He held power between the hallowed halls of New York's eleventh district with a mix between King Hared and Walter Mitty without the strands of sanity.

He walked into the courtroom and took his seat in the oversized chair he had decked out in red velvet, with a place for his beer on one side and a television remote control he used for his gavel on the other. He perused the eyes that stared up at him in a collection of horror and excitement of the circus side-show he may elicit at any given trial.

Both the DA and prosecution let out an audible sigh of desperation as they watched him take him seat and purse a bottle of cheap suds to his lips. "Case!" he screamed out to seemingly no one in particular.

A mousey stenographer in drab grey tip-toed up to the bench and presented him with a manila envelope. He opened it and perused it carefully, letting out a hodgepodge of grunts and gurgles as he turned the pages of the log. "Guilty. Next."

He picked up the remote control and whacked it solidly on the bench; the sound of plastic on Formica bounced around the room. The stenographer slowly crept toward the bench, making sure she kept a safe distance between her and the remote control.

The last two stenographers had felt the wrath of Judge Little and his makeshift gavel, the latter spending two weeks in a local hospital while doctors tried in vain to remove the play button lodged deep behind his cornea, and he had gotten off easier than the former.

"You seem to be empty-handed," said the judge as his eyes burned a hole through her and he reached into his seat pocket for his weapon, "I said 'next'."

The stenographer looked to the Defense attorney with big doe eyes that pleaded with him to be the person to interrupt the madman's desires. Assistant DA Robert Marx reluctantly cleared his throat and decided to take one for the team, even though the judge had ruled in his favor. "Sir, if I may be so bold," the words dripped out slowly and quietly.

"Oh, I think you're being very bold, Mr. Assistant D.A." the judge may have been good close up, but he wasn't as sharp a shot from a distance, the one thing Mr. Marx knew would keep him safe for now.

"I think, perhaps, we should, you know-- um, try the case first before we get down to sentencing." He paused as he watched the unchanging face of the judge. "Maybe?"

"I don't see why." A boisterous ring of accusatory deference billowed through the courtroom.

"Well, it's just that here in the U.S. we usually give people a fair trial before we throw the um, book at them. You know; the whole innocent before proven guilty thing."

The judge leaned over the bench and with a hint of glee amalgamated with the ravage of age and Quaaludes, pointed a wrinkled finger at the defendant. "I mean, she's dead. What does it matter if she's guilty or not?"

Beatrice Fields sat slumped over in her seat. With their gazes firmly stuck in the direction of the judge. No one in the room had noticed her silently passing off. Beatrice's spirit stood hovering over her body and turned around when a cold breeze from someone behind her got her attention.

She came face to face with a cowled figure carrying a scythe and wearing a Yankees cap. "Am I really dead?"

"Friggin' A," said the Death of New York City [New York City has always worked on their own terms and laws. This carried over to death, which many New Yorkers were upset and dismayed that they had to share with the outside world; the outside world being anything not in one of the five boroughs], "And you weren't even guilty."

"Oh I was, though. I killed that guy in cold blood."

"Yeah, but you're a ninety year old woman with a shotgun; by law you're supposed to defend yourself by any means necessary."

"But I wasn't defending myself."

"Fuggidaboutit. Besides, the world's about to end, anyhoo."

"Friggin' A!" said Beatrice.

"Friggin A!" nodded the Death of NYC in agreement.

*****

Juliet slunk, shoulders hunched, into the corner booth of a local bar and grill. The lighting just dimmed enough for her to go unnoticed to the rest of the patrons. She slowly lifted the small case from her jacket pocket and placed in on the table. Her fingers ran over the brass and gold, the raised marks passed by her fingertips like an ancient brail. She licked her lips, which had dried with anticipation, and steadily started to open the box.

"Can I start you with anything to drink?" She jerked from her spellbound gaze to find a fresh faced young waitress hovering over her and the box. She quickly grabbed the case and shoved it out of sight.

"What!?" she exclaimed as she shook off the cobwebs that had been spun in her head ever since she first gazed upon the box.

"Can I get you something to drink?" The smile that she flashed Juliet was as sincere as any smile you could get from someone working for tips and knowing that no matter how hard you try; tips will never make the rent.

The smile that Juliet saw however, was one of a person plotting against her, wanting what she possessed. This waitress's toothy grins and good will was nothing but a façade in an attempt to take the box from her.

"Miss?" the waitress tried again. She had a feeling Juliet was going to be one of those. She was going to be the type of customer who wants you to leave them alone, then crows about how you weren't attentive enough. Those people used their own hang ups as a way to get out of giving a good gratuity. If you're a big enough ass you'll automatically believe everyone else is too.

"I don't know. Water. Coffee. Whatever." Juliet waved her away with a flick of her wrist. She watched the waitress exit to a safe distance and pulled the box back out. She tentatively lifted the cover off the box to reveal the treasure that was entrusted to her protection.

It glimmered and gleamed with such a luminescence that her eyes had to gradually become accustomed to the sheer brilliant radiance that blazed from within.

She slowly lifted a large pendant from its enclosure and held it to her eyes. It was the most magnificent thing she had ever seen and the sheer power emanating from it was inspiration in the grotesque. Her gaze transfixed to the glowing pendant; she quickly shoved it back in the box and closed the lid tightly.

Juliet knew she was now important in her boss's cause. To be trusted with the procurement of such an object of pure incomparability was something to be held in great esteem. The act of just touching the pendant gave her a sense of a supreme duty to those that had trusted her with it.

And with such duty came great responsibility. A renewed loyalty to what would soon be her sole purpose in life. She was now one of the chosen few, and she was going to be more dominant in this world than she'd ever have dreamed. She was now ready for that drink.

*****

War was starting to get rather uncomfortable riding bareback upon a three ton purple dinosaur. He had always been a big proponent of pain and agony, but this was starting to get ridiculous. He decided there and then to one strict rule: No more torturing the nether regions, no matter how effective that torture may be.

There was a glimmer of light on the horizon. War wiped his forehead and relief breathed its sweet anticipation of relief as visions of ice packs danced in his head.

"Civilization! Glorious, glorious civilization! We finally made it to the ranch. Oh, I've never been so relieved to see a horse in all my life," he bellowed from under his helmet.

"There shouldn't be a town here." The Death scratched his head as he looked over the sand, trying to squint through no eyelids.

"There shouldn't be giant purple dinosaurs either, but we seem to be riding those," War wailed. The pain was starting to turn the most powerful vanquisher into a newborn without a bottle. If there was ever a leveler in the universe it was the throbbing tenderness a man feels riding for ten hours without a saddle.

"All I'm saying is that if the ranch is camouflaged from the outside world, it shouldn't be able to be seen by the naked eye."

"My eyes aren't naked, and we aren't exactly in the outside world. There's a light out there, and where there's light there's electricity. And where there's electricity there's refrigeration."

Conquest, who was having more fun than War but much less than Famine was as skeptical of the oasis of horses as The Death was. "He's right," she said, turning and putting a compassionate hand on the shoulder of War, "We're going in the wrong direction."

There was then a scream that filled the desert night. Halfway around the world in the sleepy little town of Canudos, Brazil a shiver went down the spines of cats looking for a place to take a nap. Off the coast of Akureyri, Iceland fish became distraught and committed suicide, much to the delight of a young fisherman who had spent the last three days praying to whatever God that would listen for a miracle to catch something.

"Are you finished?" The Death said.

"For now," replied War.

"Go toward the light everyone! More road trip!" an excited Famine cried out. "Giddy up, Princess Lollipop," she took the reins of her beast and galloped off in the direction of a flickering population, her pink cowboy hat bouncing rhythmically as she darted down a dune.

*****

The door to the hotel room opened and Ketty entered, followed by Barnaby close behind and Jeremiah bringing up the rear, limping with his arm in a sling.

Ketty flopped on the sofa and kicked off her shoes. She stretched herself out, lying across the soft cool linen, dangling her toes off to the side. Barnaby relaxed in the chair next to the sofa and slunk down in his seat.

Jeremiah looked around the room for a place to relax or at least to sit uncomfortably. As he watched his compadres drifting into a blissful peace he shrugged his shoulders and fell to the floor. On the carpeting he could finally rest his ravaged body on something that was at least softer than the concrete on which he had spent most of the day.

"What a day," sighed Ketty as she wiggled her toes in the cool breeze of the air conditioning.

Barnaby nodded in agreement as his eyes fluttered to try to stay open. "No one would ever believe it if we told them."

"I hurt so much." Jeremiah's struggled to speak as his face was being smothered by the strands of carpet from which he was too tired to remove his body.

"I mean, the runaway Ferris wheel, oh brother."

"The chemical plant almost blowing up with us inside of it, that was crazy," Barnaby said, taking his cue from Ketty.

"So much hurts." Sobbed Jeremiah.

"How about that whole thing with the Chinese mafia mistaking Jeremiah for a fed?" wondered Ketty, "I've never seen so many weapons in my life. I don't know how you survived that."

"I don't think I did." Jeremiah wanted to die, but that took too much effort.

"How about when we had to confiscate that plane," said Barnaby, rising a bit from his seat.

"I never knew you could fly a plane." Exclaimed Ketty

"I can't." proclaimed a very proud Barnaby "That's the crazy part. Of course, then there was us having to jump out of the plane with only two parachutes between us."

"I landed on a car," whimpered Jeremiah.

"And we landed on you," laughed Ketty.

"Lucky thing too, we may have really been hurt." Grinned Barnaby.

"I hurt." Moaned Jeremiah.

Barnaby and Ketty laughed as they looked back on their day, reminiscing about all the close scrapes they barely got through. Jeremiah lay on the floor and tried hard to forget. It had been a wild day, one that would go down in the annals of history for its sheer zaniness. The three would sleep well tonight, as they drifted off in their respected places.

"I think I broke my liver," said Jeremiah, right before fading off from exhaustion with no one listening.

*****

A young boy sat next to a fire, whittling away at a piece of driftwood his grandfather had brought him after returning from the sea. As the knife flicked and flung the chips of wood into the glowing embers the young boy looked up to see four large figures coming towards him through the desert's setting sun.

He carefully set down the leisurely activity that had been amusing him and raced down the street toward his home to tell his mother of the army that were on the march toward them.

As the figures got closer more and more people lined the wall between town and desert. They watched in anticipation as the impending visitors made their way through the deadly sea of sand. Very few had ever come out of desert, and still fewer had come out singing.

It was not a song of those who had struggled through as an intolerably hot, blistering sun beat down on their backs with the fury of a thousand erupting volcanoes. It was the song of people who were quite content with the unrelenting persecution the desert had to offer.

The town patriarch began to step closer towards the on-comers, while still mindful to keep close to the pack. As the figures came into full view he stepped back, crashing into another villager and sending them both tumbling down into the dust-covered street. The clouds of sand that were kicked up from the galloping beasts subsided and the villagers were met face to face with their visitors.

The collective eyes of the village were now well aware of what had landed in their laps. Actually, they weren't at all sure what had just arrived; it's not every day a dinosaur, long believed extinct, comes to stand still in your general area.

The village elder moved closer to the four strangers. He tried to take in just what had interrupted their solace. They were costumed in such a way that was not built for desert travel.

Two men near the front who had a good view of the four beasts were busy in conversation, "I think they're horses," said the first.

"Those aren't horses," said the second, in doubt of whether what he was saying was actually true.

"I'm pretty sure they are."

"They can't be horses; they're purple," said the second, shrugging his shoulders in an attempt to make his statement sound plausible.

"There can be purple horses," said the first with all the honesty that his limited knowledge of the outside world could muster.

"No, there can't be purple horses." Said another, "Besides, they're reptiles."

"Huh?" said the first, satisfied with the second's explanation of the existence of the beasts.

"Listen," said The Death, "I hate to break up the zoology lesson, but where are we?"

"Tandtar," said the elder, as if anyone with a brain should know.

"Okay," said The Death before he paused for a moment of inner reflection, "I have no idea where that is."

"It's not on the map." Said the elder, he had never thought he'd be presented with having to give a tourist peroration. "We're kind of in our own little world here; it's kind of nice really. We find it pleasant. But you're all free to stay here as long as you like."

"I don't want to stay!" screamed War, whose nerves were beginning to wear thin with every passing second.

"Well, you don't have to get snippy," said the elder, shaking his head in admonishment.

"Sorry, sorry," said War trying to pull himself together. "It's just we've had a hard few days. We're not bad people; well, actually that's not true at all, but we're trying to get somewhere."

A young man crept over to Conquest, who was sitting regally upon her stead. He smiled at her and reluctantly Conquest smiled back, though she was being overcome with a growing consciousness of discomfort at the man's smile. She had smiled in an ill fated attempt to get the man to stop smiling at her and move on to someone else. Her smile just seemed to make the man smile at her more. His piercing brown eyes ripped at her mounting anxiety, tearing its way through her bowels.

" _Kill the wabbit! Kill the wabbit_!" sang the man, still with an easy smile on his face.

Conquest's smile swelled as she showed all her perfectly symmetrical teeth as he sang to her. She began to chuckle and the man, seeing she was in on the joke, started to share in her bemusement. As he laughed along with the large woman, his head was suddenly met with a large antlered steel helmet.

"Ow," he whimpered, right before his body spun around, his eyes flapping in their sockets, and his body fell back, kicking up a cloud of dust into the night air.

"I don't have a sense of humor," she said to another woman who had been sharing in with the laughter and whose smile was now frozen to her face in sheer terror.

"That's enough," said The Death, raising a hand in Conquest's direction. "We're trying to reach the Vier Bylae Ranch. Does anyone know where that is? It would be greatly appreciated."

"I know where it is," said a man near the back of the group. He raised his hand hesitantly as he stared at The Death's large skull. He deduced that his own skull was probably not a formidable opponent for the large one sitting on top of the skeleton's shoulders.

After seeing what Conquest had done with the other villager he wasn't too sure how much he wanted to help, in fear that he would give the impression of not being a help at all. "I was living there until yesterday; but there is nothing there, only my brother."

"Onaiwu Iyare?" War rose from his slump into an excited pose.

"Yes, he is my brother."

War leaped from his beast and grabbed the man in a bear hug, squeezing him between his massive arms and chest. "Bless you! Bless you! Bless you! What is your name?"

"Ducat," said the man, gasping for air as he had become constricted by the grip of War.

"Bless you Ducat." War dropped Ducat, who bent over clutching his knees, trying to catch his breath. "Get on!" his large hand outstretched toward Ducat's slumped body.

Ducat's eyes drifted from War to the large purple dinosaurs back to War who was wearing a wide-eyed grin that made the hair on the back of Ducat's neck stand at attention. "I'm going--" he stuttered, "I'm going to get a horse?" As he backed away toward the stables he heard Famine screech in delight; "I love this so much! This is so cool!"

*****

In a large snow-covered house that sat back in the hills of Norway a letter arrived via courier. It was received by an outstretched hand at the door a. A pair of white gloves opened the letter and a tiny smile formed across the lips, surrounded by a white beard of its reader. "Pack it up boys!" boomed the man, the gold buttons of his red suit jostling with the excitement, "We're going to America!"

*****

1 DAY BEFORE THE BIRTH

Ketty arose early to get a head start on her bunk mates. She pulled on a pair of blue sweat pants and a green t-shirt, tied her hair back in a ponytail and ventured out on the streets of L.A. She had taken up jogging four years ago, mainly as a way to keep up with other women in southern California.

She wasn't vain, but she knew that she had to keep somewhat up on the rest of the plastic, tanned Barbie dolls living in the narcissism capitol of the world. She didn't particularly cherish the morning workout but it had become a habit, and habits are hard to break.

As the morning sun cast its yellow glare through the high rises and palm trees her feet hit their shadows on the sidewalk with a steady pace. L.A. wasn't a walking city, so she had the place to herself and her thoughts.

There was something in the air, she thought, as she raced by the cars whose drivers gave her a double look and a laugh. There was something different but she couldn't put her finger on it. As the sweat glistened on her forehead, dripping from the earphones that kept the outside world at a safe distance she stopped and stood still. Her eyes darting to the trees that lined the street.

She finally realized what was causing her to have a sense of discrepancy about her city. There were no sounds, at least not any natural sound. There was the constant treble of cars and the echoes of wannna-be models and actors crying as they waited tables bouncing off the smog-covered atmosphere, but it was the lack of nature that got to her.

The city was never going to be confused with an Amazon rainforest, but you could always count on the sweet songs of birds to make it a little more comforting. There were no birds chirping; there were no birds at all. It was as if an all-avian points bulletin had been placed to get out town. It filled the air with such an abundant eeriness that Ketty broke her jog early and headed back to the hotel.

As she turned around to start back, she noticed a car parked on the side of the road. As it idled in front of her she peered inside and noticed a familiar face gazing off in the distance. The face was noticing the lack of birds also, something that no one in L.A. would ever notice unless they were also in tune with what was happening.

Dana Plough broke her stare and turned to Ketty. As their eyes locked, Kerry quickly turned and tried to run as nonchalantly as possible. "Damn," she thought to herself as she made a conscious effort not to look back. "It's starting."

*****

Dana Plough knew that she had never met the raven-haired woman who caught her eye, but there was something cacophonously familiar about her face. She had looked at her as if they were in on something together, that they were on the same path, and that they were to diverge at some point very soon.

Her attention was drawn back to the sky and to the thing that Ketty hadn't noticed. She watched the dark clouds converging on her city, like a runaway eighteen-wheeled semi barreling down on an unsuspecting family sedan on a curvy mountain road in the middle of a snow storm.

She tapped on the glass that separated her from Manuel and motioned to him to start driving again. Dana Plough watched the morning become bright day as they drove. She watched the city become an electric motherboard of rushing hordes bouncing from terminal to terminal.

She watched people whom she had never met or cared about go about their day as the child inside her kicked and punched in his last days of darkness. Dana Plough placed a hand on her belly and rubbed the protruding mass of destruction that would bring to end all of this. She felt a twinge of sadness for the first time. Then she smiled.

*****

Manuel got the cue to drive and sped off down the avenue, leaving behind a young woman doing her best not to stare at his employer. It was par for the course to get out fast. People usually had one of two feelings toward Dana Plough: unadulterated love or life-consuming hatred; either one brought out the weird in people.

He had spent the past night and subsequent morning chauffeuring her around and hadn't got much out of her vocally. All her communicating was done with simple gestures, a way of exchange that he had grown to welcome.

The car idled at a light and Manuel turned his attention to a small man sitting on a park bench. The man was man wearing a bowler and dressed in a dapper tweed suit with bulky coke bottle glasses as he clutched a brown paper bag feverishly to his chest.

The only pigeons left in the city had flocked to the man like they were auditions for a Hitchcock film, but he wasn't relinquishing whatever he had in the bag. He didn't seem to mind the attention, but he wasn't going to share his treasure with the winged rats.

The light turned green and Manuel drove through the intersection after a flurry of honks and shouting drew him out of his hypnotic state. As he turned the corner he caught the small man's eyes and drew a coy grin from Manuel as he drifted out of sight.

His hand reached for a dial to turn on the radio. A soft Mozart symphony began to fill the car as Manuel drove; he kept one eye on his passenger and one eye on those portentous clouds that seemed to be speeding in a pinpoint direction toward his car.

*****

A small man wearing a bowler and dressed in a dapper tweed suit with bulky coke bottle glasses clutched the bag tightly. The vials of Jamaican Whooping Fever Pox rattled from deep within their cotton tombs.

The sun was just reaching his bench and the warmth soon stroked his pale face, burning it red with its rays slightest touch. His brow was furrowed, giving the impression of a shar pei dressed for a guest lecturer at a self-proclaimed accredited University.

*****

Drool covered the pillow, forming a small pool of warmed spittle below Jeremiah's mouth. He slowly opened his eyes, trying to grasp the picture of his surroundings. He hadn't remembered leaving the floor and making his way to bedroom, but there he was, tucked in tight between the bed spreads.

His head throbbed from the day before and the sun peeking from behind the drawn curtains left his brain aching for the dark.

He struggled to untangle his feet from the sheets that had shackled him during his sleep. He sat up, watched the room spin around like a merry-go-round after a hit of acid and collapsed back to the mattress. He lay staring up at the ceiling, trying to get a handle on his aching body.

He had concluded that if he could just will himself enough to get his feet on the floor, the rest of his body would fall into line after.

He spun his body up and around, shifting every muscle to contort with the ideas his mind had offered. His feet hit the floor and this jerked the rest of him into an upright position. He was standing under his own influence; this was a good start. As he started to step toward the bathroom his eyes rolled back in his head, then his body followed suit and fell back, landing on the soft mattress.

He could probably do with a little more sleep, he told himself. With his feet in the air and head nestled in the tousled bedding, his mind drifted back to a place where his body was more relaxed with the painlessness of slumber.

*****

Barnaby was awoken by a thump coming from the bedroom. Instead of investigation, he found his way downstairs and across the street to a little coffee shop he enjoyed frequenting while in town. He had discovered the place years before when an outbreak of deadly salmonella poisoning caused the death of fourteen customers.

The shop was, as he put it, 'quaint, with a sense of danger'. He didn't enjoy the hotel's café, he felt it was too snooty for his taste, and besides, no one had ever died from runny eggs there.

He had settled into a booth and was nursing a cup of coffee when the door flung open and a rather frumpy man came staggering in. The man seemed to be in hurry to get away from someone or something. His eyes darted over the stained walls of the diner and relaxed on the torn red stools that lined the linoleum counter. He plopped down in the seat and called for a cup of coffee.

Barnaby couldn't be bothered with people too busy for a good shower; he was too busy dealing with the plate of burnt bacon that had been placed before him.

He poked at the blackened meat that sat there sizzling in a pool of fat on his plate and sighed. He poured a half a cup of sugar into his coffee and turned his attention to a newspaper the previous diner had left.

*****

A wayward wire poked at Henry through the stool; a matter that would have proven annoying if he wasn't too busy trying to get a grip on the reality of what he had done. He looked around the diner trying to interpret the character of the patrons. The place was empty except for a man in the corner booth who seemed to be too busy eating burnt bacon and reading the paper to notice Henry.

He reached into his pants and ran his fingers over the vial of whatever it was he had lifted from the lab. He hadn't had a chance since his harrowing escape to read what he had stolen. Whatever it was he was sure it would do the trick, even though was still in the dark as to what the trick involved. His hand left the vial gently as he pulled his hand from his pocket. He picked up his cell phone from the counter and scrolled down the menu to find Juliet's number. He took a deep breath and dialed her number.

*****

"Hello," said the quiescent voice on the other end of the phone. Juliet took a drink of water she kept next to her bed in an attempt to get the cotton that had lined the inside of her mouth to dissolve. As the water made its way down her throat it took a detour and caused a coughing fit deep in her lungs. As she struggled to regain her breath she dropped the phone, causing it to hang up. She looked down at the phone as it lie on the floor; she gave a thought to picking it up but decided to turn over and go back to sleep.

The phone rang again and with an audible moan she reached over and grabbed it haughtily. "What do you need?" she said, struggling to get her voice to conjoin with her heavily lethargic brain.

After a few exasperated lines of barely comprehensible chatter from Henry, she looked at the clock and said, "All right, give me thirty minutes and I'll come and get you."

*****

Actor Jonathan Frakes had slept in his car, which did a number to his well coifed hair. He felt dirty as he ran his fingers through his hair and down his face. He flicked off the tiny specks of grime that had collected on his skin over night. He pulled out a toothbrush from his travel bag and squirted some paste onto the brush. The cool mint taste permeated his mouth and he started to feel alive again. He rolled down the window and spit out a mouthful of foam onto the pavement. As he lifted his head he noticed someone staring at him.

