Short Story Draft 1
Thomas DeCeglie
REVELATION 23
It was an exceedingly dark and malevolently stormy night. However, that had no effect on the day that followed, which was, in fact, quite gorgeous. So gorgeous, if truth be told, that no human, in their wildest dreams, would expect it to be the last day the Earth would exist. Much like every other weekday, and the occasional weekend (he took nights