He wiped his mouth and made strong contact with the eyes of his admirer. He was used to being a public figure and thought of himself as someone who knew how deal with the adoration of a giddy fan. He smiled and gave a quick nod of his head before unconsciously reaching up and flicking a crusty yellow formation from the corner of his left eye.

The fan went on his way down the street and Actor Jonathan Frakes went back to his cramped makeshift powder room, digging through his bag for a bundle of wet naps. After his crude shower he took out a pair of binoculars and focused them on the top floor of the hotel he had camped out in front of.

*****

Loman walked away shaking his head; he could remember a day when an actor in the caliber of Jonathan Frakes would have been still working. Instead, he was living out of his car like a common vagabond. He had admired the actor's work in the past and instead of an autograph, his shoe was covered in the actor's morning dental clean-up.

He pushed his way through the revolving door of the hotel lobby and walked inside. He made a bee-line for the concierge's desk and rang the small bell on the counter. He tapped his fingers nervously as he waited to be greeted. The door on the back wall opened and a tall man dressed in a tuxedo entered. It was eight in the morning and the sight of seeing someone in a tuxedo, who wasn't covered in vomit, was a bit startling.

"May I help you sir?"

"Um, yes," Loman stammered as he searched for the right words, "I'm looking for someone?"

"We all are sir, but this isn't a dating service."

Loman was taken aback by the concierge's dry delivery. He was the type of man who took things very seriously, but he compensated by having a biting wit to distract those whom he found to be inferior to the people who could afford a penthouse suite. Loman tried to gather his control and continued, "I'm looking for a guest here."

"And what would the name be on the room, sir?" The concierge words dripped with sarcasm.

"Yes, the name is, um, um."

"You do know who you're looking for? Would you like to look through a phone book to help you out in your quest?"

"No. Her name is Ketty. Ketty Bauer."

"Let me just look her up sir. It will just take a minute." His voice conveyed that of someone who was unwilling to look at Loman as anyone more than the riff raff of society. As he typed away at the computer his face scrunched and contorted in a variety of manifestations.

He clicked and hummed as he searched the index for Ketty's name. He stopped and sighed, "I'm afraid there is no one by that name here sir."

"I know she's here!" cried Loman whose heart raced and sunk deep into his gut, "I know someone who saw her come in here."

"I'm sorry, but she isn't registered. Perhaps she's the guest of someone else." The last few words dripped of the concierge's tongue like warm ice cream. He seemed to cherish the pain that was Loman's ordeal.

"Please, you have to help me. I know Ketty's here. I've got to find her, she needs me."

"I'm sure there are lots of women who 'need' someone of your stature and demeanor." The concierge said dryly. "In fact, we have a few that frequently wait outside this very hotel sometimes."

"She is not a hooker! I'm not looking for a hooker! I just want to find my friend!" frustration leapt from his quivering voice.

"I'm afraid I can't help you. But you're free to wait in the diner across the street and keep an eye out for her if you wish."

Loman dejected and crestfallen turned tail and walked off, leaving a self-satisfied concierge to gloat in private. He made his way to a small diner across the street. He swung open the door to notice a rather derelict fellow sitting at the counter muttering to himself about strains of exotic flues.

He decided that he would sit outside and wait; besides, it was a lovely day. He found a seat in the sun and sat down to relax, just a little. He never did notice the man in the corner reading the paper.

*****

Famine, as was her practice during the road trip, led the way singing at the top of lungs, which could fill up with enough air to power the Albuquerque International Balloon Festival. The Death rode along side War and Conquest trying as hard as they could to amuse her.

Ducat lagged behind on horseback, struggling to keep pace with the dinosaurs who had adapted quite nicely to traveling through the thick sand.

Famine was subject to the emotionally vibrant musical styling of George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic at this junction of the trek. She took great delight in her own voice as she belted out _Aqua Boogie (A psychoalphadiscobetaaquadoloop)_ while galloping through the desert.

War glanced back to check on their companion, who was hunched over in an attempt to get as stream-lined as possible. "How are you doing, friend?" he bellowed into the wind.

"Not great, if you must know." Ducat yelled, bits of wind-blown sand making home between his teeth.

"That's a trooper!" War didn't like to listen to answers to his own questions. He had the rule that if something was stated by him it was automatically true and that any response to the contrary wasn't to be accepted. "We're making great time."

"Shouldn't I be leading? Since I know where we're going after all," huffed Ducat.

"No need to lead, we can feel where you're taking us. We're special that way." War said prideful.

"Great!" beefed Ducat, as a large collection of sand flew up into his face. He spit out the granules, wishing he had never raised his hand a few hours ago.

*****

Onaiwu Iyare wasn't a trained psychologist, but by his best guesstimate, he had definitely gone crazy. He had only been alone with his thoughts for a few days now. He had quickly come to realize that there wasn't much in there to rehash over and over again. Starting off the day in a foggy stupor his mind quickly evolved into a hazy coma of muddied consciousness.

As he sat swaying in the desert breeze on an old wooden rocking chair he began to reflect on his past. He tried to figure out where exactly his predetermined destiny had taken him. As far as he could tell, as he watched what he believed to be a large blue stork eating a opossum covered in mustard while doing the cha-cha, it had taken him on a one way trip to the loony bin.

*****

Satan paced the living room as the 13 Insurance Agents followed him with their eyes. They were at full attention as he wore a noticeable groove in Dana Plough's expensive Turkish carpet. This was not the way they were used to seeing the Lord and Ruler of the Netherworld act; he was twitchy and mumbled a lot more than usual to himself. He seemed to get distracted by the smallest of things. He was becoming, if they dare think it, mortal.

As he marched the room he would stop every so often to bring his fingers to his mouth and with a wisp give a curdling moan. He had become impatient with the flightiness his mistress had been given to wont over the past twenty-four hours.

He had chosen Dana Plough for her strength and resolve; now she was spending long hours reflecting on the beach and taking morning drives to watch otters playing on the shore.

Satan was changing also; he knew it, although he didn't want to admit it. His minions looked to him for guidance and a sense of duty. He was having trouble thinking of himself of a leader of the damned.

He was starting to think of himself as a father. This worried him; he was sure he was ready for parenthood, but now it was becoming a reality; a reality that was getting, for lack of a better word, real.

*****

The Great Hall of Death was buzzing. The time had come that all agents of death had been waiting for but none of them had ever really expected. The Death had ridden off with the other Horsemen and now they had to prepare for the day of reckoning.

The busiest day of eternity was overwhelming, but finding a job after the day had ended was positively daunting. For the deaths, ushering in souls to the afterlife was the only work they had ever known or were qualified for. The afterlife wasn't going to be same after this.

DANZ & C>500TP sat at the head of the table. She had been given the unenviable task of chairing the meeting that would lead to the destruction of mankind. All eyes were focused on her and the strange human who stood to the right of her shoulder.

No mortal had ever been allowed to enter the Great Hall before [Except the cleaning crew, but no one ever notices them anyway] and it was a bit unnerving to have to talk in front of him.

Deaths weren't that fond of humans in the first place; they found them uneducated, dirty, philandering misanthropes with no cause in the universe other than to be really annoying when trying to get directions. They liked their time in the Great Hall to discuss their mutual dislike for humans; it was therapeutic.

"All right, let's get down to business." No one stopped to listen, they continued to talk amongst themselves in a quiet roar about the man alongside DANZ & C>500TP. She could tell this meeting was going to be difficult. "I think if we all just calm down a bit we can ignore the giant ass over here." She pointed a crooked thumb in the avenue of Michael Ryan.

"Hey!" objected Michael.

"Shut up!" she scolded.

"Okay." Michael Ryan dejectedly bowed his head as not to catch the disapproving laughter of the rest of the room.

DANZ & C>500TP cleared her throat and rustled her papers into an even and symmetrical block. "All right," she said, scanning the room to make sure all eyes were transfixed squarely on her, "The first order of business--"

"The first order of business is who in the bloody hell is that?" blurted out the Death of London, Belfast, Glasgow, Manchester, Cardiff, Edinburg and Liverpool [because that's where the Beatles are from].

"Yeah," reaffirmed the Death of everywhere else in the United Kingdom, a true lackey in every sense of the word.

DANZ & C>500TP sighed, knowing this was going to be a much longer meeting that she wanted. She had things to do, and running a meeting filled with disapproving eyes was the last thing she wanted to do. "He's with me."

"Well, we can see that, eh." said the Death of Canada, "We want to know who you are, eh, to think you can just bring him in here." She stopped and paused, as all eyes were upon her she shrugged and finished, "eh?"

"I'm the chairwoman right now. That gives me all the permission I need." The fumes that billowed from her ears were permeable.

"If I could say something," Michael raised his hand and softly said, knowing very well he was the last person anyone wanted to hear from. But he knew he had to try and stick up for himself, because nobody else here would.

"No!" echoed the table in a burst of solidified anger.

"I think we should let the thing speak if he wants to." The voice came the meekest employee; the Death of Germany. It had not gone unnoticed by the group over the years that the shyest and least authoritative member of the brotherhood was from a country where strength is a valuable commodity. "Right?"

"Fine, go ahead and tell everyone what's on your mind." Blustered DANZ & C>500TP.

Michael cleared his throat and straightened himself as best he could. He examined the room in an endeavor to make a sliver of emotional contact with the imposing enemies that despised him for how he was born. "I really don't want to be here."

"Thank you. That was a beautiful speech." DANZ & C>500TP slapped him upside the head, no small feat considering she was seated and he was standing perfectly erect directly behind her.

"I just wanted--," he pouted massaging his head.

"I said thank you. Don't make me hit you again." She shuffled her papers in a feeble attempt to regain some control over the room. "Now back to today's agenda. As you know, the end of days is upon us and seeing that we are, at the time short staffed--"

"Yeah, where is The Death of The West Coast of the United States including Nevada, Arizona and Hawaii? First he gets stupid name, then on busiest day in history of time he gets a-- a-- how you say it? Vacation?" said the Death of Brazil, who was practicing her English in an attempt to pad her resume a smidge.

"He's not on vacation," said the exacerbated chairwoman. "He's on assignment." This justification seemingly wasn't getting through to the others. "--On orders from the big guy?"

"And where's The Death of Japan, Korea and The Philippines? Is he on assignment too?" the sarcasm dripped off the Death of Indonesia's tongue like Kool-aid from a member of the People's Temple.

"Do you want California? Because we can give it to you if you want it."

"No! That's all right. I'm good." His head lowered to hide on the chance that she was serious.

*****

Jeremiah was finally awake and trying to get the room's coffee maker to work. All he wanted was a nice cup of tea, but boiling water was becoming a tricky wicket. His attention turned from the machine to the door when a click from the lock and a turn of the handle came from the other side of the room.

Ketty entered, glistening from the sun hitting the droplets of sweat that formed on her cheeks. "Finally awake I see."

"I will be as soon as I get a bloody spot of tea from this thing." He kicked the table that housed the coffee maker, making a thud that can only come from the meeting of flesh and bone to solid oak.

"Just push the 'on' button." Ketty sidled up to coffee maker and pressed the button on the side of the machine. She gave him an understanding, yet condescending pat on the back. For the first time in a while she was back in familiar grounds. She was dealing people like they were six year olds.

Jeremiah dolefully found a spot on the couch and dutifully placed himself. With a furrowed nose he watched the steaming water drip into the glass pot. "Where's Barnaby?" he said trying to change the unspoken conversation of his stupidity to someone else whom Ketty had less admiration for.

"Probably across the street eating that pile of grease and crusty eggs he calls breakfast. I swear I have no idea how he can be so harsh to judge us humans and the way we live when he fills his body with that crap."

"He's not used to eating." Jeremiah said, "It's more of a science project than anything."

"He certainly picked the right place for an experiment." Ketty left the room to slip into the bathroom.

She pulled off her the sweat stained tee shirt and pants and removed her unmentionables. She slipped into one of the hotel's robes, made just for the distinguished customers, of Egyptian cotton and terrycloth. The warm white cloth felt like heaven as it caressed her aching and moist body.

She reentered the room and positioned herself on the sofa next to Jeremiah. His brain tried everything it could to tell his eyes not to stare at the breasts that peeked out from behind the robe.

His mouth was agape with the sheer excitement of being so close to breasts, which were much more covered than anything he would see if he traveled a few blocks to a nearby beach.

Jeremiah had spent his millenniums on earth in a constant self-education to better understand the human race. He had succeeded in his mind to fit in with his mortal counterparts, even making acquaintances along the way. The one thing he never did get a grasp on was the opposite sex and how to behave around them.

They were a riddle wrapped in an enigma served with a heaping side of conundrum and over the past few thousand years he had failed to become accustomed to their womanly wilds.

Throughout his long history on the planet he had witnessed a changing climate in morals, from decadence to purity back to decadence and was now witnessing a return to a puritanical way of life. He was built for sex like most men, but women were another sex altogether.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Jeremiah perked up out of his self-imposed prison of impure thoughts involving her glistening skin to cough up the amazing answer of, "Yes." he choked up the words if they were a stale, day old danish.

"Where's your bike?"

"My what--?"

"Your bike. Barnaby said you were a Hell's Angel. So where's your bike, or as you it call it; your hog?"

"Oh, I'm not a Hells' Angel." He said politely.

"No?"

"Gosh no. I'm an Angel. From Hell."

*****

Loman didn't take his gaze off the building as he purchased his breakfast, a combination of wet, grey hot dogs and a diet cola from a local street vendor. He had only turned his attention away for a split second to collect the change that was handed over to him by the greasy hands of a man whose life ambitions certainly didn't involve taking a daily bath.

As the change clanked into his palm, Barnaby crossed out of sight of his downward glance. Loman looked up again just in time to see the back of a man entering the hotel; if he had been more on the ball he would have put the person in his sights as the man whom he had come to be determined as Ketty's partner in crime. If he had been more on the ball, he wouldn't be alone searching for someone who didn't want to be found. At least not by him.

*****

"We need eleven more," said Barnaby as he entered the cool air conditioning of the room.

"Eleven more for what?" Ketty knew that asking questions, especially of Barnaby, was something of a fool's errand. But she did it time and time again, as if to punish herself.

"The battle." Jeremiah sipped from his tea and shrugged in Barnaby's knowing direction.

This unspoken dialogue did not go unnoticed by Ketty. "I know about your stupid little battle." She paused as she considered the words. Her nose made a certain crinkle it always did when things finally dawned on her. "Battle? What Battle? You're not expecting me to fight, because I didn't sign up for warfare. In fact, I didn't sign up for any of this crap."

"Of course you have to fight," said Barnaby, throwing a 'duh'-inducing glance to Jeremiah. "Why would I want to hang out with you if you weren't going to fight? I mean, you're not that personable. What with all the hitting and slapping you do."

"Don't worry about it Ketty," Jeremiah felt like he should defend her honor. "I've got it all taken care of."

"Who did you get?"

"Don't worry. They're not going to be a bother. Really, I swear. Why would they be? I mean their prone to jolliness."

"Oh no-- No--. No, no, no. Don't tell me you did what I think you did. Please don't tell me that," Barnaby pleaded.

Jeremiah slunk back in his seat, his head tucked into his shirt in a combination of shame and protection. His defensiveness was the reason why turtles have shells and armadillo's roll up into a ball when frightened; because they know what's coming next.

"Who are we talking about?" Ketty's interest suddenly peaked.

"It doesn't matter. It's already been done." Barnaby stared at the shrinking Jeremiah.

"Fine. I don't care what you people are talking about anyway. I'm taking a shower." She huffed away muttering under her breath.

No sooner had the sound of water hitting flesh begun to echo through the room, the front door flung open and in entered the man they were expecting. He was dressed in a flowing white robe darned with what looked like a Bedazzler gone haywire.

His linens gleamed with thousands of encrusted of jewels and sequins and sitting perched on his head was a tall white crown with the initials 'S' and 'N' emblazoned in gold leaf. "Have no fear boys!" he shouted under his flowing, meticulously kept white beard, "Saint Nicholas is here!"

"And I'm guessing you're not alone either?" Barnaby stated, looking to the hallway.

"Don't be silly, Barnaby," St. Nick said pausing for a rotund chuckle, "Barnaby! I don't know if I'll ever get used to the sound of that my friend." He smiled and winked, then gestured toward the hall. "Come on in!"

Through the door in a parade of fanfare penetrated eight young black men, who proceeded to line the hotel room in military fashion. It was a sight that was usually reserved for Liberace's African Adventure vacation.

Their broad grins lit up the room as they showed their immaculately flossed teeth. Their freshly tanned faces glowed in the hot sun that beat down on their well toned bodies. Their 'uniforms' consisted of very tight fitting ribbed muscle shirts leading down to shorts that stopped somewhere on the very upper thigh, leaving nothing much to the imagination.

"Well, don't look so pleased to see us," Saint Nicholas said, giving Barnaby the customary European greeting of two kisses on either cheek.

"You know I love you," Barnaby said, exchanging the greeting, "it's just I wasn't expecting to see you."

"Now, who else would you call with a problem so--" he paused for dramatic effect, "crucial." His lips swirled around the word like a candy cane. Saint Nicholas loved language and he loved the way it felt on his tongue.

Barnaby looked to Jeremiah who was smiling sheepishly amongst the eight, "Give me few minutes, I'm sure I could figure something out."

"Make yourself at home, boys." St. Nick waved his gloved hand to the furnishings before giving Barnaby a patented twinkle of his eye, "We're all going to be here for a while."

*****

"Guys, wait." Ducat had been screaming for five minutes and was becoming hoarse. "Guys--?"

The dinosaurs were making record time as they tracked across the boiling landscape. War was finally getting used to the ride, the breeze was weaving its way through his hair and he had grown a slight smile that curved awkwardly around his lips.

He was having fun, something he hadn't had since the last great crusades; War hadn't been the same since automated weapon systems and the Geneva Convention took the place of hand-to-hand combat, followed by the slow and painful torture of the nearly deceased.

"Listen guys, I think I need to tell you something," Ducat coughed out a rock of sand and saliva as he yelled cautiously to the other riders.

Conquest had come around to Famine's voracious thirst for sing-alongs and was entrenched in a medley of Broadway show tunes. Famine had a hunger for the tunes of Porter, Sondheim and Gershwin. She had spent the past century assembling the universe's largest anthology of song books from the Great White Way. She had been most enthused of her latest find in a small bookstore in Greenwich Village, the six volume set: _The_ _Absolute_ _Worst of Andrew Lloyd Webber_.

"You all really need to pay attention to me!" shouted Ducat, trying desperately to catch up to the pack. The dust billowed in his eyes blinding him as he chased the four.

The Death sat on his mount and took in the picturesque scenery of the lifeless desert. There was something genuinely magical about a place where nothing grew or prospered. He watched the miles and miles of empty space that took up the landscape and sucked in the satisfaction brought by the scene.

He mostly enjoyed people; they were, for a lack of a better word, amusing in their own way. But the dessert was something that spoke to his soul, seeing something so naturally devoid of humanity was, well life-affirming.

He turned his head when he caught a whisper of noise coming from behind. He saw Ducat riding wildly, arms flailing above his head and shouting too softly to be heard.

He pulled back on the makeshift reigns of the dinosaur and came to a stop. The other three, taking notice of this, followed suit and doubled back to The Death. As they waited for Ducat to catch up they exchanged furtive glances at the maniacally foolish man.

As Ducat reached the four, out of breadth and nearly out of voice, he searched hesitantly for the right words to relay his concern. "I think we're lost?"

War quietly and calmly stepped down from his beast and walked over Ducat. He gently picked up the man by the neck. After what seemed to Ducat, an eternity of cold stares, War began violently choking him into near unconsciousness.

Conquest and The Death quickly rushed to the aid of the dying Ducat. They struggled to pry the release of War's vice around Ducat's gasping neck. "What do you mean we're lost?" War shouted, his voice ringing off the dunes. "You said you knew how to get there."

"I'm sorry," gasped Ducat, "I don't recognize any of this."

"What do you mean you don't recognize any of this? It's sand. How can tell the difference between one grain and another?" War looked out over the vast expanse of nothingness waving an agitated arm against the dust.

"It just doesn't feel right." Ducat shrugged in an attempt to look cute [It didn't work].

"I am going to show you why they call me War! I am so going Inquisition on your ass!" He lunged toward the cowering Ducat. The Death and Conquest impulsively wrestled him back to a safe distance.

"Let's look at this rationally," said Famine, who was still sitting on top of Princess Lollipop. She wasn't much for unnecessarily brutal violence; slow and painful with a twinge of craving an éclair was more her bon mot.

"I've been rational long enough." War growled.

"You haven't been rational since we broke up." Famine had a way of bringing everything back to the fact that thirty three thousand years ago she and War had a one week tryst.

"We're supposed to be ushering in a new time of darkness and death in like, a day. And we don't know where the hell we are." He turned his attention back to Ducat, who was sitting on the grained earth in a fetal position.

Ducat watched the breeze make ripples in the sand when something caught his eye. Suddenly hiss face lit up, "I know where we are! Come on guys, we're back on track." He mounted back on his stallion and starting to gallop off down the slopes.

"I think we're going the same way we were going before," Conquest said, climbing back on her ride.

"As long as we're going somewhere," said The Death.

"No. As long as we're going the right somewhere," said War, tugging at his codpiece "I'm getting chaffed."

*****

There was a knock on the fogged window of the Ferrari. Slowly the window whirred down to reveal Patrolman Penny Hunter. The toll last night had taken on Actor Jonathan Frakes face and body was reflected in her darkly tinted sunglasses. With great intent she removed her glasses to reveal the worn perceptiveness of a woman who had walked too many beats and seen too many nights in a hardhearted city. She flashed a light into his bloodshot eyes, a method that would have been more effective if it hadn't been eighty degrees and sunny.

She leaned down, coming face to face with the haggard individual that was taking up valuable space on her streets. "Sleeping in your car, sir?"

"Well," Actor Jonathan Frakes stumbled for the right words. He was still shaking off the effects of leather upright seating as a bed. "I can explain officer."

"Okay, try me."

"I'm an actor." He was sure this would set off a cornucopia of bells and whistles in her well seasoned.

"Everyone here is," she said as she took a long look at the deteriorating brilliance in his eyes as he realized she didn't recognize her. She could see that he was hurt and, not being a bad person, tried to ease his vanity. "Oh yes, I remember you. You were great in that thing I saw you in."

His face lit up with her discovery. "Well, it's been a rough night. If I had my face on, it wouldn't have taken you so long to identify me."

"Oh yes, that's it," she supplied half-heartedly, "Now I know exactly who you are. License and registration please."

He reached into the glove compartment and handed the documents to her. Her eyes ping ponged from the picture on his license to the one in the car. "When was picture taken?"

"About three months ago."

"Wow." She whistled a drawn out note and shook her head in disbelief. "You look thirty years older now."

"I was wearing make-up," he was barely audible as his embarrassment had a hard grip on his tongue.

"Okay; well, Mr.Tilebreaks."

"Frakes," he corrected, "It's Frakes."

"Sorry. Why are you sleeping in your car Mr. Frakes? There are plenty of fine hotels in our fair city you could have checked into. What with you being a huge famous actor and all. I'm sure you wouldn't have any trouble finding a place Mr. Timebomb."

"Frakes."

She examined the license again, "Frakes, yes."

"I'm waiting for someone."

"How long have you been waiting here Mr. Teenybeans?" It had been a long week, and Mr. Teenybeans wasn't helping.

"Frakes," he felt himself shrink a little each time she spoke, "About ten hours."

"I don't think whoever you're waiting for is coming. Though I admire your moxie, I would have given up after two hours at the most."

"Well, I don't know exactly whom I'm waiting for. You see I haven't met them yet. But I have this book," He pulled out _The Last Days vol. XII: or what to do when it finally does happen_ from the passenger seat and held it up. "This tells me a lot, but it's a little sketchy on the finer points."

Officer Hunter pinched the bridge of her nose. It was much too early to deal with people like this. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to let you off with a warning. But you're going to have to move your car."

"Thank you, officer." Actor Jonathan Frakes took back his identification and rolled up the window. He started the car and slowly began to drive away when a man came darting in front of his car.

He leaned on the horn and gave a man a furtive glare. Actor Jonathan Frakes started off toward a garage where he could leave the car. He was going to have to do the rest of his reconnaissance outside; which was going to do some kind of hell to his pores.

*****

Loman had been spit upon and now almost run over by Actor Jonathan Frakes. If the actor did one more thing to him today he sure wasn't going to plunk down fifty dollars for his autograph the next time the sci-fi convention came to town.

As he was about to go on his way across the street he was abruptly stopped by Officer Penny Hunter. She sauntered over to him, flipping her ticket book to an empty page. "I'm going to have to give you a ticket for jaywalking sir."

"Why don't you give a ticket to the maniac who tried to run me over?" he wailed.

"I would," she said as she scribbled, "but he's having a bad morning."

*****

Dana Plough waddled up the steps to her house as she fiddled in her purse for her keys. She searched down among the stray lipsticks and cell phone covers when Satan greeted her on the steps with a grin.

He took her purse in one hand and her arm in the other and led in her into the house. There was a quiet she hadn't heard for days permeating throughout the house. It was empty of 80's music and its large, rabid fans.
Satan had let the Insurance Agents out into the backyard to play and the house whistled with serenity. Dana Plough made her way into the kitchen and opened a bottle of vodka she had stashed behind an old box of bran cereal and took a swig.

She wiped her mouth with her sleeve and offered the bottle to her betrothed. Satan gave a polite shake of his head and smiled. She examined his face for a moment and said, "What are you so happy about?"

"I'm content. I never thought I'd say that," he threw an arm around her shoulder. "I'm content."

"That's because your feet aren't the size of zucchinis, and you're not carrying around a bowling ball with the temperament of Cujo. If you men had to be pregnant the world would be a better place. You'd finally know what real pain is and realize that women are by far the strongest of the species.

'You want to be content, try being me for a minute. Content is two minutes without excruciating pain running through your body. That's contentment."

Satan took his arm off her shoulder and threw his arms around her neck, giving her a loving hug. He kissed her on the forehead and stroked her hair. "Maybe the next species that rule this world will be more apt to give men the joy of pregnancy."

*****

Juliet arrived at the diner to find Henry slumped over in a bowl of oatmeal. She grabbed a tuft of hair from the back of his head and pulled him from the bowl. "Were you just going to let him drown in his breakfast?" she barked at the waitress who gave her a shrug and went back to flirting with the cook.

She grabbed a napkin and wiped the dripping wet oats from off his face. She shook her head in pity as she looked at the mess of a man she had only days earlier railed against for being so strong of will. "What on earth have you done to yourself?"

Henry looked up at her with a mix of pain and exhaustion. His eyes were opaque and dim. "I've had a very hard day today," his words drifted off through the air, his head limp as she held him in her arms.

He had reverted back to a simpler time, when he hadn't needed to be Henry Angler, prodigal son of senator, assistant of assistant to Dana Plough, breaker inner and stealer of weapons grade classified viruses. He was who he always wanted to be in the back of his mind; Henry Angler: common man covered in gruel.

"Come on, we're going to get you out of here." Juliet picked him up out of his seat and threw his arm over his shoulder.

"Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you to get cleaned up. We're going to a better place."

"Oh good, I didn't like the oatmeal here anyway," he said as he shuffled out the door under Juliet's weight. "It was too lumpy."

*****

The nausea was becoming almost unbearable. The butterflies that had danced the waltz through the first two trimesters had given way to a rhinoceros dancing the Hora.

Dana Plough pined for the time when there had merely been a junior high school dance in her gut; where pre-teens danced joined by three feet of air, their fingertips resting uncomfortably on their partner's shoulders as they shuffled nervously to the sounds of heavy breathing. This was more like a mosh pit full of raging hormonal angst, fighting for supremacy in a mud pit of flying fists and elbows.

She groaned as she hunched over, grabbing her knees because her ankles were only a distant memory. Satan, who had been trying his best to be as understanding as possible while keeping a safe distance, rubbed her shoulders and cooed soothing words in her ears.

This practice did not help the woman as much as it did the man. Men will always find that women can make the most out nothing; men will find women to be irrational when it comes to pain. Men will also cry out in pain and agony when they have an upset stomach that could be cleared up by a bottle of some over-the-counter pink liquid.

Dana Plough bolted back up to a sitting position. The sudden movement startled him, and he bounced off a cushion into a safer place on the couch, away from her jolting pursuit of comfort. She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, counting backwards from ten.

She forced down the excruciating torture that played ping-pong with her spine. This was pain in all its glory; this was pain nearing its completion inside her. She knew now that her body was putting into motion a plan to expunge the creature that had taken over her every organ and turned it mush. "This is it." She said through clenched teeth.

Satan leapt up and sprinted for the door, tripping over the rug and landing face first onto the floor. He bolted up and began his journey again, arms flailing, eyes darting every which way around the room, trying to gather anything that might be necessary. He grabbed a suitcase from the hall closet. He snatched a lamp and a doily from an end table. He grabbed a copy of _Consumer Digest Weekly_ and an issue of _Sports for Men_ from the coffee table.

He hobbled out the door towards the car with his loot wrapped tightly in his arms, a couple of throw pillows stuffed between his knees and miniature replica of the Statue of Liberty teetering between his teeth. He paused for a second as he stood on the front porch.

"Sorry!" He yelled, turning back to Dana Plough. "I forgot you." He put the lamp down, threw the doily on his shoulder, stuffed the magazines down his pants and rushed over to Dana Plough. She just sat looking at him the same way an owner looks at a dog after it has chased after a fly that had situated itself on the ceiling. The dog may feel it has a chance to get the fly but the owner knows what the dog does not; dogs aren't spiders.

Satan put his hands out to help her off the sofa and into the car. "Come on! We have to go!"

"No we don't." She picked up the phone and started to dial "False alarm." She said as Satan stood mouth agape, staring down at her.

"Thank goodness, I wasn't ready for this." Satan said as he collapsed on the sofa next to her, the magazines crumpling inside his pants. "I couldn't find the remote."

*****

DANZ & C>500TP paced feverishly behind the other Deaths. She had spent the last hour or so attempting to qualify her statements, which ranged from Barnaby to Michael Ryan to the reason why on Fridays the cafeteria served meatloaf when no one there was a particular fan of it.

"Can't we just agree that the boss has a plan to make everything right?!" She belted "But, if his plan fails, which if Barnaby has anything to do with the plan it will, and if we do have to do our jobs, and let me repeat, our jobs, that we will do it happily and without argument."

There was a rumbling amongst the others. They whispered to each other in a muted trumpeting that was meant to be both secretive and audible enough for DANZ & C>500TP to hear their rumblings about her.

"Fine, we'll do it. But I hope that the boss knows what he's doing." The Death of London, Belfast, Glasgow, Manchester, Cardiff, Edinburg and Liverpool said, rising from his seat to come face to face & DANZ and C>500TP. "And I just hope the big guy can't hear what you're saying or thinking right now."

*****

The Death couldn't hear what his employees were saying about him or his plan. He was too busy with a rousing sing-along of _America_ from the hit 1957 Broadway production of West Side Story that Famine had started.

The Four Horsemen and Ducat had found a happy compromise in the affair of finding the ranch: They wouldn't kill him if he found it. Ducat was wary about the stipulation of the agreement, but it was better that the alternative; they'd kill him right there and then, and find it on their own.

War kept a close eye on their traveling companion to be sure they were being led in a direction that at the very least seemed to be right. He wanted to make sure that Ducat was keeping a steady line toward wherever he thought he had spent his entire life living.

War was apprehensive about the fact that Ducat seemed not to know how to get back, seeing as how he had only left it a few days ago. He watched Ducat's eyes as they honed in on a distant hill on the horizon. He watched closely as Ducat's pace seemed to quicken toward the sparkling sand from the locale. "What do you see?"

Ducat never took his stare from the spot and said, "I think we're going home." He stretched a finger out and pointed toward a spot on the horizon. "We're almost there." He let out a maniacally nervous laugh as he began to gallop toward the speck he knew in his heart was the place that would save his ass.

"He does know that's like three hundred miles, right?" Famine said as she watched him race off into the expanse.

"Oh let him have his fun," said Conquest, "He'll be all tuckered out in an hour or so."

*****

Mr. Perry Rainford Bidwell was about to hit a shot from the sixteenth tee when his phone rang. He swung hard and over the ball, causing him to tumble off balance. He caught himself before hitting the grassy floor and stood up straight, a grimace of annoyance spread over his face.

He didn't have many rules, but he was adamant about his golfing time; he was not, under any circumstance, to be disturbed. The links were his church and everyday between eight a.m. and noon was Sunday.

His personal assistant Janet, who had been with him for the past twenty years, answered the phone. Janet was a small, sixty year old woman whose last name, along with the names of her children, grandchildren and her birthday, continuously escaped Bidwell for the past two decades.

She had been with him from the ground floor and was assured she would have a job with him as long as she liked. Some days it seemed to her that he was trying his best to dissuade as long as you like, especially when he insisted that the grandmother of eight caddied for him.

"It's Dana Plough, Mr. Bidwell." She kept the receiver tight to her sagging chest.

"I thought she was dead." He said placing the small ball on the tee.

"No, just pregnant."

"What does she want?" he said as he lined up at the edge of the tee for another swing at his ball.

"I don't know, she says it's personal." Janet moved closer to the wiggling Bidwell, who was geared into his shot. "She also says it's important."

"More important than my golf game?" He dropped his club in a huff and took the phone from Janet. He held the phone to his ear and listened intently to the voice on the other end. He gave a series of 'yeses' and 'you don't say's' before he hung up and handed the phone back to his waiting assistant.

"Was it important? What did she say?"

"It seems that I'm a giant horse's ass and she just wanted me to know it." He picked up his club and strode toward the ball.

"Do you want to fire her sir?"

. "No, she quit. Besides, I am kind of an ass." He swung and hit a lofting shot into the lake that lined the course. "Come along Janet, pick up the pace." Janet picked up his bags and lugged them behind her as he walked toward his ball.

****

Juliet sat Henry down on a park bench and patted him on the head. She went to the curb and tried hailing a taxi. She normally didn't have a problem getting a cab. She was attractive, young and white, something cab drivers look for in a fare.

With Henry in tow she was having more of a problem. Drivers took one look at his face and drove on. He was scaring off potential rides with his sullen quintessence that seemed to have been touched by the hand of the grim reaper. He was grey and shivering; somehow, whatever had happened to him during his task had him rattled.

A cab stopped to pick up the fair haired Juliet as she rushed back to the bench to grab Henry. Before the cabbie could make a run for it she shoved the comatose Henry into the cab and jumped in after him.

After a few moments of debate she convinced the driver to take them to their destination. How she was going to explain her assistant to Dana Plough when they finally reached the house was beyond her. But she had to do something; she felt somewhat responsible for had happened to him.

*****

Ketty had dried off and put her hair up into a large towel. She walked out into the living area of the hotel room and immediately felt uneasy. As she passed by the grinning black men in skimpy shorts she tried desperately to advert her eyes from their manliness that were wiggling a little too close for her comfort towards freedom. She found Barnaby and scuttled up next to him. "Who are these?"

"They're his-- well, how would one put it? Companions?" said Barnaby. It was still difficult to exactly explain the relationship between Santa Clause and a group of scantily clad young men after all these millennia.

"Whose companions?" she whispered.

"Mine," said Saint Nicholas, grabbing her in a bear hug and squeezing her tightly. "Don't worry about them. They won't bite."

He smiled and winked, "Unless that's what you're into."

Ketty eyeballed the large bearded man in the ultra-sparkly flowing robes that had accosted her. She turned to Barnaby and said, "Why is the gay pope standing in our living room?"

"Gay Pope? I love it!" St. Nick gave an ingratiatingly riotous laugh in her face, "No honey, I'm Santa Clause."

Ketty turned again to Barnaby, not saying a word. Her look of confusion said everything she didn't. "The Santa Clause of Norway," Barnaby said.

"Oh?" Ketty was more confused by the answer than she was by the question. There are certain aspects of Santa Clause every little girl knows as a fact. What was standing beside her in his ostentatious clothes and horde of well-oiled men was not the Santa Clause to whom she had spent her childhood writing letters.

Christmas was always a time of great bliss in the Bauer household, full of Yule-tide joy of hanging stockings and drinking eggnog. Each Christmas Eve her mother would tuck her in and sing her carols to get the visions of sugarplums dancing in her head started into dreamland.

This was not the jolly old fat man dressed in soot-covered red, wistfully bouncing from rooftop to chimney. This was not the Santa Clause who sat on a candy cane throne at the mall while bawling children wrestled to get back to the warm embrace of their mothers.

This was man to whom the concept of 'bring it down a notch' was a whisper in the wind. He was jolly; there was no mistaking that, but it was a 'festive' jolly usually reserved for Christmas parties in Provincetown.

As Ketty tried in vain to wrap her head around the sight of the Norwegian St. Nick, Jeremiah took her by the hand and led her out of the room. "That's not Santa Clause," she garbled as the bedroom door closed behind her. "That just can't be Santa Clause."

"It is." Jeremiah led her to the bed and seated her, "You'll get used to it. Everyone does. It just takes a little time."

"And those elves," she stared at herself in the mirror while visions of buff and bronzed he-men danced in her head, "They're so--"

"That's something you may not get used to." He started for the door and turned to check on her on last time. "Now get dressed. Everything will be better once you have time to soak it all in." He closed the door behind him, leaving Ketty alone with her thoughts about the true meaning of Christmas.

"They're all so--" she said to the air, "festive?"

*****

"I think she'll need some time to adjust," said Jeremiah slipping back into the conversation.

"I toned it down for the occasion too," said the Norwegian St. Nick as he handed his gloves to Barnaby, "I could have really gone full-blown with the whole end of the world thing. You should have seen what Hank wanted to do."

Hank, Longis, Julius, Darren, Demeter, Guy-Williams, Sebastian and Jordan were, for lack of a better term, his elves. They had been with him for the last three thousand years and had yet to utter a collective word between them.

This is how St. Nick preferred it; strong, toned and bronzed didn't need to speak to be enjoyed. They each had their own unique personality, ones that the Norwegian Santa Clause never bothered to delve into.

The Norwegian St. Nicholas was his own man, one who didn't feel the necessity to conform to the rigors and regulations of all other Yuletide Clauses. He had etched out a nice rainbow-colored niche that made him unique.

He existed in a world where boundaries were broken by the bulldozers of tolerance. Where being who you are and not letting anyone else tell you it's wrong is built in its dusty ruins.

"Now let's get down to business. We didn't fly half way around the world to sit around comparing whose army is more up to hand to hand encounters. Although, hopefully there will be time for such frivolities later."

Jeremiah let simmer a pregnant pause before finally wrapping his head around the double entendres that were thrown his way. "Well, we still have to find a couple more people to complete our congregation."

"The more the merrier; that's what I always say." St. Nick blustered, slapping Jeremiah on the back so hard he lost the ability to breathe for a minute.

"Wait a minute," Barnaby butted in to stop what was becoming a ridiculous tête-à-tête, "This is all you got?"

"I thought you were taking care of the rest," said Jeremiah. "I just assumed."

"You know what they say about people who assume?" Barnaby replied.

"Oh I certainly do," rang in St. Nick. "Something about asses and you and me," he winked.

"All right! That's enough for now." Barnaby was watching his plan inch closer to the edge and one small stroke would push it right over to the briny deep. He looked over the troops that had assembled as a wave of certain doom made its way down from his head to his bowel.

A teacher, an angel who was more heck than hell, Santa Clause and his eight wise men weren't exactly the army of mercenaries for defeating the bringers of all things malevolent that he had hoped for.

He didn't want to be here in the first place; he didn't like humans, and after spending less than a week walking amongst them he disliked them even more. Of course, he pondered, the alternative was worse; having them all up in the after-life with him at the same time. "Let's just take a deep breath and try to get our heads around this."

St. Nick raised a finger and started to open his mouth. "No. Don't," Barnaby stopped him; his finger slowly drifted back down toward his side.

*****

Juliet watched the hulking mansions, with their swimming pools and tennis courts and servant quarters float by and then vanish into tree-lined canopies. The taxi was being shadowed by the casts of darkness from the brick and steel-fortified gates that grew from the pavement like giant sequoias.

Henry sat beside her, hunched over in a cold sweat, paying no attention to the trip. She put a calming hand on his back and watched his spine wave with every lungful of air that he lapped up from the floor of the cab.

She watched the afternoon sun beat down on the sunglass-mirrored eyes of women who lay on freshly laundered towels. They peered from behind their shaded shelters, exhibiting their newly collagened lips for the young boys on their lawn who dripped with sweat.

She watched as stockbrokers pulled into their driveways rushing to get a quick afternoon delight with their neighbor's trophy wife. She watched a community where it didn't matter who you were; it mattered what you owned. Wealth ruled this society of buyers and sellers of human souls.

She looked at this world with envy. She looked at this world with pity. It was a world where she longed to be and longed to never be a part of. She had grown up watching these people from behind her mother's apron as she washed the dishes and prepared the meals. She had fought her entire life to not become her mother but to become the people for whom her mother worked.

Her mother had taken two jobs to put Juliet through college; she put her own life on the back burner to make a better life for her daughter. Juliet appreciated everything her mother did for her, but she still didn't want to be her mother.

She watched as they looked at her mother with shame and contempt. It infuriated her the way they would scoff at her mother behind her back. As a child she would accompany her mother to work and play among the ruins of the nouveau-riche.

She would hide behind the thick velvet drapes as she listened to them speak with amusement and condescension about her mother and the other domestics that made the household run.

She wanted to be better than what she saw her mother as, if for no other reason than to stick it to the ones who laughed at her. She wanted something better for her mother, she wanted her to be able to take her rightful place between the rich and pompous, something her mother never struggled for, but wanted for her daughter.

"Stop here for a minute," she said to the driver. The cab came to a standstill, hugging the curb outside of a white mansion. Juliet climbed out of the car and stood staring at the house set back behind a hill of meticulously administered green. A tear made its way to the edge of her eye when she picked up a rock and threw it as far and hard as she could.

As she flew back into the cab the sound of shattering glass could be heard around the neighborhood. "Step on it," she shouted at the cabbie as they sped away, leaving the smell of burnt rubber on the street behind them. She gazed back at the house she had marred and smiled, "That felt good."

*****

Manuel opened the door and watched as Satan slid in, followed by a struggling Dana Plough. He shut the door and walked around to the other side, pausing to take a handkerchief out of his pocket to give the car a quick buff.

Satan had spent more time than he had planned on to peruse the contents of the refrigerator. He had finally given up after his fourth time through and suggested they go out for lunch.

Dana Plough's mouth watered at the thought of anything that would stay in her stomach. Manuel pulled into an out of the way burrito stand and parked the car. It was the type of place in which Dana Plough would never be caught dead, unless she was craving a guacamole-covered tortilla stuffed with beef and cheese.

Manuel did the ordering since she refused to leave the car and be seen. Her husband, whom she had never introduced to Manuel, volunteered to get out and place the order but she vehemently dissuaded him from doing so. She insisted that he reflected on her as a public figure and that she wouldn't have him seen in a dump like this.

While the order was filled Manuel talked to his cousin who ran the stand. They discussed how he would never understand the fascination his bosses had with wanting to be seen as the common folk without ever having come in contact with the very people they championed.

*****

Actor Jonathan Frakes nervously twitched as he wandered the aisles of a video store adjacent to the hotel. He would from time to time research such places to see how many of his movies had been checked out. He was disappointed to find that only one of his many films had left the shelf.

He was even more disturbed that he had merely a supporting role in the movie that was gone. He couldn't help but feel dejected by the overwhelming lack of support the clerks gave him when he queried about a lesser-known project he had done called _Shark Bait Beach Party IV in 3D_ , of which he quite proud. If someone was going to be in charge of giving people suggestions about what movies people should watch, they should at least be familiar with the classics.

He patrolled the store, searching for passers-by who might seem tempted to rent one of his fine cinematic masterpieces. He didn't want to come off too needy or overly ostentatious when prevailing upon the masses to take a chance on him. He wanted them to get the movies for their merit not because a handsome well known actor told them to.

He spent his time in the cool air-conditioned store attempting to keep the sweat that swept down his face causing his mascara to run from becoming a story in _Star Magazine_. He paced among the shelves, trying to gather up the muster to fling himself into his destiny.

He knew what needed to be done; he had read the book cover to cover and back again. He just needed to be sure he was up to the challenge that fate had prescribed for him.

He stood under a vent and felt the cool rush of air weave through his hair. He knew that it was now or never to take the challenge the book had laid out for him head on.

"I'm off to save the world!" he announced to the customers who filed the store. "I'm off to fulfill my destiny!"

As he exited into the warm California air a middle-aged man who had been standing in the horror section turned to his wife and said, "Why is James Brolin yelling at us?"

*****

Michael Ryan was a gadfly that buzzed around DANZ & C>500TP's head; his voice was starting to grate her nerves. "Why did I decide to keep you around?" she said as they traipsed up the steps of the Hall of Gods.

"No, don't answer that. I don't want to remember." She opened the towering oak doors of the Hall and stepped inside. "Try and keep your mouth shut; you're not supposed to be in here."

"I wasn't supposed to be the Hall of Death either but you brought me along with you there."

"And see how great that turned out?" She turned to him with what he thought he saw was concerned benevolence. "Just remember these are gods who aren't exactly on the best of terms with humanity any longer."

"Why not?" Angry gods didn't sound like something he wanted to encounter.

"Because they've been replaced. They're used gods." Her heels clicked on the marble floor. Vibrant mosaics stretched the hallway, glimmering in turquoise and gold. The walls were decorated with frescos of Michelangelo and Da Vinci that echoed with scenes of long-lost conquerors and heroes.

She stopped at a plain black door and paused. "This is it; and remember--"

"Be quiet," sighed Michael had learned to anticipate her barks, "no one wants to hear what I have to say."

The door opened to reveal a massive room. In the center lay a huge concrete lake adorned with large statues of cherubic children spouting water from their mouths into the pool. Along the shore lay fifty to sixty of the most beautiful people Michael Ryan had ever seen.

They were dressed in silk tunics lined with silver sashes. They were tanned and playful as they splashed and giggled like school girls at a junior prom. Above them a glass dome, through which radiant light spilled into the arboretum, covering everything with a celestial yellow glow.

Michael followed close behind DANZ & C>500TP, endeavoring not to trip as he watched the room unfold into a fresco of beautiful nudes Bronzing themselves on a cement beach.

Through the sweet sounds of birds he heard DANZ & C>500TP talk, but didn't pay attention to what she was saying. He was trying to soak up what in his mind was heaven. He marveled as he watched mermaids skim the crystal blue waters while centaurs kicked their hooves into the cool pond. "Are you paying attention?" he was jolted out of his wonderment by these words and by the hand that crossed over his face. It was a cold, hard slap that knocked a filling out and down his throat.

"Um.--" he said, slack jawed, as he tried to gather his wits about him.

"I told you he wasn't worth the trouble." DANZ & C>500TP turned her interest away from him and back to the beautiful young woman she had been talking to. "Michael, this is Aphrodite; she's going to help us."

He hadn't fully noticed the woman until he was introduced. His jaw dropped as if it were tied to a ten pound weight. This goddess was the most stunning vision he had ever seen [And he had had a lifetime subscription to _Big Black Booty Mamas_ ]. She had an aura that washed over her skin like someone was perpetually lighting her with a soft back-glow.

Aphrodite was a killer of men; she possessed the power to manipulate the male persuasion with beauty to die or kill for her own desires. "I can't believe _you're_ a used god." No sooner had he spoken those words than another cold hard palm graced his already reddened cheeks.

"What did I tell you about talking?" snapped DANZ & C>500TP.

He saw that the young woman was now sobbing at his attempt to be debonair. As the tears washed the pale of her face to red he felt like the man DANZ & C>500TP had told him he was. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it." He reached out to touch her shoulder but drew his hand back apprehensively.

Gods and Goddesses who are no longer needed are banished to the Hall of Gods. This wouldn't seem like such a bad place by those who had the fortunate to glimpse into the Hall and saw what it entailed. The highest tier of Heaven, to which only the truly paramount of humanity retire looks like a dump compared to the Hall.

Gods are accustomed to comfort, which they had in abundance here, but they were also used to being the subject of devotion. When devotion ends and humanity turns its head to the next higher power the displaced gods are left to history lessons taught in uncomfortable classrooms by tired-looking men in sweater vests.

After they have been forgotten they are sealed into a place where spirituality will not penetrate. The Hall of Gods is where Used Gods are put out to pasture. Used Gods are those gods who have no followers and are now regulated to living their lives in a blissful ecstasy. A place of unwavering gratification is the modus operandi. And to them it sucks.

"It's all right," chortled Aphrodite drying off her tears, "Used Gods? I like being compared to a discarded tissue."

"I told you to keep your pie hole shut." DANZ & C>500TP hands balled into a fist as she glowered at Michael."

"It's a lovely place you have here," he said trying to back-peddle his way out of his last statement.

"What about pie hole and keeping it shut don't you understand?"

"I just wanted to make things better."

"Why don't you go annoy a Cyclops?" DANZ & C>500TP waved him away. As he slunk off he glanced back to see the two women sharing a good laugh at his expense.

"I don't know why you guys wanted them to worship you in the first place? I'd have gone with toads over humans any day." DANZ & C>500TP said with a glare to the departing Michael.

Michael wandered over to the foot of the pool and sat down. He stared at his reflection and noticed something new about himself. He was better looking now than he'd ever been on terra firma. He looked to be in his twenties, his chin was a chiseled square and his eyes cut through the water like a skeeter.

He had spent his living years as a worn down fat man from the time of his birth, but now he was positively masculine, if he did say so himself. He wondered if it was all a mirage brought on by the Hall of Gods and the Eden into which they had entered. He made a note to himself to check the closest mirror when they left.

Aphrodite led DANZ & C>500TP into another part of the room, away from Michael's eyesight. He didn't mind too much about being left alone to his own devices; besides, he was now positively godly-looking amongst a roomful of the real thing. He could probably get lucky looking the way he did. If only his high school chemistry teacher, who told him he'd never get laid, could see him now.

*****

The sky was still and hushed over the mountains of Kilimanjaro; the snows had subsided and the smell of newly bloomed poppies filled the air. A condor swooped down, landed on a solitary tree and stretched its wings out to the heavens.

The bird pecked at the dead tree until a hole appeared at its base. Carefully, it pulled out a small scrap of papyrus paper from within the dead tree. He nestled the scrap gently between his talons and flew off into the setting sun.

*****

Ketty had pulled herself from her waking coma of the youthful fantasies of Christmas enough to join the group. She entered to find a room full of men stuffing their faces with takeout Chinese. The fumes of lo mein wafted through the room as tiny white boxes were passed around the room.

Chopsticks whittled away at noodles that slurped and slithered around zealous mouths. She shrugged, took a place on the sofa next to Jeremiah and picked up a carton of egg foo yung. "So, what have we decided?"

"We needed to eat. We couldn't well be expected to save the human race on empty stomachs, could we?" Jeremiah's lips dripped with sauce as he spoke. A napkin disintegrated in his hands as he wiped his mouth, leaving particles of grainy tissue glued to his lips.

Aggravation encircled the foundation of everything that had been holding Ketty together for the last few days. She bolted from her seat and threw down the chopsticks. As they bounced off the table in front of her, rattling as inertia brought them to a standstill, she looked around the room.

Faces of men whom she had never wanted meet stared at her with thoughtful reflection. These were not circumstances in which she wanted to be, but here she was. Five days ago she was happy going about her life, struggling to make ends meet while doing what she loved to do.

Now she was knee-deep in crap she didn't understand, not that she was ever given the chance to grasp what she was doing. She had taken Barnaby's word on everything and she was fed up.

She marched toward the door, stopped and pivoted. "I can't do this anymore. I cannot be a party to this lunacy. You asked me to help you and I did, to the best of my abilities.

'I have spent night and day following you on some cockamamie quest to save the world from the antichrist. This is ridiculous. I don't even know if what you'd told me is true. All I had to go on was my belief; my belief that you were leading me towards something true, something real.

'But as far as I can tell none of you know what the hell you're doing at any given period of the day. You sit around eating Chinese food while the world goes to pot and all you can say is that you can't save the human race on an empty stomach. Well, that's bull. I'm a member of the human race and I want me and my kind to be around for a lot longer than it takes to read a fortune cookie. I will do this on my own if I need to. I will save the world. Mark my words."

She stormed out, leaving a cloud of carpet tufts in her wake. The door slammed behind her, the tapping of shoes grew fainter as she walked down the hall. The men sat silently pondering what she had told them. After a few moments they all came to the same conclusion concerning their role in saving humanity.

"Women," said Barnaby reaching for an egg roll.

"Women," seconded Jeremiah as he wiped chicken grease from his fingers.

"Women," nodded St. Nick.

*****

Ducat had run his horse into submission; it lay sleeping on the warm sand dreaming of the peaceful respite of glue factories. As he sat beside it in the sand the Horsemen strolled up beside him. He held a handful of sand and watched the grains trickle through his fingers. As the grains hit the sand he looked up at the four and frowned.

"I've let you down." He buried his hands in his head and started to weep. He knew what was to be the likely outcome of his failure and he wanted to feel his head attached to his body one last time. He sat praying that it would be a quick and painless death, but knowing what little he did know about War, he was certain of the exact opposite.

"It's all right," said War. "You're only human."

Ducat looked up at the man who spared his life and through tearful eyes began to laugh. "It's true you know. I am only human."

"Besides," said Famine, "we're almost there."

He looked up and now that the sun was set through the darkness he could see the fires burning in his home. It was only a few miles further; he had done it, he had brought them across the wilderness and back home.

"Get on," Famine motioned to him to climb aboard Princess Lollipop. "We'll ride the rest of the way."

"If it's all the same to you I'll walk. I'll meet up with you later."

The Death glanced at his fellow Horsemen and they silently agreed. "No, we'll all walk. We're not in a rush in any event."

*****

Juliet rapped at the front door of Dana Plough's palatial estate. She waited for an answer as Henry lay collapsed on the lawn. The sprinklers had come on and he was giving off the impression of a wet suicidal seal. No one came to the door, but she could hear laughter and music coming from the back.

It was unlike Dana Plough to throw a party; she wasn't the bar-b-que on the 4th of July type, and Juliet had never heard her laugh. She had heard her boss fake merriment and exhilaration on numerous occasions but real laughter was something Dana Plough kept bottled up deep inside.

She made her way around to back of the house to find thirteen rather large men in numbered shirts having a grand time. These were definitely not the type of people Dana Plough mixed with. She thought that there must be something wrong, but the men seemed to be comfortable.

Usually when someone sees a gaggle of men whooping it up at a friend's house, the mind goes to those people having a grand time at a party. In Dana Plough's case, if a gaggle of men had broken into her place there wouldn't be this much jollity; it wasn't what one would call a happy house.

The house had an ill will about it. It wasn't a particularly ominous or spooky looking house, but facades can be deceiving. Juliet had been to the house on numerous occasions and no sooner had she arrived than she wanted to get the heck out of it. Dana Plough kept a cold and detached home.

It was sterile in its interior design, more suitable for a museum than a place to kick off ones shoes and rewind after a hard day at the office. It was also too clean; Juliet had always been ill at ease with the lack of anything dusty. The house was not a home but the strangers in the backyard made it one.

They had set up a volley ball net and a grill that been pristinely silver for many years was blackened by the charred remains of hamburgers and sausages. There was also laughter, a lot of laughter.

Juliet wondered if the house had ever heard such noises coming from its bowels. The men had made more out of the hygienic and infertile environment by their sheer joy of being than Dana Plough had done with her polished candlesticks and Jackson Pollack paintings.

She crept up on two of them, who were busy playing Candy Land on one of Dana Plough's prized 17th century patio tables, and cleared her throat. As if by a hive mindset all thirteen dropped what they were doing and rushed to line up straight. Their faces were frozen in fear as they were caught doing what they were not supposed to- having fun.

"It's all right; I'm not going to yell." Juliet tiptoed closer to the troupe to get a better look at their faces ripe with unadulterated terror.

"Go ahead, everyone else does," said Number Nine, kicking a rock with his toe in apprehension.

"No I don't want to yell at you, I kind of like what you're doing. It's new and refreshing to see this house with some life in it." There was something ironic about this statement Juliet thought to herself.

The others swapped looks, equal parts confusion and joy between them. Number Five stepped forward to confront Juliet. "Is this some sort of test? Because if it is, it's not funny." He looked down at her, his eyes showing enough fear in them to make her feel safe about her stance.

"I'm serious." She took a step back from the hulking giant and smiled. The others began to follow in her example and soon everyone was grinning from ear to ear. This was the kind of house Juliet wanted in this neighborhood, one that rang out with joy and laughter for the world to hear. "Wait, where's Ms. Plough?"

"She went to lunch."

Juliet looked at her watch and noticed it was quarter past seven. Dana Plough did things like clockwork and lunchtime was from twelve to twelve twenty seven every day. "Well, she should be back soon then; we should probably start cleaning up before she sees the mess."

"It's okay. Her lunch always take between nine and eleven hours, now that we moved into the house."

"Well then," Juliet picked up the volleyball that lay at her feet and spun it on her finger, much to the awe and delight of the Insurance Agents. "Let's get this party started." Everyone scattered to continue what they had been doing. Juliet stopped and pulled at the sleeve on Number Two. "Could you walk around to the front of the house for me?"

"Yes, why?"

"You're going to find a mound of soaked clothes with a sobbing grey head poking out of them; could you be a dear and fetch that for me?"

"Anything you say boss!"

She looked at him pensively, "Why haven't any of you ever questioned who I am? How do you know I'm safe to trust?"

Number Two thought about this quandary for a moment, and said, "Because no one ever comes around this place except for the Lord and Lady. Well, except for the cable guy." He then leaned over to come face to face with Juliet and whispered secretively, "This place is creepy."

*****

"Are you sure you want to do this?" said Aphrodite, pouring a bubbling green liquid into a perfume atomizer.

"I can't take any chances. It's driving me crazy. I'm hanging out with a mortal in tow. I need help." DANZ & C>500TP sniffed the wafting puffs of steam that emanated from the bottle.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. This is potent stuff, my own private collection." Aphrodite gently pushed DANZ & C>500TP's nostrils away from the steaming smoke. "Could you hand me that Jasmine over there?"

DANZ & C>500TP took a sprig of the jasmine and passed it to her own private mad scientist. She knew this was desperate, coming to Aphrodite for help in matters of love; but if you've got friends in high places, why not use them to exploit their talents?

She watched as the bubbling green oil came to a simmer inside its ice crystal tomb. She wondered if she was blowing everything out of proportion. She wondered if she was turning into one of those women whom she despised. A little voice should have told her to forget all of this nonsense; the little voice was tied up, gagged and thrown into a deep dark hole by jealousy.

"Now, just remember to give a small spray in the face of the person you want to fall madly in love you. Once it's done, you have five seconds to be the only person he sees or it doesn't take effect."

"Aren't you going to give me the big speech about what dire consequences will come from messing with love? Aren't you supposed to give an evil laugh at how you tricked me? How for eternity he will love me and no matter what I can never get rid of him. It's the whole damned if you do thing."

"Honey we're friends," Aphrodite handed her the atomizer, "I think we both know how this is going to end."

*****

Loman's stomach felt like it was auditioning for Cirque De Soleil as he hunched over a trash can, trying desperately for his body not to reject what he had force-fed it. A drivel of saliva trickled down his lip and plopped onto a soggy newspaper as he sniveled in gastronomic torture.

As he stood upright clutching his rolling stomach he spied the woman he had been waiting for. His body could now take reassurance that whatever damage had been done to it had all been for good. He rushed as much as a man whose insides were doing their best impression of an indicted U.S. senator avoiding an oversight committee could. "Ketty! Ketty!" He screamed at the top of his lungs, waving his arms madly through the air. "Over here. It's Loman."

Ketty stopped and peered towards the shouting she heard over her shoulder. She had never been so happy to see Loman in her life. A wave of relief came over her as she knew he would be a sympathetic ear to complain to. Deep inside she knew how she treated him was wrong, but he was just so repellent that she knew she always made the right decision.

Loman was running like he was in a field of daisies lit by a soft white-lit camera while sappy love songs played over slow motion lovers. He had gotten to about ten feet from Ketty when a dark hood was placed over her head and she was antagonistically thrown into the back of a black van.

Loman stopped in his tracks, a Poe novel written over his face. He looked on in dismay as the van sped off in a puff of black smoke and squealing tires. He dropped to the ground, his tailbone meeting pavement that sent a shockwave up his spine. He stared agape at the spot where he had seen his beloved kidnapped.

He rocked back and forth, whimpering; his mouth fluttering trying to speak the words that would alert someone to what had just happened. "Help?"

*****

"Well I guess I should go after her," said Barnaby as he brushed off a clump of pork fried rice from his lap. "An apology is in order."

"Yeah," agreed Jeremiah, "we haven't been very good to her."

"I meant from her. My feelings were hurt."

*****

The ranch was eerily silent. Small brown mini-tornadoes whirled across the dusty courtyard. The dirt covered everything in their path with a grainy, grimy film. Famine took off her pink cowboy hat and looked pensively around the yard.

"I thought someone was supposed to meet us? The place looks deserted." She kicked a horseless cart, her spurs jingled through the quad.

"Onaiwu should be here." Ducat scratched his head as he looked over his former home. The place had gone to hell in the three days since he left. It was a ghost town that appeared as if it had been deserted for decades. "He would never shirk his duties. He took what we did here as his life."

Conquest finished tying up the dinosaurs to the post near the kitchen and headed back to the others. "Apparently he was suicidal."

"No. He would never leave. Something's wrong. I have to find him." Ducat took off into the main housing unit of the ranch. War shrugged and started after him to help.

The Death took the other direction and headed to the mess hall. Conquest decided to do a run around the outside of the ranch and Famine took a b-line for the stables.

"This isn't like him," said Ducat to War as he backed out of Onaiwu's bedroom and turned his attention down the hall. "He's very responsible."

"Everything changes." War followed Ducat down the hall, opening each door to peek in. As they walked through the empty house the floorboards creaked under their feet, amplifying the loneliness of a once bustling community.

The Death ran his hand over the scattered rice that was strewn across the counters of the kitchen. It was a scene of reprieved desperation by someone who had slowly grown mad. The walls were clustered with crayon murals of a downward spiraling morale and archaic words that made no sense.

Onaiwu had marked his territory by crude isographs depicting his trials and tribulations. The Death studied the drawings of a feral man and concluded that perhaps it would best if they didn't find who they were looking for. "Wasn't he only here for like, two days?" he wondered aloud.

Conquest searched the outskirt of the ranch but found only tumbleweeds flowing down a river of earth. She jerked when she heard soft calculating laughter coming from thin air. She was not one whom fear took over easily, but the cold hushed cackle made the hair on her arms stand on end. She walked briskly back to the lightened courtyard trying hard to seem in control of her newly fragile emotional state.

Famine walked into the barn and found the horses in a state of furious calm. The horses had become untamed while waiting for their owners to arrive; their heightened emotional state had taken its toll on their mindset.

She ventured over to Fikre. The large white Arabian stood towering over her, his eyes glowing red with fire, "You're a pretty boy aren't you?" She stroked its mane with a brush she had picked up from off the mantel. "Conquest will be pleased." The horse snorted and a puff of white smoke billowed from its flaring nostrils.

"And you must be Selam? What a beautiful young lady you are." She brushed her hand across the red coat of War's Clydesdale. The horse nestled its head into her palm and snuggled its nose between her fingers. She patted her on the head and gave the horse a kiss.

"Death will go crazy when he sees you." The Pale Akhal-Teke stood regally as she examined its teeth, something she'd seen on a PBS nature show but didn't know exactly what its purpose was.

Her eyes went to the next stall. There her horse would be standing, ready to be ridden into battle. She hurried over and threw open the gates to find nothing but a bed of hay. She searched the small space from floor to ceiling, even pulling back a bushel of hay to find her horse.

Confused by the lack of a majestic black stallion in the barn she walked out to the courtyard where War, Conquest, Death and Ducat were waiting.

"Did you find the horses?" The Death asked as she exited from the hangar. "We can't find Onaiwu anywhere. I think he took off. Of course, Conquest believes he was transformed into the wind and is out to get us with some sort of other-worldly demonic supremacy."

"It's a logical assumption," said Conquest, not totaling believing her own rationalization of the sinister mirth she had encountered moments ago.

"I think he stole my horse," said Famine, sporting a pouty frown.

"He stole the horses!" War exclaimed, "How in the hell are we supposed to do our jobs when everyone is against us? I swear I don't know why I even do this anymore. Somebody else can usher in the end of man. I quit."

"He only took mine." She pouted.

"Oh well, that's different. Let's ride." Exclaimed War.

The Death looked to the downtrodden woman standing before him. It pained him to see her so sad. Famine had always been the emotional center of the group. She was the only one of the four who actually liked living creatures. She felt bad when a child starved to death as his mother gave up her only sustenance to keep him alive for a little while longer.

In addition to suffering children, there wasn't an animal that she didn't shed a tear for when she watched their bones poke through their skin as they drew their last breath. She may have been Famine, but she was compassionate about it. To her it was just a job, to the others it was what they were. "Come on, we'll find you another horse." He took her by the hand and started to lead her toward the barn.

"No, I'm okay," she said, dropping his hand from hers.

"But you need a horse," said Conquest.

"No I don't. I have Princess Lollipop." Famine looked to her purple dinosaur and smiled. She put her pink cowboy hat back on and leapt up on the beast's back. "Let's go kick humanity's butt."

"Famine?" War was surprised by her anti-human rhetoric.

"Humans stole my horse. Humans gonna pay." She mounted Princess Lollipop, waved her hat in the air, gave a loud whoop, and took off into the night air. The others watched her silhouette across the moon then make a u-turn back to the ranch. She climbed off her dinosaur and gave an almost too embarrassed look to the others. "I guess I jumped the gun a little, didn't I? I'll let you guys get ready"

*****

Juliet sat high upon Insurance Agent Number Five's shoulders as they bounced in the deep end of the pool. The party was rocking and as Number Eleven splashed her with chlorinated water that stung her eyes, she was having a blast. She had for the first time in her life let herself relax and have fun.

She giggled and tossed a beach ball around to the loveable hulks. If this is what hell was like she was happy she had picked the right team to get behind.

The smells of bar-be-cued ribs tickled her tongue as she pulled herself out of the pool and dried herself off. She collapsed in a wicker lounge chair, laughing and kicking her heels into the air.

She had forgotten all about what she was supposed to be doing. What she was expected to be doing was taking control of the agents and whipping them into fighting shape. Dana Plough had given her explicit instructions and when Dana Plough had given them to her it was a given that she would do what she had been told.

Juliet had every intention of doing her job when she arrived at the house, but after meeting the agents she had left her job at the front door.

The back yard was where she wasn't subjugated to Dana Plough's rules and regulations. She did know in the back of her mind that when her boss returned all hell was going to be reigned down in her general direction.

*****

"I do," said Dana plough standing in the middle of a field of grass that massaged her toes.

"And do you Mr.-- er--?" The Elvis impersonator/celebrant queried, "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Well let's see, you can call me Satan, The Devil, Beelzebub, The Lord of Darkness, Purveyor of Evil, The Destroyer of Good, Mephistopheles, Lucifer, The Adversary, The Serpent--" As he continued his list Dana Plough leveled a stiff elbow into his ribs. Satan flinched and smiled at his bride to be and turned to the Elvis impersonator/celebrant, "Samuel is fine." He said in a Spanish accent.

"Okay?" Elvis looked at him apprehensively, "Do you, um, Samuel take this woman as your wife, to have to hold until the end of this world?"

"Oh I would say probably a lot longer than that." Dana Plough stared at him ferociously, her eyes burning a hole through his heart. This was her big day, and she wanted it to be perfect. If he wasn't going to take it seriously she may have to start having second thoughts about this whole _til death do you part, and then keep going_ thing.

"I do," he said solemnly. He placed a simple golden ring onto her finger and gazed deeply into her eyes. This was start of something big in his life and he was having doubts about what marriage was going to mean for his extracurricular activities.

*****

Jeremiah walked out onto the streets of Los Angeles, followed by Barnaby, St. Nick and his eight companions. They searched the vista looking for Ketty who had left in a huff moments ago. "She went that way." Barnaby pointed to the right and started to journey off down the sidewalk.

"How do you know?" The Norwegian Santa Clause had his doubts about Barnaby's tracking expertise.

Barnaby pointed to a man slouched over crying, holding onto his stomach. "The woman leaves a path of destruction everywhere she goes."

Jeremiah ran over to Loman who was whimpering quietly in the fetal position. "Where did she go?" he asked Loman.

"Who?" Loman questioned through wet eyes.

"The woman who hit you," said Barnaby.

"Nobody hit me."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of my boy," St. Nicholas added, "We've all been thrown down and kicked around by women. It's what they do."

"I know you," Loman said rising from his slump and pointing to Barnaby, "You stole my girlfriend from me!"

Barnaby shrugged and gave and an apprehensive look toward Jeremiah, "I highly doubt I'd be involved with anyone who'd date you. No offense."

"Ketty," Loman said wiping the tears from his eyes.

"You're Ketty's boyfriend?" Jeremiah said stunned.

"Soon I will be." He whimpered, whipping the snot that rolled down his nose with his sleeve.

"Okay?" Jeremiah looked at him with disheartened pity.

"They took her!" Screamed Loman, who didn't understand why everyone was being so coy and nonchalant.

"Who?" asked Barnaby.

"I don't know. A couple of men threw her into the back of a black van."

"A black van?" added Barnaby, "With a green stripe on the side and a hammer and sickle mud flaps?"

"Yes. How did you know?" a confused Loman questioned.

"Come on guys, we gotta go." St. Nick said.

"Who took her?" Loman asked, er, Santa?

"The Russian mob." Barnaby started walking down the road in the other direction at a brisk pace.

"What does the Russian mob want with Ketty?" posed Jeremiah.

"Probably selling her as a sex slave," said Barnaby nonchalantly.

"Sex slave!" screamed Loman, astonished by the offhanded way Barnaby tossed off Ketty's fate.

"Don't worry about it. They'll have to break a few bones and her spirit first. We've got plenty of time to find her."

"I'm going with you," declared Loman as he ran to catch up with the rag tag group briskly moving toward the mobsters' headquarters.

"Whatever. Just try to keep up with us."

"How do you know so much about the Russian Mob?" Jeremiah asked as they marched toward their destination.

"They supply me with a surprisingly good bulk of my work."

*****

Henry was sawing logs on the sofa as Dana Plough and Satan came home. They scuttled past the strange man attempting to not wake him from his slumber. They had no idea what Henry's day had been like and that nothing would wake him from his escape from the horrors of waking life.

They kissed in the way couples do hours after being married. Their lips united like their love would last forever. The snores that rose from under their embrace killed the mood of sexual provocations. Satan took his newly minted wife by the hand and led her up the stairs to the master bedroom.

As they crept up the stairs trying not to bring attention to their appearance in the house they heard a noise. It was the sounds of excited playfulness seeping in from the outdoors.

Dana Plough wanted to rush from her sexual embrace and put an end the party that she adamantly opposed. Satan's hand squeezed harder in hers and she continued up the stairs.

They reached the bedroom as she slowly undressed to reveal her bulging stomach that glowed in all its pregnant glory. She laid on the bed in a seductive pose and called over her betrothed with a come-hither finger.

Satan lay beside her, their bodies curled as one. He kissed the back of her neck and down her spine. He stopped as the gentle snoring of Dana Plough filled the air. He grabbed a blanket and placed it over her as he turned on the television. He sat naked in the blue glow that enveloped the room and watched monotonous infomercials until he passed out too.

*****

The warehouse was set back from the street with the entrance affixed by bulky bolted doors to a darkened alley. A rat scurried from under a trashcan toward a hole in the building. Soggy papers in rusted metal trash barrels creased the alley; the stench of rotting fruit rinds filled the cramped passageway. The gang of twelve crept through the shadows of fire escapes that beat down from the towers of brick walls.

The ground underneath grabbed the soles of their shoes with sticky claws from the trash of weeks past. A damp draftiness rushed through the alley, swooping through the unprotected shorts of St. Nick's eight, Loman would refer to as close friends. Loman sneezed as he sent up a cloud of chalky dust into his face.

"This place reminds of me of the time Oscar Wilde convinced me that there were bears in an Indian Opium den in Calcutta." The eyes of the others went to St. Nicholas with disbelief. "He was a dirty, dirty man, but a hell of a judge as to where the best meat was."

Barnaby shook his head and tugged on the wooden door to the warehouse. "This is it." He opened the door and walked inside. The others followed pensively behind him.

The warehouse was dimly lit by cracks in the paneling trickling light through the cobwebs that hung like chandeliers from the ceiling. Broken glass from bottles glimmered among the sawdust on the floor.

Jeremiah had seen the worst in men and had a hand in some of it, but this place was bad even for him. If cleanliness was next to godliness these people were standing smack dab in the middle of Satan's rec room.

The sounds of hoarse Slavic language jokes chortled from a back room of the warehouse. The twelve made their way through the obstacles of contaminated filth that burrowed up from the slats in the floor. Jeremiah ducked down behind a window that held the view of Ketty's captors.

He peeked over the grime covered sill and watched five burly men playing dominoes on a dilapidated card table. They laughed through cigar riddled lungs as the phlegm that escorted their guffaws landed on the tiles.

Jeremiah turned to the others, brought a pair of fingers to his eyes then threw up five more into the air. The others looked confused at his wanting to play charades during their rescue attempt.

"First word, five syllables? Is it a movie?" Barnaby whispered.

"Is it **Börn Náttúrunnar,** by acclaimed Icelandic director Fridrik Thor Fridriksson?"

Jeremiah looked at the Norwegian Santa Clause as if his guess were a large toad that had peed on his favorite suede jacket after a day of hiking the Appalachian Trail.

"Star Wars?" bellowed Loman who had gotten lost in the game.

"That has a lot less than five syllables." Barnaby rolled his eyes as he scratched his head and queried a guess of his own, "I've got it! Gone with the Wind!"

"Oh yeah, my answer was dumb; Gone with the Wind has like four words in it." Loman felt a wave of redemption flow over him after witnessing Barnaby's dim-witted guess.

"Gone dot, dot, dot Wind? The dots don't count as words."

"No! It's not a movie," Jeremiah sighed.

"Is it a book?" Questioned Barnaby.

"I'm not playing a game," he said as he crawled back over to the group, "I was trying to tell you that I can see five of them."

"Well why didn't you just say so?"

"Because I didn't want them to be alerted to our presence."

"I think it may be a little too late for that." Saint Nick stood over them with a gun pointed at his temples by a rather ramshackle-looking mobster.

"Look what I caught boys," said the man with the gun, "I got me a sparkly snow witch man."

"That makes no sense," said Santa as he sighed and shook his head in bemusement. "This the time-honored dress for Nicholas' for the past four centuries.

The whole red coat and black boots thing has made it so hard for the real men in my job to wear the traditional garb. And, if I have to say so myself, I pull off traditional very well."

"Shut up," said the second as he waved a gun motioning them into the back room. The twelve filled the room as the other three mobsters who hadn't gotten up sat mouths agape at the parade that ventured in.

It was a very rare occasion when someone would dare break into their hideaway, but when the cast of Bingo Long's Traveling All Stars did it, it was cause for perplexity.

"Look what we've got here." It was more of a question than a rejoinder posed by the one who had been deemed the leader by default. He felt he needed to amend his statement to the others who weren't as subtle as he, plus he really wanted to know the answer. "What exactly do we have here?"

"What we have here my friends," said Barnaby with a furtive grin, "Is your worst nightmare."

"You don't look like our mother-in-laws'; except for the one in the bedazzled house coat." Santa Clause merely raised his eyebrows and shot them a smile. He had a photographic memory and kept a list of everyone undeserving of presents on a mental list tucked inside his brain.

"And look at these guys!" he chuckled as he pointed at the eight men shivering along the wall.

"They might not look tough but under their short-shorts and half shirts they're a well-oiled killing machine." Barnaby said as the eight made what was supposed to be fearsome faces but came across more as rouged smirks.

"Yeah, I can see that." Scoffed the gunman.

"Where's Ketty!" Loman stepped up to the leader in a rush of adrenaline-fueled stupidity. Had he known what they were truly capable of he would have been situated in his routine position of curling up in a ball sobbing in the corner. But as with all good heroes he didn't see the forest for the trees and went head on into the redwood that was the Russian Mafia.

"Oh god, her?" said one of the kidnappers, "you want her back?"

If Ketty had been a pain in the side of Barnaby who had dealt with the malevolence of man for millennia he pondered what she could have done to those who were merely just evil. She had a certain way about her, her womanly wiles as she called them, to burrow under the skin and set blood boiling with her sharp tongued intellect.

Barnaby assumed that if given her way she could very easily have leveled cities and reduced rulers of empires to bed-wetting infants. She had a way about her, a way that was more bull than cow. "Yes, we want her back." He looked for consent from the rest, "Right?"

"Yeah, sure," said Jeremiah his trepidation entering the forefront of his brain.

"Why not?" the Norwegian Saint Nicholas shrugged.

"Yes we want her back!" Loman couldn't understand why the others had risked their life coming into this den of iniquities to be so apprehensive about saving the woman he loved.

"And why should we give her back to you? Who are you anyway?"

"Well," said Barnaby, looking at each of his companions one by one, "I'm Death, he's a fallen angel from Hell, that, of course, is Santa Clause, and his um, well that's a long story, let's just call them; friends for lack of a better word, and he's some nerd we picked up off the street when we saw him crying like a baby."

"Just some concerned everyday citizens," added Jeremiah.

The Russian Mafioso couldn't quite understand anything that was being told to them. They stroked the stubble on their chins in a collective motion.

They reminisced about when kidnapping lovely young women and selling them on the black market as sex slaves was an easy business; something one did on the side as a way to make a few extra bucks away from the hustle and bustle of racketeering.

Ketty had been a headache ever since they picked her up; she hadn't stopped complaining about anything. She was too cold or hungry, the floor was damp and the florescent light made her look fleshy. Getting rid of her was losing money, but what money she brought in would have trumped by the headaches of trying to convince someone to buy her. Plus, they were uneasy about the way the lean, rippled black men were looking at them.

"Fine. We've all talked it over and you can have her back," said the leader gesturing to one to go get her.

"None of you said a word," Loman said.

"We didn't need to. That girl's more trouble than she's worth and you're all making us uncomfortable."

Ketty was led into the room and the black hood that covered her head was removed. She turned to the one mobster who was closer and slapped him across the face. "Let that be a lesson to you. They'll be more where that came from if you don't let me go."

"We're letting you go."

"Good," she said brushing off the cobwebs from her shirt, "Couldn't take it could you? Being in the company of a strong woman."

"Your friends are here to take you home."

Ketty turned to see the twelve person rescue committee smiling. She was a little downtrodden by the fact that she needed help out of the predicament she had gotten herself into. She was a proud woman who saw the fact that people she wouldn't let take care of her class's pet hamster had to be called in to save her.

"Well I'm not going. I don't want to be saved. I'll come to my own rescue thank you very much." She grabbed the hood from the stony fingers of her captor and placed it over her head. She sat herself down on the floor and crossed her arms in a rigid stance.

"Don't be silly Ketty." Loman reached down and grabbed her by the arm, tugging at her sleeve.

"Loman. Remember the last time you touched me when I didn't want to be?" Ketty's voice slithered out from behind the mask, the words slicing his ears in a cold pitch. "Have you ever had an angry woman's foot up your ass?"

"I have," volunteered Barnaby, "and I don't recommend it."

Loman quickly let go of her arm and backed off a few paces from her spot. His threw hands up in the air in a defensive position to protect him from her hidden scowl.

"Oh this is ridiculous," Barnaby motioned to the eight men to grab the stoic Buddha. Ketty kicked and screamed as she was carried out of the room and through the warehouse. The others followed at a distance, just in case she got free. If she was going to pummel someone it may as well be the pawns in the game first.

They headed back to the hotel where they could a get a good night's rest before undertaking the biggest battle in the history of the universe. As they entered the room a lone solitary figure sat in the dark.

*****

Famine waited patiently as the others saddled their horses. She whistled an aloof little ditty while she stroked the rough scales of Princess Lollipop. "They're very slow aren't they," she said in a baby voice, loud enough for the others to hear.

She gave them an 'awe-shucks' grin, which was more smirk than smile, and batted her dark eyelashes. As the three others climbed aboard their steeds she gave a blood chortling whoop and took off into the hot desert night.

Ducat held his hand to his forehead as The Three Horsemen and One Purple Dinosaur Rider of the Apocalypse climbed higher into the atmosphere. He waved a sad goodbye to the four as they galloped across the sky until they were out of sight. He walked back to the barn and called out "It's safe to come out now."

Out of one of the empty stables came Onaiwu, brushing off stray pieces of hay from his vest. "Are they mad?" he said nervously.

"I think they'll get over it. What did you do with her horse?"

"It's a long story, but I have a feeling she'll be seeing it sooner rather than later."

*****

"Who in the hell are you?" Barnaby said as he flicked on the light to reveal the face of the stranger who had broken into his room.

"I'm Actor Jonathan Frakes."

"As I said before, who in the hell are you?"

"I'm Actor Jonathon Frakes. I'm here to help," he said to the faces staring in joint confusion, "With the end of the world."

"Destroy or save it?" asked Jeremiah.

"Save it." He wrestled _The_ _Last Days vol. XII: or what to do when it finally does happen_ from out of his case and showed it to the group. "It's all here in the book."

Jeremiah took the book from him and skimmed the pages, his eyes darting feverishly. "I thought this thing was lost?"

"It should be." Said St. Nick, "It's a scam meant for small minded individuals looking for a quick fix to their egos. No offense."

"But I thought--" Actor Jonathan Frakes felt his heart drop down into his gut as he watched the faces of the others look at him with discernible sympathy for someone who didn't know how pitiful he actually was.

"No." Said Barnaby, tapping his foot in a quietly revered indifference to the stranger. "Who are you again?"

"Actor Jonathan Frakes." He searched for a glimmer of recognition. "I'm kind of famous."

"Sure you are," said Barnaby, placing a sympathetic hand on the actor's shoulder. "We all love your work."

"You do?"

"We have no idea who you are."

"I know who he is," volunteered Loman.

Jeremiah looked at Loman with cocked head, "Who are you?"

"Loman. I helped you rescue Ketty."

"I didn't want your help," she said pouting in the corner, blocked from charging by the eight elves.

"All right," Barnaby shouted, trying to get a semblance of calm in the ocean of people that was growing by the minute. "You can stay, since you're in the book and we haven't been able to prove whether the book is to be taken as fact yet. If we deem it to be the real thing, you can join us. As for you."

He turned to Loman who was attempting to emit his best lost puppy dog face, "I don't know how you fit into all of this. Therefore, I don't like you and you have to leave."

"But--"

"No buts; get your stuff and get out." Barnaby put his foot down. Loman made it a lot less painful for people to let off steam, as he was a human irritant magnet.

"I don't have any stuff."

"Well that makes it easier for you to just leave."

Loman looked at Ketty, who was being pinned down by Longis and Julius. She would have liked to help him; she felt sorry for him in a strange way. But, she was having her own struggles as she was now covered in St. Nick's men's oiled bodies, causing them slither around her like greased pigs.

He turned and left downtrodden, giving once last peek behind his shoulder in dashed hopes for a reprieve. As the door slammed shut behind him he had a sinking feeling they weren't going to ask him back.

Actor Jonathan Frakes took control of the room, directing his new found allies, "Let's all get some sleep. Tomorrow's a big day."

Barnaby, St. Nick and Jeremiah decided it best to just ignore the human with the god complex and hit the sheets. If Actor Jonathan Frakes said tomorrow was the day of reckoning it probably was. He had never steered them wrong in the past, not that they had any idea who he was.

"You say you're famous?" Jeremiah said to Actor Jonathan Frakes.

"I sure am," he said as humbly as he could muster, "Would you like to see some of my movies?" He reached back into his bag and pulled out a handful of DVDs, flashing them in the air.

Jeremiah looked at his watch. He could sleep later; he was in the presence of greatness, a real celebrity. He had been striving for this day his entire time on earth. To finally get asked to hang out and watch movies with someone.

*****

Dana Plough bolted from her horizontal slumber and grabbed Satan's arm, turning it a dark blue. "It's time." She said in a hushed and fevered whisper.

"It's time?" he said trying to navigate his brain through the dense fog of sleep.

"It's time."

They exchanged smiles and climbed out of bed. He grabbed the suitcase from the hall closet and gathered up the Insurance Agents as Juliet helped Dana Plough down the stairs. A nervous pulse went through the house as the anticipation finally made way for actuality.

The Agents loaded into the van Satan had rented to transport his large convoy to the hospital. Juliet was about to leave when she spied Henry asleep on the sofa. He looked so peaceful, almost angelic, she thought to herself. "What should we do with him?" she asked.

"Bring him along, he might be useful." Replied Satan as he motioned toward the van.

Juliet put Henry in the van and slammed the door behind her as she slipped into her seat. Satan took Dana Plough's hand in a hopeful embrace, their fingers entwined in the joy of knowing the last nine months were about to come to fruition.

"This is it," he said with a serene composure. As the van sped off toward the hospital he turned to his new wife and smiled again. "This is going to be so cool."

*****

THE DAY OF THE BIRTH

Actor Jonathan Frakes greeted the morning sun wrapped the warm capable spooning of Guy-Williams. His eyes grew bigger with the waking realization that the reassuring cooing in his ear was that of Santa's number one cuddler [Based on a sliding scale ranking gentleness, nail sharpness and knowing when to really get in there and knead away at the hard spots].

Guy-Williams had always been known as the gentlest of the eight, his soft knowing hands were well renowned for their tender massages after a long, hard day. Not that Actor Jonathan Frakes was opposed to alternate lifestyles, it was just this was a little too close for his diversity acquiescence. He slowly took Guy-Williams' hand, which was placed on his thigh, and placed it behind him as he slipped from the embrace, rolling across the floor to a safe distance.

He was a little weirded out by the position he found himself in, but it was definitely the best state in which he'd awoken in quite some time. The knot in his left shoulder that had plagued him for years was suddenly gone. He rolled his arm around in a wide circle around his head and smiled; 'no crunch' he thought to himself. His joints were happily noticeably separated from their overlapping touch.

He walked into the kitchen area of the suite and brewed a pot of coffee. He was the first to awake and was enjoying listening to the soothing sounds of snoring that came streaming in from the surrounding rooms.

As he poured himself a cup Barnaby walked into the kitchen in a sleepy daze. He was followed by Ketty, then Jeremiah. Santa entered next, flanked by his eight. Soon the kitchen was filled with the busy laughter of early morning, as the horde of thirteen slowly awoke to face the day.

*****

It had been four hours since they had arrived at the hospital and Juliet was bored out of her mind. Watching a variety of women shuffle the halls in an ill-fated attempt to induce labor was like watching soccer, a lot of passing and not much scoring. She had checked Henry into the _Richard M. Nixon Memorial Medical Center and Cocktail Lounge_ while Satan was busy filling out forms.

Henry was currently hooked up to three IV drips, five monitors and an electroshock machine. The doctors who were treating him couldn't agree on what was wrong with him, but they all agreed that it was bad.

Juliet sat beside his bed, her hand resting in his as she waited for news of a blessed event. In her other hand she held tight in her grip the small box she had been given the task to fetch for the couple.

She still wasn't sure the significance of the pendant but she was sure of its importance. It was the only thing Satan had forgotten after he loaded the van with the trinkets he had nervously picked up. It was the only thing a pained and frustrated Dana Plough remembered.

The Thirteen Insurance Agents were relegated to the waiting area after Dana Plough ordered them to stop serenading her with their toned-deaf rendition of _Walk Like An Egyptian_ over and over again. The hospital was white and sterile and it made the Agents long for the grassy green of her backyard where they had been cast out to earlier.

They all watched with lapsed boredom as gaggles of sickly elders shuffled their ways back and forth along the corridor. A large thin black box lay in front of each of the Agents, their metal hinges gleaming in the fluorescent lights from overhead.

*****

Dana Plough had recently returned to her private room in the maternity ward and settled in to watch a little television. She raced through the channels with abandon as she searched for something to take her mind off the nuisance of pre-childbirth.

Satan came in knocking, carrying a dozen roses and a smile. He placed the flowers on the nightstand next to the woman who was burrowing a crisp hole straight through the bouquet of red forgiveness.

"Why hasn't this thing come out of me? We've been here for hours."

"It takes time, these things. You know."

"You told me it would be quick and painless," she turned her head to ignore his sight. " _'You won't even know you've given birth_ ,' you said."

"It should have been. I don't know what's wrong. As soon as they get here, we'll--." Satan's eyes immediately reflected in him a man who had just divulged too much to an angry woman.

"What people? We've got a freaking army standing guard over this room. How many more people do we need to get one child out of me?"

"They're not exactly _people_ who are coming."

"And what non people are we expecting now? The Mormon Tabernacle Choir? Because that would be nice, they could sing the thing out of me."

"Don't be silly. We're just waiting for the bringers of the Apocalypse."

"I thought the baby was the bringer of the Apocalypse?"

"Technically, no. The baby just ushers in the beginning of the end. The Horsemen actually bring the Apocalypse with them." He said checking his watch. "And they really should have been here by now."

*****

"Did anyone bring a map!?" screamed War.

"When have we ever needed a map?" answered Famine.

"Now, I guess," chimed in The Death.

"I think if we go south we should be going in the right direction," said Conquest, a tinge of uncertainty tweaked in her voice. "Or south-west?"

*****

Barnaby stood in the center of the room, watchful and contemplative. With clipboard in hand, he perused what had now been, after much debate and in-fighting relegated to troops. He paced the grounds like a drill sergeant with the attention of his grunts firmly in his grasp.

He cleared his throat and gave each one of them a look, dead in the eye. He tapped his fingers on the clipboard rhythmically as he maneuvered the tip of the pen he had been chewing on to the side of his mouth. He took the pen between the crook of his forefingers and dangled it in the air as he stared off into space. "Okay, listen up everyone, roll call time."

"I think we all we're here," said Ketty, who was by far the most impatient of the group. She had put up with a lot of his foibles but she was damned if she was going to sit around while Barnaby played out some sort of sadomasochistic role-playing game.

"Do we?" he said skeptically.

"Yes. None of us has left the room, we're all still here."

"I think Longis went to bathroom," said Jeremiah raising his hand, though he wasn't sure why he needed to.

"No, he's here," The Norwegian St. Nicholas said pointing to Longis, "Demeter went to bathroom. Extremely small bladder, that one."

"All right," Barnaby was getting flustered by the lack of stoicism from his army, "Let's just do the roll call, shall we? We'll pencil Demeter in as present."

Demeter entered the room, his hips flaring as he strolled down the carpet. "Demeter's back," Actor Jonathan Frakes stated the obvious but wanted to feel like he was contributing to the madness.

"Fine, we're all here. Now let's do the count off."

"If we're all here why do you need to take attendance?" Ketty had a smirk that would have sunk the Titanic if it hadn't already been taken down by a large ice cube.

"Jeremiah?" Barnaby tried hard to ignore Ketty's determination to take his fun away from him.

"Here."

"Norwegian Santa Clause?"

"Is this necessary? I don't know? I think he might not be here. He's so hard to miss. What with the whole Reno showgirl by way of Masonic Grand Poobah outfit and all!" Ketty muttered to the crowd.

"It's traditional!" St. Nick shouted, raising a gloved hand in front of Ketty's face. "Besides, look whose giving fashion advice, the thrift store Raggedy Anne over there."

"People! People! People!" Barnaby was becoming more and more despondent over the petty squabbles of those he had deemed the saviors of the Earth. "I think we can all agree that Mr. Clause is exuberant in his choice of garments and that Ms. Bauer looks as if she shops in a panhandler's grocery cart."

No sooner had the last words come trickling from his lips than Ketty's fist came roaring through the air. The balled up hand came in hard, landing a direct blow on his jaw.

His head snapped back and his face contorted into a mass of beet red gelatin jiggling through the tremors of the hit. As he rubbed his aching jaw trying to shake some feeling back into his face, a black blur came hurdling towards him.

A moment later Barnaby found himself staring up at the ceiling fan that was slowly turning overhead. Ketty's punch may have hurt, but whatever had happened next may have killed him, if he had been alive to begin with.

He felt the weight of whatever had steam-rolled him to the ground still on top of him. His eyes rolled around his head as the pain encompassed his entire body. "What happened?" A slow hinged moan was all he could muster as he struggled to breathe under the weight of his tackler.

"I'll tell you what happened," said the blur as it lifted itself off him and rose to a standing position. Barnaby looked up at the figure that was towering menacing over him, its hands clenched and trembling. The blur pointed at Ketty and shrieked, "You were kissing that hussy!"

"Excuse me?" Ketty was taken aback by the accusation and was feeling ready to lay the smack down on her next victim.

Barnaby's dizziness had subsided enough to see that the blur that had caused his insides to shift a few degrees laterally was DANZ & C>500TP. "What are you talking about?" He lifted himself up and stood face to face with her. "She hit me."

"Yeah right, I know kissing and you two were definitely in the act of pre-lovemaking."

"You apparently don't know kissing. Or love making. You obviously don't know what the horrifying punch of a deranged woman is." Chimed in St. Nick knowing it probably wasn't the time, but thought it best to add a little sass to the proceedings.

DANZ & C>500TP balled up a fist and took her best shot at him. She hit him squarely in the jaw on the opposite side of where Ketty's damage had been done. As she watched him crumble to floor she walked over to his slumped body. She slowly turned to Santa, "Obviously, I do."

She started to turn away but suddenly remembered an exclamation she wanted to put on top. And with a waving tilt of her head she exclaimed to her unaware of being rivals rival, "Oh it's on now. Be-atch!"

*****

Earl slammed the door of the moving truck closed and wiped the sweat that was dripping into his eyes. Driving off down the road the clanging from the back was noticeable and comforting to him. With every bump and turn, the rattle of cultivated steel pierced the air with their metrical shifting.

The cigar that rolled over his lips scattered its ashes on his pants, singeing a hole. He smiled. This was the greatest day of his life, the day where all his hard work and ingenuity would come to fruition. This was the day when the whole world would know what a skilled and inventive the scruff of a man he had been.

The truck made its way through the bowels of the parking garage, tires screeching around every turn. He parked the truck in a secluded spot away from the Beamers and Jaguars that set up house, protected from the elements nature and sticky fingered gawkers.

He put the truck in park and turned off the engine. He sat quietly, reflecting upon the grand schemes of the universe and his role in them. He climbed out of the cab of the truck after being thoroughly convinced he was the best, even if he had to say so himself.

*****

"All I'm saying is that I am info-taining."

"You are neither informative nor entertaining." DANZ & C>500TP said as she rolled her eyes.

"Is that what infotainment means?" said Barnaby as he tried in vain to reason with his at the moment unreasonable paramour. "Well, I guess you're right. It still doesn't give you the right to just barge into my room and start pummeling me in front of my friends."

They had been arguing with for the past half hour, something the others in the hotel room were becoming uncomfortable with. It wasn't that their spat was violent; it was merely the fact that anytime a couple argues in the company of others, those people will naturally progress to feeling that they should probably leave and let the couple work things out on their own.

It would have perhaps been less weird if they had decided to go into another room to air out their grievances instead of doing it in the middle of the living room.

Conceivably the most uneasy one at the party was Michael Ryan, who didn't know anyone to exchange questioning glances with. He had grown close with DANZ & C>500TP, well as close as she would allow him to get without an unkind word, furtive glare or slap upside the head. He had considered her somewhat of a friend and, if he was being at all honest with himself, he was developing a crush on her.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do." Barnaby declared, "I don't even find her all that attractive."

"You do know I'm right here?" huffed Ketty.

"Stay out of this, hussy," hissed her unwanted or unsolicited rival for Barnaby's affection.

"You know I love you." Barnaby leaned over and put his arms around her, bringing her close to his body. Their heartbeats synced as one and they stood there in a passionate embrace. Their hostility had given way to loving affection, and if the others found their arguing an uncomfortable reason to be around them, their making up trumped it tenfold.

They held each other close as DANZ & C>500TP dried her tears on his shirt. "I'm sorry I worried you." Barnaby relaxed his hug and turned to the room where the awkward silence of 26 eyes tried to focus on anything but them.

"Breeders, I'll never understand you people as long as I live," declared St. Nick as he put his arm on Michael Ryan and winked, "Am I right?" Michael Ryan tried to figure out how the man he had put himself a good ten feet from was suddenly on top of him like a cherry on a sundae.

"Good, now that we're all friend again, can we get down to the business at hand and save humanity." Jeremiah decided to take charge of the situation, a position he wasn't at ease with but knew had to be done.

"We can't. We don't have enough people yet." Barnaby quashed Jeremiah's brief seizure of power.

"How many could we possibly need? We've got the cast of Les Mis in this room." Said Ketty, eyeing the throngs of misfits that encapsulated the room.

"We need thirteen to battle with their thirteen. It's a numbers thing."

Ketty looked around the room at all the faces that were gathered for the inevitable war between good and evil. "We've got, and this is just a rough estimate, what with me doing a head count and everything, fifteen."

"No we don't," corrected Barnaby.

"He's right," agreed Jeremiah.

"Me, Barnaby, Jeremiah, Santa, Hank, Longis, Julius, Darren, Demeter, Guy-Williams, Sebastian and Jordan, The woman who beat up Barnaby, that guy she brought with her and that actor guy who showed up yesterday."

"Jonathan Frakes," the actor said, "People know me. Why don't you people know me?"

"Fine. We all know you Jimmy," She said, "That's fifteen."

"No, it's twelve." Barnaby was frustrated by her lack of knowledge of the rules and regulations of universal conflict. "Me and The Death of Australia, New Zealand and Countries with a Population less than 500 Total People can't fight. She's what we call a subjective observer, plus she'd have to put in a lot more work if we don't win. The guy she brought with her? Well, we'll talk about that when we get home."

He shot her a look that communicated; when all's said and done spelling out the rules of jealousy, rule number being: if you barge in and accuse your man of cheating on you, don't bring along some other guy. "He's obviously in no shape to fight, seeing he's dead."

"You're dead?"

"Yep." Michael said. It was strange to hear himself say it. Even though after all he'd been through, he was actually getting pretty used to it.

"You look good for a corpse." Santa ran his fingers up Michael Ryan's neck and through his newly curled head of hair.

"Okay," said a confused Ketty to Barnaby, "but you can't be a subjective observer. Haven't you been objectively putting your fingers in this pie for the past week?"

"Yes."

"So why can't you fight?"

"Because I have more important things to do."

"Like what?"

"Like, I have to walk into a crowded hospital, up to the Dark Lord Satan, take his new born baby right out of his arms, which he will be less than pleased with, then walk out of the hospital without being torn into million little pieces by a vengeful father who is one of the few people in the universe who I'm pretty sure can do it."

Ketty considered this for a moment and relinquished, "Well when you put it that way."

*****

"And how are we doing today?" Dr. Arneau said from the doorway of Dana Plough's room, scanning her chart. "About ready to get the little guy out of you, I bet?"

"Is there a reason you're so chipper when I'm in such agony?" Her upper lip was glued to her gums by the aridity of heavy breathing.

"Yes, because I'm not in agony." He gave a little chuckle in his deep raspy way, which kept most women swooning in his midst. After 20 years of being an obstetrician some would have thought he'd learnt the difference between a good audience of adoring women ready to take him home and one that would kill him if they hadn't been saddled with thirty extra pounds of water baggage.

"Come closer and you will be." Dana Plough was a nasty drunk, a combatable host and a rotten employer, but those traits were saccharine in comparison to how she was after 13 hours of labor. Dr. Arneau knew when he wasn't needed and slowly backed out of the room, keeping a firm eye on the raging mother who was showing her fangs in an act of indignation.

*****

"Well, if you hadn't sent Loman home he could have been the thirteenth." Ketty was still trying to grasp the idea of even numbered teams. She had lost most of the subsequent rounds to the men only because they'd said so.

"Who?" asked Barnaby.

"Loman. The guy who was here last night?"

"You mean that guy who claimed he was some sort of big shot actor."

"Still in the room you know." Actor Jonathan Frakes had been called many derogatory things over the past few hours. Many things the others thought they were saying after he had left last night.

It was one thing being forgotten when you were in the room, it was another when no one in the room acknowledged your existence.

"Loman could be the thirteenth," Ketty pleaded. It wasn't as if she particularly wanted Loman to part of the team, but time was of the essence and no one but her seemed to concede to that fact.

"Yeah." Jeremiah paused as he pondered letting Loman back into the gang he had never been a part of, "I didn't much care for the cut of his jib."

"What the hell does that mean!?"

"His jib was askew."

"That makes absolutely no sense."

"Makes sense to me," chimed in St. Nick. "He didn't have the kind of jib you want to have your back." He winked again at Michael Ryan who had been backed into a corner of the room with every passing come-on St. Nick had thrown his way.

Ketty ran her fingers through her hair, pulling on the strayed ends in an attempt to understand these people. She was starting to worry that her last minutes on Earth would be filled with a never ending barrage of stupidity strapped to eleven points of futility.

"I'll tell you what," Jeremiah said, "If we don't find anyone else we'll give your friend a call."

"If we don't find anyone? The antichrist is on its way to destroy the world. Or had you forgotten?"

"We've got plenty of time." Barnaby scoffed at the feverishness of which Ketty was acting as if the sky was falling.

"She's giving birth as we speak!"

"Oh yeah right," he said sarcastically, "And how would you possibly know that?"

Ketty pointed to The Death of Australia, New Zealand and Countries with a Population less than 500 Total People, who had been trying to explain that The Four Horsemen had, as they were busy arguing over all sorts of petty things, already taken flight and were on their way to L.A.

She had known Barnaby for thousands of years and men in general for much longer and knew how stubborn they could be when they got to discussing whatever it was men talk about.

She had given up trying to talk to them and had taken a seat, kicked up her hells on the coffee table and watched the festivities of frivolity explode. "It's true," she said, sipping from a straw in an oversized plastic cup.

A collective "Dammit!" was muttered by the men folk as they came to the inevitable realization that they knew nothing of the female reproductive system, and now had to do something.

"This wasn't at all fun," DANZ & C>500TP arose from her position and patted Barnaby on the head, "You guys have fun saving the world, I've got to be going. You know, just in case you fail." She gave Barnaby a kiss goodbye and started for the door, Michael Ryan in close trail.

She stopped mid-stride and crossed over to Ketty, pulling a small atomizer out of her cloak. "Here, you look like you need this more than I do."

"What is it?" Ketty examine the glowing green liquid that bubbled and boiled from within its frosted glass prison.

"Something for those long lonely nights when you're sitting in your dank little apartment all alone with only the sounds of tom cats trying to sex-up your innocent Persian kitty to keep you company."

"You know, I'm actually considered to be quite pretty." She said trying to figure out why a beautiful woman like herself was the constant butt of disparaging jabs.

DANZ & C>500TP patted her on the head and tsked, her face contorted in knowing sympathy, "I know dear"

Michael Ryan opened the door and was ready to get the hell out of Dodge when he was bumped out of his way by a foul-smelling, unclean-looking man carrying a large red duffle bag. Earl rasped as he struggled with the hulking bag into the room and plopped ii down in the middle of the floor.

He heaved a drawn-out exhausted sigh and wiped the sweat from his brow. He grabbed the half-smoked cigar from between his lips and handed it to Michael Ryan, who pensively took it between his finger and thumb. He held it loosely as if it were a diseased rodent brought into the house by the family cat, and considering the look of the man who gave it to him he may not have been too far off the mark.

"Holy crap these things are heavy!" Earl blustered. He cleared a loogie from his throat, looked for a place to spit it out, took heed of his company and swallowed it down. He took the cigar from Michael's pinch and stuck it back between his teeth. "Some of my best work ever, if I do say so myself."

"My, my, my, what a filthy little man." St. Nick declared as he wiped a white glove over Earl's greasy jacket, waving his finger in the air with the black soot that covered it.

"Yeah well, we can't all pull off the whole eighties prom queen thing you got going on Santa."

"Yes, it takes a real man to pull off grubby chic." Santa beamed with an air of naughty indignation.

"Now that the pleasantries are taken care of, who wants presents? Hot off the presses." He reached into his bag and brought out a large box meticulously wrapped in shiny paper with a large yellow bow. He handed it over to St. Nick with a smile. "This one's for you."

St. Nick unwrapped the present with furious glee, tearing the paper to shreds as he uncovered his gift. He opened the box and pulled out a large broadsword. The metal was polished and it shimmered as the light bounced off its sharp edges.

The rays that bounced from it cut through the air like a knife through butter. "Now I know how I make people feel," St. Nick said as he wiped a small tear from his eye.

Earl doled out the rest of weapons to the group. Santa's eight all got a matching sword and Actor Jonathan Frakes received a mace, which he swung around wildly, breaking a table lamp in the process.

Ketty was given a box of three razor-sharp knives that glistened off the steely brown of her eyes. Jeremiah gasped as he opened his twelve gauge silver-lined platinum-charged shotgun, holding it up in his sights as he waved it dangerously around the room. Barnaby was the last to receive his, and it was the most magnificent he had ever seen.

"You've outdone yourself this time Earl. Of course I've never actually seen anything you've done prior to this. But this is really cool." Barnaby stroked the treated wood handle as he felt the weight and balance of the scythe in his hands.

It was gold plated and cut through the air with ease, cutting a fine slice straight through the sofa's cushion. As the couch fell into two pieces at his feet a broad smile came over his face. "I think we're ready."

"Let's get out there and kick some evil ass!" Ketty cried at the top of lungs. Somehow merely holding the deadly weapons had instilled in her a primal urge to do some major butt-kicking.

The room with filled with the hoots and hollers from the geared-up participants of the upcoming battle. Electricity was palpable as they pumped each other up for what lurked in the back of their minds- their inevitable deaths.

But this was not the time to dwell on the fact that they were mismatched in every conceivable way, it was the time to revel in their unity. Ketty even acknowledged in a momentary lapse of weakness that she'd seen Actor Jonathan Frakes and enjoyed that particular performance. It was the beginning of something new and exciting. They traded excited ooh's and aah's as each took turns showing off their new weaponry.

"As I said before," DANZ & C>500TP said, interrupting the cheerful glee of room, "We've got to get going. Barnaby, see you later. The rest of you, I'll probably be seeing you soon." She and Michael left while the rest stared silently after them. Suddenly the imminence of who they were and what they were about to do came screeching in to halt their festivities.

DANZ & C>500TP glanced back and shot a quick smile to the group standing agape. She methodically shut the door behind her and walked happily down the hall, Michael trotting closely behind.

"You really think they're going to fail?"

"Oh I'm quite certain they'll be victorious."

"Then why put all that doubt in their minds?"

"Because without doubt you will always come out on the losing end." With those words the two slowly faded away into thin air as they walked down the corridor.

*****

"Well it's a coastline, that's for sure." War looked with slumped shoulders at the beach that lined the eastern coast of New Zealand.

"We're not even in the right hemisphere," huffed Conquest.

"Well at least we know where we are." Added The Death. "Now we can find L.A."

"And away we go!" shouted Famine as she made a u-turn in midair and galloped north towards their hopefully final destination.

*****

"So, you know we need one more," Barnaby said, focusing his not-so-subtle statement in Earl's direction, who was busy showing Jeremiah how to properly cock a gun with St. Nick over his shoulder taking it all in.

"Can't;" Earl said, "fighting isn't my cup of tea."

"But you make weapons for a living."

"Yeah, I'm a human puzzle of conflicts."

"Whatever dude." Barnaby gave a half ass wave of his hand toward the telephone.

"All right Ketty, call your little friend."

She started for the phone until something inside her arm made it freeze. It dangled over the receiver, her fingers twitching in the air like they were metal rods being pulled toward a magnet.

After a moment of deep reflection, weighing the odds pro and against having Loman part of the team, her conscious perception of the situation took over. She withdrew her hand from over the phone and walked slowly away. "I'm sure we'll find someone along the way."

*****

Juliet had nodded off, her head resting on Henry's chest, when she was awoken by the sound of gentle coughing coming from overhead. Her eyes struggled to open and when they did focusing on the cougher was the last thing they wanted to do.

Through blurred vision her head cocked back and caught the face of Satan standing over her. She blinked her vision back into clarity and smacked the taste of sleep from her lips.

"How's he doing?" he whispered, giving her time to fully wake up.

"Still the same," her voice croaky and raspy, "the doctors still don't know what's wrong with him."

"And I highly doubt they ever will. That's the soul of a man who's been placed at the feet of iniquity and genuflected to its power."

"Can't you do anything for him? Seeing that you are, um, you know."

"Pure evil?"

"Yeah?" Juliet knew that it was probably a compliment, but calling someone the epitome of all that is evil still seemed like a bit of jab.

"I'll tell you what, when the time comes I'll make sure he gets a good seat at the table. Or near the table. Probably not too near though."

He gave a discerning grin and left the room. She stared at the gray man who lay before her, grasping to hang on until the inevitable end. She looked at the clock, whose hands ticked away the countdown to doom on the wall.

She clutched the small box, kissed Henry on the forehead and stood up. She left the room and after a moment of quiet meditation and headed up to the maternity ward to check on Dana Plough.

*****

"Is everybody ready to go?" Jeremiah said as he surveyed the room. Everyone was alert, each clasping their chosen weapons with the gleam of anticipation written on their faces. "So how are we doing this?"

"My Jag's only a two-seater," Actor Jonathan Frakes shrugged with a mixture of pride and consternation.

"I can probably squeeze maybe five into mine?" added Ketty.

"My truck's pretty full as it is. Plus I'm not going with you," grimaced Earl with remorseful pangs about his not so believable stance on nonviolence.

"Okay then, how in the hell are we going to do this?" Barnaby said with a hesitant pause. Scheduling to shuttle thirteen people from one place to another armed with a cache of weapons was a problem they hadn't planned for.

Twenty-eight hands wrung in unison as judicious thought and clandestine looks bounced silently through the room. Furrowed brows tried to come up with a way in which two cars which could seat thirteen people with large sharp metallic objects.

"We could take the bus?" supposed Ketty.

"To the bus stop!" shouted St. Nick as his hand shot up in animated fervor. The sense of happiness came back to the faces of the troupe as they scuttled out the door. They were giddy with anticipation on their way to public transportation for the final battle of destiny.

*****

The bus jittered and whirred along its route, picking up and discharging its passengers along the way to the hospital. With every patron that came aboard there was a required moment of hesitation and stunned gawks at the fourteen people sitting in the back of the bus.

It wasn't every day [Once a week tops] one hops onto a city bus and discovers a sword-wielding, sequined-jumpsuit donning, famous-actor-I-just-can't-put-my-finger-on-but-as-soon-as-I-get- home-I'll-kick-myself-for-figuring-it-out-too-late-ing, much-too-short-shorts-wearing, gang of weirdoes.

"Why are we even taking the bus? This is taking way too long," said Loman, who had been perched in his usual spot waiting outside the hotel's door for Ketty to exit.

Barnaby ran his fingers down his face, stretching the skin tight around his lips. "I brought you along because I felt sorry for you. Don't make me kick you out because I feel sorry for me."

Ketty buried her face in Jeremiah's sleeve, embarrassed by the fact that she had for a split second wanted Loman to come along. The bus, while being an environmentally friendly mode of traveling the streets of downtown Los Angeles, was not the most time efficient mode of transportation.

It was the type of ride that leads people who are cramped up with other people to find that a bus ride brings out the petty squabbles in all. And they were filled to the brim in petty squabbles.

If she had to hear one more story about the time that Actor Jonathan Frakes had seen a well known starlet, whose name would suspiciously escape him, frolicking naked at a Fourth of July cookout/Tupperware party one more time she was going to kick him in a place where no man had gone before.

She found solace in the roar of the engine that vibrated under her seat, relaxing her into a state of trebled distraction from the world around her.

As the bus leveled off for its final descent at the front doors of _The Richard M. Nixon Memorial Medical Center and Cocktail Lounge_ , Barnaby gathered the troops for one last pep talk. His eyes began to well up with tears as he scanned the faces on the bus and knew what he needed to do.

He stood before the group and like Henry V at the battle of Agincourt delivered an emotional and heart wrenching speech. "If you screw this up, all that you know will be destroyed." He paused, scanning the looks of the dejected faces peering back at him. "I'm just saying."

*****

"Hey look," Said Conquest pointing, "Mexico," as The Four Horsemen rode high over the bustling city of Puerto Escondido.

"We're almost there!" War was exuberant in his knowledge they were definitely on the right track now.

"Man, I could really go for a taco right now," said Famine wistfully.

*****

Barnaby left the others and headed up towards the maternity ward. He wondered to himself how on earth or anywhere else he was going to pull off stealing a baby from Satan. He knew that the universe depended on him and him alone to keep the balance in check. ' _Maybe_ ,' he thought, ' _all this was supposed to happen; maybe the world was supposed to end._

' _Maybe a newer and better species was meant to rise from the ashes and take its rightful place as masters of the third rock from the sun. Maybe this new species knew how treat an agent of death and wouldn't bitch and complain about their demise._

' _Man, humans were whiny little bastards only concerned with their own needs. Good riddance to them and their kind. Wait, I can't believe what I'm saying; if humans die out the after-life will be overflowing with them. Their sort would be sprawled out as the dominant race amongst the heavens. Stupid upright pizza monkeys! I've got to save humanity._ "

The doors of the elevator closed and the muzak version of _Mama Told Me Not to Come_ drifted from the speakers. He thought to himself, ' _Is this a sign of universal irony or just a bad taste in music?'_

*****

Juliet stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at the increasingly uncomfortable Dana Plough. A few stabs at consoling words didn't seem to dampen the awkwardness of the situation. There was a reason why she had sworn to herself that she would never be a mother and it was now staring her in the face.

The numbing torture that each contraction brought with it pierced the air in deathly screams. She reached into the bucket she was holding and fed Dana Plough another ice chip, although she doubted the medical logic of such a practice. She watched her boss crunch on the frozen suppressants she had supplied; her eyes drifted towards Satan in the corner.

His eyes had grown to the size of hub caps as he ogled the amulet that dangled from his grip. He stared at the metal like a pimple-faced teenage boy at a wet tee shirt contest. The reflection of the necklace burned it's ambiance into his retina as it swayed in his trembling fingers.

This was the final piece of the ' _I'm-actually-going-to-be-a-father_ ' puzzle that was slowly being put together on the table of his conscious. He snapped out of his panic induced trance and shoved the amulet into his pocket. "How are we doing over there?" He tried to be as comforting as possible with his choice of inflection but the words came tripping off his tongue like most men; inconsiderate in the lack of knowledge of child birth.

Dana Plough said nothing back, though her eyes did most of the talking for her. Juliet tried in vain to communicate with body language and clumsy grimaces that he should probably be the reassuring yet silent husband all women want in times like these.

Satan nodded "Why don't I go and find the doctor."

"That's a good idea," Juliet said, trying hard not to be sarcastic but failing miserably.

"Good then, I'll go and see what's taking so long."

*****

Barnaby entered the maternity floor and walked out of the elevator to be greeted by thirteen hulking men looking bored and sullen sitting silently in the waiting area. He strolled over and nonchalantly quipped, "I think they're waiting for you in the lobby."

"Finally!" exclaimed Number One, slapping his knees as he rose from his slumped wait. The others followed, swords clutched close to their chests as they took the stairs down to their destination. They had all agreed earlier that they would take the stairs. They had also agreed they wanted to get a little pre-battle warm-up before the big encounter and not because the small box supported by a couple of flimsy looking cables, was really, really scary. Their footsteps grew fainter as the pounding of large feet in an empty stairwell faded into nothing.

Barnaby sat down in one of the vacant seats and propped his feet up on one of cases that were left behind. He checked his watch as he scanned the floor for any commotion that might be happening when a half-man half-goat baby would be born.

He opened a bottle of water he had over-paid for at the gift shop and fiddled through some magazines dying dusty of old age on a side table. Biding time while waiting for the world to collapse in on itself was tiring work; the anticipation of what would happen after the waiting was making his mouth dry.

*****

The Four Horsemen sped over the border town of Tijuana, Mexico licking their fingers clean of the molé sauce that covered the tacos they had enjoyed after stopping for a quick bite. They reached the United States and were mere miles from their destination. They felt good about the time they had made; only twenty eighteen hours behind schedule.

*****

Satan walked into the waiting area and spotted Barnaby relaxing, eyes closed in the center of the chairs. He pulled up a seat next to him and tapped him on the knee. Dazed and confused Barnaby opened one eye to spy who had so rudely awoken him from the slumber he hadn't intended to take.

Through hazy vision he found himself face to face with the man whom he was planning on making a very upset Lord of the Netherworld. He sat upright and struggled to clear his mind of the webs that had been woven in his sleep. He rubbed his head and let out a short precise moan.

"Didn't wake you did I?"

"What? No, no, just resting my eyes," which is the international lie for ' _of course I was sleeping, but it makes me seem weak for some odd reason to admit such a thing, so I'll just say I wasn't'._

"So? Barnaby." Satan said, a grin damming the flood of laughter that rushed inside.

"Don't please." Barnaby had been trying desperately to live down his new moniker now for a week. And if sleeping was a sign of weakness, a stupid name in the eyes of the ruler of the Gehenna was certainly a plume in the cap of feebleness.

Satan threw up his hands in a jovial defense, "Wouldn't say a word."

"Thanks. You know how it is." He looked at whom he was talking to, "No, you probably don't."

"Hey he's got his, um," Satan paused searching for the right word to describe The Death and his penchant for oddities, "quirks."

"That's one word for it."

Barnaby nodded and Satan returned the nod. They sat in silence for a few minutes, each taking a turn in granting the other a small smile. Satan scratched his nose and started to speak but said nothing. Barnaby tapped on his chest with a finger, puffing his cheeks with the rhythm.

He turned to Satan and started to speak but drew the words back and sat silently. It was two alpha wolves waiting for the other to drop their guard and make a slip. Each knew that the other knew that the other knew that they knew what the other knew. It was a very boring chess match between two people who didn't much like the game.

"So," Satan was the first to break the silence. "What are you doing in the hospital?"

"You know," answered Barnaby, "lots of dead people in hospitals."

"Yep." He nodded.

"And you?"

"You know," shrugged Satan, "lots of lawyers in hospitals."

*****

The Thirteen Insurance Agents made their way to the lobby to greet their combatants. They figured the rag-tag group that was milling about must be the enemy since they were carrying weapons; although it seemed a bit odd that these were the people who had been sent to destroy them. They just weren't that impressive, they were having a hard time lifting the broad swords they dragged behind them.

The group stopped their aimless pacing when they spotted the Agents and hovered in a tight cluster. Ketty broke from the group and took a couple of steps toward the Agents. Number One did likewise and took a couple of steps toward Ketty. The two stared at the ground, occasionally exchanging slight glances to the other.

"Hey," nodded Ketty shyly.

"Hey," Number two echoed, meekly kicking invisible dirt at his feet.

"So, how we do we do this?" she questioned pensively.

Number One thought about this question for a time. He knew it was a silly question, but he conceded in his mind that he hadn't really an idea how to go about starting. He knew what the plan was once the battle actually started, but the opening volley was something that no one taught them in all their years of training.

"I guess we just fight?" It wasn't a strong and forceful kickoff to the battle to see who would control the destiny of man, but neither side was what one would call the height of military intelligence.

Ketty drew her knives from their holster as she watched Number One swing his sword high above his head. A lump in her throat suffocated her as she stared at the glimmering metal that was about to make sliced bread out of her skull. She crouched down in an offensive position ready to leap toward him at the first hint of movement.

The tension was palpable as the others began to draw their weapons. Beads of sweat trickled down the participants' noses as they anticipated the inevitable start to the bloodshed. Weapons readied at their side, waiting to draw blood or whatever else that came out of someone when hard metal gored soft flesh.

"Hey!" The tension was cut by the shrillness of the words that broke their concentration. All eyes turned to direction of the commanding voice, where they found a large woman standing behind the registration desk. "You can't fight here!" She had a hard look in her eyes as she stared with scornful nuisance at the warriors. "Take it to the morgue."

*****

Screams bounced off of every nook and cranny of the maternity ward in an assertive attempt to warn all those around of impending reprehensibleness of birth. Satan and Barnaby released their one-upmanship stares and perked up at the spinal fluid curdling scream.

Those were the unmistakable sounds of Dana Plough going into labor. The time had come for Satan to go and be at the side of his wife, who was about to give birth to the destroyer of all, without it seeming like it was the time to go and be with his wife, who was about to give birth to the destroyer of all.

He gave a knowing little whistle and nodded an impressed head at the bloody scream that came echoing down the hall. He slowly stood up and did a few abdominal stretches, trying desperately to act the calm and cool Satan he was known to be. He cracked a few choice knuckles and turned to Barnaby, "Sounds like evil a-doing; I should probably go."

"I don't know, could be the serene sounds of last breath racing down the river of death."

"No." Satan tried to stop the erratic impression of his objection, but it came out more desperate than composed. "I'll get this one, you get the next."

His steps accelerated to a rapid-fire pace as he rushed down the hallway toward the operating room. Barnaby watched Satan hot-foot it down the corridor and sighed. He knew that this was about to become the time his life that would be forever changed. He slowly pulled himself up to a standing position and sauntered down the hall toward the waiting arms of all things evil. Horribly, gruesome, macabre, EVIL things that would soon make his life a living hell.

*****

Jane Whitman had been an obstetrics nurse for the past thirty years. She had worked by one simple creed that she displayed proudly on a homemade button strapped to her lapel: _Don't take no gruff from no one._

Nurse Whitman's gruff was taking a beating at the moment, to what she referred to as the most beautiful experience a man and woman [And a doctor and a few nurses and, if you want, a midwife, but that's the total number of people you want to intimate with] can share together was becoming a college Frat party.

The room was crowded with not only the husband, whose accent seemed to have changed several times during the hours of waiting, but the mother had insisted on bringing her assistant into the delivery room as well. If this wasn't bad enough for Nurse Whitman they had wheeled in a comatose little gray man and set up his bed in the corner.

Nurse Whitman had been a stickler for rules, rules she had carefully sculpted over thirty years of practice. She had kicked out many an extended family member from the beautiful moment with a harsh word and a magazine to shoo them away.

There was something about the father-to-be that made her drop her defenses, but the farther her defenses were lowered the higher her gruff grew.

It was one thing to have an assistant there; birth was not the place for making high powered decisions, but to bring in a man who was near death and, more importantly, a creepy set piece was unacceptable. This was L.A. and things were different she knew, but the ridiculous amount of bystanders was a little too Hollywood and not enough Disneyland.

Dana Plough screamed in pain and Satan, doing his best sitcom dad impression, held her hand and told her to push. As his overly-theatrical breathing demonstration went on, he suddenly stopped with the look of a man who had just realized he had forgotten the most important element of a most important day.

He pried his mangled hand from Dana Plough's clutches and drew the silver pendant from his pants pocket. The silver that was had been meticulously wrought was acting as a prism, casting a glorious rainbow over the room. He placed the necklace over Dana Plough's neck and smiled.

Nurse Whitman, whose patience had packed a bag, gotten in a cab, and left the state, reached over and grabbed the pendant, taking it off. "No jewelry during the birth."

"This is a special circumstance." Satan grabbed it back out of the reach of Nurse Whitman and replaced it over his wife's neck.

Nurse Whitman's eyes grew wide and a little 'oh _no you didn't just disrespect my authority you sniveling male_ ' expression bobbed from her neck. She grabbed the necklace with two hands and tugged at the shining metal. "No jewelry during the delivery!"

Satan, whose grip had only tightened, tugged back hard on the necklace, "I said it's a special circumstance," through a clenched jaw.

"No jewelry!"

"Special circumstance!" he yelled, jerking the pendant back.

The two tugged and grappled with the chain, neither one letting up one their determination to be right. They stared and huffed at each other, like dragons, waiting for the other to budge. The pendant that hung from the chain waved back and forth over Dana Plough's head. "For the love of god, whom I will take as my own personal savior if you don't stop this; stop this!"

Satan and Nurse Whitman were frozen in mid tug as their stares crossed to the seething woman below. Nurse Whitman out of instinct dropped her grip on the chain to rush to the aid of the grieving mother.

Satan, whose instinct wasn't as fine-tuned to assisting the needy, or in his case, helping the mother of his soon-to-be born offspring, kept his grip and placed the necklace over Dana Plough's head. As Nurse Whitman's back was turned he gently tucked the pendant inside his wife's dressing gown and smirked as the pain in the ass nurse's back could do.

*****

The shrill blood-curdling battle cries of war came up from the basement of the hospital. Very few would have attributed the high-pitched screech to the large white bearded man wielding a sword with such grace it seemed like it was merely another appendage of his own body. That's because very few people ever really knew the multiple dimensions that made up the Norwegian Saint Nicholas.

The man could slice a person in half with the precision of a samurai then turn around to cover a million homes in less than two hours with a sack of presents in tow. He also had the highest-pitched most feminine scream ever credited to the male persuasion.

He bowed his head and charged Insurance Agent Number Thirteen with the full force of a million burning suns; swung his sword forcefully, melding steel with steel and pierced the air with a haunting scream of, "Ho, ho, ho, Merry Ass-kicking to all and to all a good death!"

Number Four turned his attention away from Ketty for a brief moment in bewilderment at Santa Clause's death chant. She saw her opportunity and grabbed it; she dug a quick dagger into his stomach, twisting it around his ribcage. The knife rattled around like a pinball until it came to a tilt. She watched the behemoth tumble at her feet in a blood soaked lump.

She threw her arms up in the air and gave a firm, vocal whoop in victory, but quickly composed herself, placing a hand over her mouth in embarrassment over her thrill in taking a life. She pulled the mortified hand off to reveal a cheeky smile that she just couldn't shake.

Number Twelve, after having watched his comrade fall to a smaller weaker woman rushed over to Ketty, brandishing his sword high above his head. He began to swing at the back of the unsuspecting Ketty when he was stopped by silver buckshot that ripped through his gut.

He stood, motionless for a moment, looking purposefully at the saucer sized hole that had been drilled through his abdomen. He let out a hearty laugh as he stared at the filtering blood and fell to the floor, revealing a petrified Jeremiah standing a few yards away, smoking shotgun wrapped in his hands.

Ketty spun around to find the giant laying at her feet and a rattled Jeremiah aghast. She rushed over to him and jumped into his arms, the hot steel of the still-smoldering gun sizzled at her flesh. She looked longingly into the eyes of her hero and was overcome with a rush of unbridled gratitude with a tinge of sexual euphoria.

She grabbed Jeremiah's head and pressed his lips to hers; as they fell to floor in a long embrace. The battle halted for a brief moment so a wave of nausea could encapsulate the others. As the combatants tried desperately to somehow avoid staring at the two bodies writhing on the ground, exchanging saliva, Number Twelve raised a hand and listened to the intercom. A hush befell the participants as Twelve exclaimed, "I love this song!" The other Insurance Agents nodded in agreement and bounced their heads to the cool refrain of the Hues Corporation's _Rock The Boat_.

*****

"You're doing great!" said the disembodied voice of Dr. Arneau from down among the nether regions of Dana Plough's gown. "Oh goody, dilating at five centimeters. It won't be much longer now. He popped his head back up and smiled as he snapped off the rubber gloves and tossed them into a pail.

Satan's grip on his wife's hand tightened a little and she returned the joyous grasp. It was becoming more and more difficult to breathe for the soon-to-be-dad, as the actuality of fatherhood was creeping closer. Juliet handed him a bottle of water and helped him lift it to his mouth.

She had been brought in to aide Dana Plough, but was now being pulled in three directions by three different patients. It was a task she neither wanted nor needed at this point in her life.

She took the bottle and shoved it back into the bag she had filled with little bits and pieces of things she may be called upon to provide, as long as it was anything that could be found in a hotel mini bar. At least Henry was quiet for the most part; he had until the past few minutes been screaming unconsciously from his coma, making the room and especially Nurse Whitman a little on edge.

*****

Barnaby rifled through the reading material that lined the waiting room coffee table. He peeked at his watch for the eighth time in the past two minutes and sighed. He really wished someone had told him that the birthing procedure was not a ' _get in, get out'_ experience, but the long, drawn out process of waiting for nothing much happening.

Then he waited some more. Then when it seemed like he couldn't wait any longer, he waited some more. He picked up a fishing magazine, took a quick glance, turned his nose in a crooked scrunch, threw it back in the pile and sighed again.

*****

Actor Jonathan Frakes was in heaven [Not literally, he would be pissed if his death scene had been left on the cutting room floor]; this was the best action movie he had ever been a part of. It was so life-like; he couldn't wait to rush home and update his resume. He swung wildly in the general direction of two Insurance Agents, missing each by a foot. He lost his balance and staggered, hitting the cold cement face first.

"That's it!" he snarled as he lifted himself off the grey, icy ground. He lightly touched his face to see if any damage had been done to his meal ticket. "We need to set some ground rules here!"

As he finished that sentence the right hand of Agent Number Five came barreling across his jaw, knocking him back down. He bolted up with an aura of insanity written in permanent marker across his face. "As I was saying about ground rules," he stood up, dusting himself off, to address the crowd.

"Rule number one; no hitting people in the face." Just then another right hand emblazoned its print across his left jaw, knocking him back to his original position on the ground. "Were you not listening to me!?" he screamed to Number Five, who was standing over him. "No faces. Some of us count on our looks for a living, you know?"

"Yeah, like ten years ago." A roar went up through the room, who were quite pleased with Number Five's dig.

"Oh, it's on!" yelled the actor, leaping to his feet and brandishing his sword high over his head.

"You go girl! Don't let anyone tell you; you ain't a pretty boy no more." St. Nick grabbed his sword and thrust it into a laughing Number Eleven's neck, sending the giant tumbling down. The eight companions began jumping and clapping wildly at the masterful feat pulled off by Santa.

As they leaped up and down, their buttocks peeking from behind their shorts, Longis found himself on the business end of long sword. It's silvery tip jutting from beneath the glittery bowtie he had donned just for this occasion. St. Nick rushed to the fallen Longis, cradled his neck in his arm and exclaimed for everyone to hear, "I'll get the son of a bitch who did this to you."

Longis looked up through cloudy eyes, "It's just a flesh wound; I'll be all right."

St. Nick dropped him and stood up, "Who told you you could speak? You never speak."

Longis looked through him with glassy eyes, a look of rueful dispiritedness. St. Nick brushed his sweat-ladened hair from his scribe's eyes and holding back a tear whispered, "It's just that you've kind of ruined the mystique."

*****

"I see a head." Giggled Dr. Arneau poking his head up from where it had been for the past few minutes, a state where which Satan was getting a little uncomfortable with. He understood the whole doctor-patient dynamic, but he felt that Dr. Arneau was spending just a little too much time down there.

He would always come up from his crouch with a grin that seemed to be plastered to his face, like a boy looking through his first girly magazine. "This is very exciting." He almost snickered as he tried to avoid the steely, infernal gaze of the watchful father to be. He dove back down under the sheet that hid him from the watching eyes and into the safety of Dana Plough's lady parts.

Satan turned to Juliet to get her reaction to the doctor's gleeful practice of birthing. She just shrugged her shoulders in an ' _I guess it's normal to be that excited about your patient's hoo-ha'_ fashion; though, she had a feeling she would soon be required to separate the good doctor from his post. It's always a bit awkward ushering in the time of unmitigated death and degeneration when the body of your OB/GYN is lying in a pool of his own blood at the end of the bed, while his head is somewhere up his nether regions.

The room watched in anticipation with every ooh and aah coming from the hidden physician as his head bobbed up and down from under the sheet.

"This is a bit odd," he said, poking his head back up.

"What? Is everything all right?" Satan had lost his anger with the doctor at this declaration and was now filling the void with nervous expectancy.

"Well--?" said the doctor, scratching his head searching for the right words, "The baby is doing well? It's just that you might want to prepare yourself for a few mild anomalies."

Satan's jaw dropped with the realization that the soon-to-be master of the world wouldn't be as cute as he had envisioned. Would he need to return all those darling little outfits printed with googly-eyed bears and chicks to the store and replace them with tiny paper bags? He gulped and directed a wary question to the doctor. "Like what?"

"Horns!?"

"Oh, good I thought something was wrong with him."

Dr. Arneau thought about this reaction for a second and concluded that if the parents were okay with horns, who was he to argue? As long as they didn't want to sue, they could have the horniest kid on the planet. He quickly dove back under the sheet and after a minute of uncomfortable silence he poked his head out again. "How do you feel about hooves?"

"Good with me," said Satan.

"Cool. Then you've got yourselves a healthy baby boy." He brought the little bundle of joy out from behind its curtain and held it up for all the room to see.

*****

There was an unmistakable scream of the final push that rattled the halls of _The Richard M. Nixon Memorial Medical Center and Cocktail Lounge_ 's _The Maestro_ _John Phillip Sousa International Marching Band Memorial Maternity Ward_ and Barnaby sighed. He tossed the copy of Highlights he had been reading and rose from his seat. He picked up the wicker basket that hadn't been there a second before and headed toward the gasps and the fleeing Nurse Whitman.

Barnaby stopped and asked himself the age old question that had plagued many a scholar and philosopher since the dawn of time, "How in the hell am I going to walk into a room and steal a baby from the devil himself? I really need some sort of distraction."

In the center of the illuminated hallway a small man wearing a bowler and dressed in a dapper tweed suit with bulky coke bottle glasses stood holding a vial of swashing liquid high above his head. "I've got a bottle of The Jamaican Whooping Fever Pox and I'm not afraid to use it!"

Barnaby paused and mused to himself as the hospital floor patrons and workers began to flee in a desperate attempt not to be the lead story on the six o'clock news, "Yeah, that'll do."

*****

Dana Plough held her new baby boy in her arms and caressed his cheeks with her forefinger. Satan sat beside her, gazing at the new life that would in mere hours be the death of all. The room had cleared quite rapidly after the presentation of the off spring; no one really wanted to be in its presence for fear of being kicked in the teeth by its itty bitty hooves.

Juliet took the newborn from his mother and placed him in his crib a few feet away. Dana Plough smiled peacefully as she drifted off to sleep after the exhausting ritual of pushing a nine pound bowling ball with limbs through a space that she had come to believe wasn't made for such a thing.

Satan left the room to pull the van around front. It was going to be used to take the new king of the earth to his coronation. Juliet stared at the baby boy who cooed and grasped at the air with its tiny hands. It was indeed a miracle, and Juliet couldn't have been more proud of her boss for bringing into the world such a handsome destroyer of man.

*****

Insurance Agent Number Seven traded heated blows of steel with Demeter as they harmonized on the Elton John/Kiki Dee classic _Don't Go Breaking My Heart_. It brought a lightened air to the battle that had been sorely needed after the brutal deaths of their fallen friends.

Loman March, who had begged for the chance to join Ketty in her crusade, was now cowering in a corner, pouting as he watched the object of his unwanted advances tongue-wrestle with Jeremiah in a swirl of sweaty contortions. A large hand patted him on the back and he turned around to see the eyes of Agent Number Eight consoling him.

It was comforting to know that his pain was shared by others. It was not comforting when the man who had given him support stabbed him through the belly, leaving him to collapse in a heap on the floor.

DANZ & C>500TP, who had been watching the festivities advance from a safe distance stopped the rising spirit of the fallen Loman and remarked, "Just wait here. I can't keep going back and forth while you dainty idiots succumb to blades through the chest."

Longis sat at her feet next to Michael Ryan eating popcorn Michael had gotten from the cafeteria. "I still don't understand why he can eat and I can't. Aren't we both dead?"

"It's magic. Now shut up I'm trying to watch this." DANZ & C>500TP patted the ground in front of her to summon Loman over to sit.

Loman shook his head in despair as he watched Ketty and Jeremiah. "It just makes you want to crawl in a hole and die."

*****

Barnaby knocked softly on the archway of Dana Plough's room and stepped inside. "Hi," he said hesitantly to the suspicious Juliet who was tending watch over the baby. "I'm a friend of the father." He walked over to the crib, the antichrist lay sleeping peacefully, void of his impending destiny.

"My, what a --," he let out a pinched screech as he laid eyes the newborn. He did an awkward double take at the thing in the crib and smacked his lips, "beautiful little boy?"

"Isn't he the most precious little thing you've ever seen?" Juliet had become accustomed to the sight of the boy and had grown an affinity to the beauty of the horns.

"Would you mind if I held it?" Barnaby said softly as most people do when asking permission to take a small life into their arms.

"I don't know?" Juliet was hesitant to trust the stranger, but he was the only person so far not to run in horror of the boy, so he was probably a friend of Satan. "Oh all right, just be careful."

"Oh I wouldn't dream of being anything but." Barnaby gently hoisted the boy into his arms and held the baby close to his chest. "He really is his father's son, isn't he?" He winked brightly at Juliet and placed the baby into the basket he had put down beside him.

"Oh no, he goes in this one." She reached for the baby to put him back in its bed but Barnaby swung the basket around and out of her reach.

"Sorry," he grimaced, shooting her his best expression of apologetic guilt.

Barnaby turned and walked out the door at a brisk pace, leaving Juliet in a dazed state. She stood staring at the doorway for a moment, unable to grasp the realization that she had just let someone come in and steal the only son of the devil right from under her nose. A wave of horror-struck awareness washed over her. The mindfulness that Satan would return soon and most definitely notice his son wasn't in the same safe crib where he'd left him, was going to be something of a poser.

She stared up to the heavens and cried out under her breath, "Hi God, it's me Juliet. I know it may be a little late for this; but I think I may your help."

*****

The elevator descended slowly, the illuminated numbers counting down to their inevitable end. Barnaby clutched the basket carrying the sleeping conqueror of man and whistled along with the elevators rendition of _The Girl from_ _Ipanema_.

It stopped on the fourth floor and a grizzled old man towing an IV scuttled onto the elevator. His rasps gurgled and echoed in the metal cage. His trembling finger bounced through the air as he tried to hit a button to take him to his destination.

Barnaby cracked his knuckles and he balled his fist trying fecklessly in telepathic desperation to wield the man's finger to his chosen button. He put the basket down and took a step toward the panel. He pointed to the fifth floor and nodded hopefully of acceptance by the man.

The old man looked at Barnaby with confused refutation and Barnaby tried another number, the man shook his head again. Barnaby huffed impatiently as he endeavored a stab at the second floor, the man stared thoughtfully for a moment and nodded yes.

The doors closed and they were back on their way. Barnaby glanced at the man who seemed to be in his own world and wondered if he was doing the right thing by saving people like this from their doom. He blew a soft puff of apathetic air and went back to whistling the tunes the elevator DJ spun.

The man waddled out of the elevator when it reached his disputable destination, jonnie flapping in the breeze giving Barnaby a quick peek that would haunt him for years to come. Before anyone else could get on to slow him up, Barnaby hit the door close button with a flurry of lightening prods and rode the rest of the way alone. The doors opened in the basement and he stepped off, only to turn around and hurriedly grab his cargo before the doors closed on him.

*****

Juliet had, in a panic, shielded the empty crib from view with her sprawled body when Satan returned. She smiled nervously as her hips shimmied to block the view of the eyes that were transfixed on her concealed failure. "Did you want to bring Dana down to the van first?" her voice quivered as she searched for anything to stall his bothersome stare from morphing into unmitigated rage.

"Perhaps we should wait a few hours until everyone is well- rested enough to go on a long trip. Childbirth can take a lot out of people, you know. Plus, I don't think the baby is quite ready to take on the whole mantle of evil thing." She nervously chuckled herself into a whimper as a river of desperation streamed down her face.

He knew something was wrong, and the more she smiled the more he grew unsettled in the idea that that the wrong he knew was much worse. "Juliet?"

She sidled her shielded body to reveal the empty bed where his child had been cozily sleeping just a few minutes before.

"He just, I mean, I tried--" the words of horror couldn't escape from the grasp of her mind's grave.

Satan grew pale as he stared at the empty bed. "Who?"

"I don't know." The tears raced down her face as her imagined future of regaled prosperity at the feet of kings became a life of agonizing non-stop torture, of red hot pokers shoved in virginal orifices. "He said he was a friend."

"That son of a --," he said through clenched teeth. The realization of Juliet's crying confession poured over him. The crystal blue sea that had once rippled through his eyes had been overtaken by an ocean of virulent red. "He's got some balls on him that one."

*****

The once pristinely sterile Morgue floor was at present, saturated with the billowing blood pools of war. Barnaby waded over the freshly fabricated corpses that lined the room and made his way over to Saint Nicholas, who was propped up against a wall taking a well deserved five. "How's it going?"

The Norwegian Santa Clause caught his breath, surveying the grim carnage that surrounded him. "Well?" he scratched his head as he searched for the right words to describe the brutality he had witnessed over the past hour. "It was more humane than the gay pride parade I attended in Peoria. At least these people know the real meaning of drag."

Barnaby caught sight of something disturbing out of the side of his left eye. "I didn't see that coming," gesturing to the tangled embrace of the still lip-locked Ketty and Jeremiah.

"Count yourself one of the lucky ones. I swear I'll never be same again after seeing that bit of horror. Give me a good disemboweled carcass any day."

A roar that echoed the name of Barnaby rushed through the building. Barnaby and St. Nick exchanged knowing glances of the seed of the creeping bellow. "Yeah, I better get going. I'm never going to be invited to Christmas dinner again."

"Good luck."

"Yeah, you too," Barnaby said as Santa stabbed a pouncing Number Nine through the heart.

He left silently, trying to stay out of the way of the flying daggers that raced around the room. The baby started to fuss from inside his nestled blankets.

Barnaby knew he had to get out of the hospital fast; the baby was becoming a bread crumb path for Satan to follow and he needed to find a candy house to hole himself up in for a few millennia.

He exited out to the setting sun-lit dusk. He stood on the curb and searched for a car to get as far and as fast away from his passionately perturbed pursuer as possible.

*****

Satan rushed up and down every floor of the hospital in a hurried, panicked hunt for the kidnapper of his only son. He mumbled things under his breath that would have made Genghis Khan blush with their murderous implications.

His face had progressed from a horrid pink flush to livid candescent red as he kicked open door after door searching for Barnaby. Small drops of blood trickled from his palm as his nails dug deep into his fisted flesh. He didn't know who he was more furious with; Barnaby, or himself for not seeing it coming. It was definitely Barnaby. And when Satan finally found him Barnaby was going to wish he could die.

*****

A car pulled up to the entrance and a man with a blood soaked bandaged hand stepped out. "Where can I park so I can get inside to have this looked at?" he said to Barnaby, who had grown a sizable grin across his face.

"You're in luck; this is a full service valet hospital."

"Oh thank god!" he tossed the keys to Barnaby and went inside.

Barnaby placed the basket on the passenger's seat and shut the door. He glanced back at the man as he disappeared into the building. He looked down at the keys that dangled from his fingers, "I must remember to send the big guy a card."

*****

DANZ & C>500TP chuckled as she watched the fighting continue from her perch. She had been impressed by Santa's helpers and their extrinsic flexibility in dodging oncoming steel. It was like watching a bunch of really amazing Chinese acrobats, if the acrobats had a penchant for overly exposing garments. Michael Ryan sat in a funk as he licked his lips, watching his fellow deceased chomp away on assorted candies and munchies.

Loman had gotten up and was pacing around the room fuming over his lost love. Longis and Sebastian were busy tossing popcorn at the participants of the skirmish, who were confused about where the rain of salty snacks was coming from.

The fallen Insurance Agents had joined the group and were amusing themselves singing along with the CD of eighties one hit wonders they had popped into a CD player. If any war had ever become a party it was this one [Except that for the ones who were still alive and participating. It was more like an unnecessary office bonding excursion]. The newly minted dead were more content to sit back as spectators than their previous incarnations of targeted contributors.

Darren was the next to meet his fate and after a brief yet confusing welcome to the group, found himself enjoying the spectacle. He had moments before been having a gay old time butchering the minions of evil with the pizzazz of a flamingo on roller skates. . He situated himself at DANZ & C>500TP's feet and joined in with the fun of bonding with the fallen comrades. His shorts crept up slightly, as he slid next to Number One and started up a conversation. Much to the dismay of St. Nick, who couldn't do a damn thing about it.

*****

Satan fumed as he stood flustered in the lobby, attempting to think like a rational man who irrational thought had taken up residency and nailed the doors shut. Rational thinking was not his momentary forte; little puffs of smoke floated from his ears [Or at least they would have if he had been a cartoon character].

He ran a shaky, panicky hand across his brow and over his head, pulling his hair back in steadfast determination to figure out which way to go. His ears perked up when he heard a deafening rumble from outside the hospital and rushed out the doors. His eyes ran upward to the sky as he watched The Four Horsemen descend rapidly toward him.

Three horses and one—' _yeah_ ', he thought to himself, ' _that's a purple dinosaur_ came to a standstill feet away from him. Famine leapt off her beast and stretched her legs; riding Princess Lollipop was fun, but it did a number on the ol' thighs. She patted its wrinkled head, pulled out a sugar cube and fed it to the beast. It happily chomped down on the sugary confection and gave her a big wet lick in exchange. The others followed suit, dismounting from their steeds while paying no attention to the frantically screaming hordes of people trampling one another in a desperate attempt to flee the flying horses, and ' _yeah_ ' they thought to themselves, ' _that's a purple_ dinosaur'.

The Death pushed the cowl from of his skull and glared when one of the stampeding throngs ran into him. The man looked up at the white, glistening, skinless noggin and fainted, leaving what some would call a grin on the jaw of The Death.

"What's wrong, you look glum," said Famine as she walked closer to the frazzled Satan.

"He took my boy," he sneered in a cold and calculated voice.

"Who did?"

"Barnaby." The name coiled off his tongue like a cobra stalking toward its prey.

"That slick bastard!" announced The Death doing his best to avoid any awkwardly guilty intonation. If he had been blessed with eyes they would have been circling back in his head in an attempt not to make eye contact with anyone.

"So? What does this mean for us?" War rubbed his jaw in deep thought about the meaning of a too many times stalled attempt at an apocalypse. He felt a tad bit guilty because he was also relieved, as the long trip had been doing a feverish tap dance on his manhood.

It may have been a fun trip for Famine, but War had been born with dangly things down in the nether regions area and horseback riding gets old after thirty straight hours.

Satan stared a seething hole through the usually confident War, who cowered a little in the icy blue eyes of the devil.

"I'm sure he'll be back, probably just took the little guy out for ice cream," said a trying-to-look-on-the-bright-side Conquest, who didn't believe what she was saying.

"This is your fault!" Satan pointing a shaky finger at The Death screamed, "He's your charge, he's your responsibility. I blame you for this."

"Hey!" said War, stepping in between the two, "I've been with him for the past few days. It's impossible for him to have anything to do with this."

"Yeah!" The Death was starting to think that perhaps his gasps of aggrandizing innocence were becoming a little too transparent.

Dana Plough came through the door, wheeled out by Juliet, in a fit of hysteria. She had squeezed her swollen body into a slinky red Vera Wang dress, the amulet dangling from her swollen bosoms. An orderly was following close behind, pushing the bed that held the comatose Henry.

Dana Plough was livid with her husband for cavorting with such a reprehensible class of people; the type of people that would trick a naïve young woman. A woman who hadn't the skill to be anything but a glorified gofer, or to have any aspirations to be anything more. "If I don't have that baby back in my arms in the next ten minutes, you're going to know what Hell is. And it ain't that crap you do."

"We're going after him," Satan started to place a hand on her shoulder but quickly yanked it back after the look that was shot his way.

"We'll help too." Famine was anything if not gung-ho about the chance to do some more riding.

"He headed south," said The Death.

"No, he went north," corrected Conquest, much to the dismay of her fellow Horseman.

"Oh yeah, I guess I'm a bit discombobulated today." The Death's plan of attack with trickery was being foiled by everyone around him. He had plotted and schemed for the better part of week, a time table he thought was an adequate time to save the world from total domination.

Satan turned to Dana Plough, who hadn't let the pure discontentment waver from her stoic face. "I'll go get the van."

"Yeah, you go get the van." The ice that fell off her words would have frozen a rhinoceros in its tracks "We'll wait here."

*****

"I think they've all gone?"

"Who?"

"Satan and the rest of them."

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure."

"Well, we need to be positively sure. He'll have our asses if we stop fighting. It is the reason we're here."

"But I'm so tired."

"Try to find out if they're gone. All right?"

"Yeah, he's gone. I'm positive."

"So can we stop fighting now?"

"I don't see why not."

"Thank goodness, my arms were getting tired."

"Look at my robe! I'll never get all this blood out. Demeter, get the sleigh ready."

"Right boss."

"What is it with you people and all your talking today?"

"Sorry."

"I swear when we get back there's going to be some major spankings doled out. And not the fun kind either."

"Why don't you leave him alone?"

"Don't think you're not too big to put over my knee mister. By the way, is it true what they say about you guys?"

"Perhaps I'll let you find out sometime."

"Saucy!" blustered St. Nick.

*****

Barnaby adjusted the rear view mirror to catch the sight of the flashing blue lights of twenty state troopers. The sun was setting over the ocean, giving the world an eerie sense of beautiful calm, as the 'borrowed' Chevrolet Monte Carlo raced down the Coastal highway.

A helicopter circled overhead brushing the leaves of the trees like a comb-over's bad attempt at vanity. Barnaby squeezed the steering wheel as the car whirred around a sharp corner, the basket on the passenger seat swept from side to side.

He watched the caravan of police cars, following a safe distance behind. "What am I doing?" he asked himself, shaking his head is the sheer disbelief of the mess he'd gotten into.

He pinched the bridge of his nose trying to ease the vice that had begun to press against his eyes; headaches were just one of the wonderful side effects of the week.

The car whizzed past the green mile markers keeping score of how long he'd saved the earth. The tires left their furious marks with every heedless curve over the blacktop. The smell of low tide from the beaches sifted through the vents, filling the car with the foul stench rotting algae.

The item in the basket began to cry, Barnaby glided a soothing hand over the cherubic cheeks of the little traveler. Its blue eyes filled with the reflection of the new moon that had crept from behind its blanket of the red and orange sunset. The car skidded through the warm night air as it raced to a destination unknown to by its driver. The blues and reds of the pursuing hunters lit the sky like fireworks, with the order of shoot to kill.

*****

Buck Sterling was not his given name, but the man born Gilpin Dipple thought it was more apt of a name to get him the lucrative anchor job he'd strived for. He was currently not on any list for possible promotion and was toiling away as the eye in the sky traffic reporter for San Bernadino's fourth-rated local news cast. He had covered his fair share of car chases and this one was another ho-hum run of the mill chase, except for the fact that a stolen newborn was involved.

This was the type of breaking news story that may get him recognized by the big boys; Dana Plough was a high-profile newswoman and with celebrity angst comes great ratings. As the helicopter whirred over the speeding cars he bided his time until the moment arose to come front and center as the voice of the biggest car chase in California history, apart from that other one [You know which one].

*****

The van caught up with the motorcade of blaring sirens, closely tagged by three horses and a big purple dinosaur. Juliet was in the rear, attempting to reinsert the IV into Henry's arm that had jostled out, covering the back windshield with fluids.

"Take this next exit!" Dana Plough screamed and swung her arms wildly, covering Satan's view for an instance.

"But we'll get off the highway. We need to follow the car."

"Fine! I'll do it!" She grabbed the steering wheel and the van went careening at seventy miles an hour down a darkened ramp toward a parallel side street. The van raced side by side with Barnaby. The smaller street straightened off as it whizzed through the underpass of the curving highway.

*****

The Sleigh, pulled by six white horses that had until a few years ago lived a happy existence as mice nibbling their existence away on delicious hospital food, roared inches above the pavement. The Norwegian St. Nick snapped the reigns as the others in the back held on for dear life. The sixteen that had withstood the tests of steel were clinging to one another, terror etched upon their wind-burnt faces.

Ketty grasped Jeremiah's hand as the sleigh bucked and scuttled in its hurried attempt to catch up to the frenzied procession. They all hopped on, eagerly wanting to see how this whole thing played out, plus Santa had ensured them all it would be a lovely ride, like a honeymoon carriage ride through the streets of Rome.

Agent Number Six covered his eyes and held on tightly as the sleigh bounced several feet in the air as it dodged a wayward palm tree. "I can't believe I survived a war only to be killed in a high speed wooden sled accident." He screamed, the wind muffling his anxiety. "Look out for that tree!"

"I don't need any backseat drivers, thank you very much. I've driven this thing through rougher terrain than this." St. Nick lied about that one.

*****

The van screeched as its right tires left the ground as it took the onramp at full speed. Satan's eyes bulged out of his head as he clung for dear life onto the steering wheel. Dana Plough, with her nails embedded in the faux leather dashboard, screamed "Faster, Faster!" as the van now had a three mile cushion in front of Barnaby.

A ways up the road a blockade of cop cars held sway, waiting for the Monte Carlo to arrive. Satan pulled over onto the median and watched as the still wobbly Dana Plough jumped out of the van and rushed to stand at the head of the whirring wall of sirens.

*****

"The car is traveling at terrific speeds still, the wall of police cruisers following close behind. This is one of those car chases where everyone is watching with baited breadth to see how many innocent people will die in a fiery explosion of twisted metal." Buck Sterling shouted through his head mic, the wind ripping through his newly coifed mane, to the millions of Californians glued to their television sets.

"Can you tell if the baby is still okay?" the voice of Carole Hill, news anchorwoman, came over his set.

"I'm not Superman Carole. I can't see through lead."

"Well, neither can Superman." That one hurt Buck, as he knew the chase had been picked up by every national news cast and he had been bested by someone who was his main competition [In his mind only. In all honesty the weatherboy at Hillside Middle School in Logantown, MN had more of a chance at breaking into the national scene than he did].

"Carole, I'm seeing an interesting turn of events developing right before my eyes."

"Does it look like the chase is ending?"

"No. It seems that a man in a flying recliner has pulled up even with our channel 6 chopper."

"Did you say a flying recliner Buck?"

"Yes. It seems to be a Lay-Z-Boy. And it seems to be equipped with a pair of sidewinder missiles."

"I'm sorry, I don't think I'm hearing you right, Buck."

"I think you are, Carole. I think you are."

Earl gave a wink and nod to the gaping Buck as he hovered next to him in the Earlinator Mach Two: now with cup holder. A cigar dangled out of his mouth as he adjusted his aviator glasses. This was the proudest day of his life; not only had he'd been the only supplier of the biggest little war ever fought, but he was getting his products national exposure.

"Funtastic!" he said to himself, "Now let's show these mothers what this baby can really do!" He pressed on a joystick that jutted up from the armrest and took off like a bolt of lightning. Buck could hear the man whooping a big 'Yahoo!' as he flew past, leaving the helicopter in its dust.

*****

The sleigh hit an orange barrel that lined the side of the road and spun around 360 degrees. St. Nick wrestled the reigns and got the sleigh returned to racing down the road. "My bad!" he cringed. He peered back at his passengers as they picked themselves off from the bungled heap they had been thrown into. With all the commotion no one had noticed that Actor Jonathan Frakes was hanging precariously from a speed limit sign in the distance.

*****

Barnaby slammed on the brakes as the car came screeching to a tire-smoking stop in the middle of the highway. He brought the sunglasses that he had being wearing through the darkened chase to the bridge of his nose. He studied the wall of cars that blocked the path to freedom.

Behind him, orders to stop and surrender were being blasted over loud speakers. He threw the car into park and revved the engine. A bemused curl progressed across his lips as he pondered the mess before him and the chaos that was behind.

The baby started to cry again, kicking and punching the air around him. The child was starting to feel the overwhelming destiny it had been fated to deliver. Barnaby tapped on the steering wheel, desperately trying to come up with a way to get out of the predicament he had gotten himself into.

There was no way he could go forward and going back was out of the question. To the left a four foot tall line of concrete cylinders separated the lanes and the right dropped to a thirty foot chasm of rocks and rushing water.

"Let's see, about a dozen or so behind us; Twenty, give or take, in front, and three helicopters; seems like we're quite the celebrated pair, you and I." he quipped to his fussy passenger. He wiped a pool of white spittle that had formed from the sides of his mouth and shrugged.

The child stopped crying for a moment to let out a chuckle from under his cocoon of blankets. The coo was cold and calculating and sent chills up Barnaby's spine. It seemed to him that the little one knew what was ahead for them and the baby was going to get a front row seat to the ass whipping for which Barnaby was in store.

Barnaby turned on the radio and searched the stations for the appropriate music for the moment and what he was about to do. He stopped at Southern California's number one oldies station and turned up the volume. R. Dean Taylor's _Indiana Wants Me_ rose up from the car's custom made speakers as a wry smile formed on his face like a penny shaped by laying it on the railroad tracks.

"And now, here comes the fun part." The rubber of the tires squealed as the Monte Carlo took off down the highway toward the barricade of police cars awaiting his eventual stop. He crooned along with the radio at the top of his lungs, playing the steering wheel as if he were the SLA's answer to Buddy Rich. "Sing it with me kid!" Barnaby hit the gas and sped toward the wall of cars.

The line of cops had their scopes set on the center of Barnaby's head as the car raced closer to its seemingly intended end. As the car sped closer, the faces of the pending captors fell slightly; the realization came over them that perhaps the Monte Carlo was not, in fact, going to stop at what they had considered its predetermined destination.

As the car rushed forward, one of the officers, a green-faced young rookie, gulped and thought just for a brief minute that he could make out the driver's face, and it occurred to him as he was leaping into a ditch on the side of rode as the car plunged headfirst into the blockade that he could make out a slight grin.

The car flipped three times and burst into a towering ball of flames as it hit the fortified wall of cruisers head on. Twisted metal flew through the air as the flames shot into space, scattering seared pieces of leather seating like snowflakes through the night sky. Several firefighters rushed to extinguish the burning car.

Through the smoke and ashes they could see the woman in red sobbing, her knees buckled as she collapsed to the ground. Her hands pounded the pavement as she screamed in horror at the wreckage that lay before her.

*****

Satan rushed over and knelt down beside Dana Plough, holding her tightly in his sympathetic arms. He watched dolefully as the river of mascara streamed down her face.

He stared at the smoldering heap of metal that lay crumpled in the middle of road as pillars of black smoke rose from the corpse of the Monte Carlo. The remaining Insurance Agents took their places at his side as they stood stoically over the shoulder of their emotionally tormented bosses.

*****

The Four Horsemen gave the wreckage a quick once over, shrugged, then headed back to their respective homes. It had been a long few days and they were all set for a nice long vacation. Famine, wars, conquest and deaths could be handled by the masses for now. In a few days perhaps they would feel like causing a little destruction, but right now they were content in letting humans do what humans do; whatever that was.

*****

Ketty clutched Jeremiah's arm as she searched in the distance for Barnaby. Nothing stirred from inside the wreckage. "Do you think he's--?"

Jeremiah held her close and shook his head in conformed realization. She buried her head into his chest and cried. As the paramedics and fire fighters hurried around them she glanced up in the sky and watched as a tiny sleigh washed past. Its silhouette glowed in a heavenly spectral enchantment of the moonlight as it disappeared into the stars.

*****

Officer Jimmy Johnson waved his arms as he shouted at the top of his lungs. "I've got him. I've got him!" He pointed a shaky pistol at Barnaby who stood feet in front of him. He was dressed all in black and held the largest scythe that Officer Johnson hadn't noticed a second before.

Earl was standing next to Barnaby and was grinning from ear to ear at the tool he had just placed into his hands. The blade was five feet long and seemed to grab the light of the moon and slice it like bread.

"Actually," said Barnaby, his fore finger scratching under his lip, "Technically, I've got you."

Officer Johnson looked around and saw his, the last time he remember, attached upper torso lying a few yards away. His lower half was dangling from a tree branch above. "The bright side of this whole occasion," Barnaby smiled at the confused trooper, "You were the only one to die."

*****

The sleigh flew over the Pacific Ocean, waves crashed over its massive expanse, as water sprayed the riders. Santa tugged hard on the reigns, the horses taking off in a hurried gallop. "Pretty good night," he concluded, watching the horizon zip by under the carriage. He flicked a stray sequin that dangled from his blood and soot-covered robe.

In the back Guy-Williams held close to his chest a cooing bundle of blankets. A little hand reached out and latched gently onto his finger. Guy-Williams smiled, dangling a shiny silver pendant just out of the reach of the happy fingers.

St. Nicholas smiled as he slapped the reigns and nodded contentedly to himself; it was going to be nice to have a baby around the house.

THE END?

*****

TWO WEEKS AFTER THE BIRTH

"All I'm saying is Gladiola is kind of a silly name, when you think about it."

"I didn't tease you," said Gladiola, nee The Death of Australia, New Zealand and Countries with a Population less than 500 Total People. The Death had been so proud of Barnaby's name that he decided to give all his employees the joys of having a real moniker. The other deaths had pleaded with him to allow them to pick out their own names, but The Death would have none of it; he was having too much fun doing it himself.

"You teased me at every opportunity you got." Barnaby was having a good laugh at the others' pain, much like they had with him.

"Whatever."

Barnaby stood on the steps and looked over the sea of people that scurried about the Great Hall of Evil. Satan was throwing an almost baby party and everyone was invited. He hadn't seen or talked to the Lord Prince of Darkness since the big day and wasn't sure how he'd react when they finally came face to face. He ran a hand down over his face and tugged at his jaw. He blew out a sigh and headed through the crowd.

They walked into the huge ballroom of Satan's Palace. "Mr. Barnaby and Ms. Gladiola," announced the butler.

Barnaby clutched the bowl of jell-o he had brought as a peace offering. They made their way over to the receiving line where Satan and The Death were busy in conversation. He crept up slowly and offered a remorseful bow to Satan. He watched as Satan stared a Grand Canyon sized hole through Barnaby. "No hard feelings?" he gulped.

Satan kept his stare locked into Barnaby's eyes and The Death and Gladiola slunk away out of the reach of the danger. Satan smiled and placed his large hand inside of Barnaby's.

"No hard feelings." Satan gave him a crooked little smile as Barnaby sighed in relief as he felt an intended hand slap him across the back. "It's all in the past. Plus, I know he's well taken care of. A kid could do worse than growing up with Santa Clause."

Barnaby cringed a little and scratched at his temple worriedly. How was he going to put this without being manhandled in front of everyone he had to work with the next day? He searched, but couldn't find the right words to make what he had to say easier. He gulped, "In Norway."

Satan clicked his tongue inside his cheek and nodded in understanding surrender, "We'll talk later."

Barnaby went off to enjoy the party, turning slightly to catch Satan's eye still following his movements. Satan dipped a cup into the fruit punch when he was tapped on the shoulder. Insurance Agent Three cleared his throat and stared at the ground, shuffling his feet in anticipation of speaking. "We were just wondering-?"

"Yes?"

"We were wondering. We know you really like Liszt and all those others. And he's really good, don't get us wrong. But if could, you know-?" His eyes lit up with a glimmer of hope and reluctance for imposing on his boss.

"Sure. It's a party, after all." Satan swung his hand in the air and Young MC's _Bust A Move_ washed through the Ballroom. The dance floor soon filled with revelers as they danced and partied the night away, knowing that in another few thousand years they'd get another one just like this one.

THE END

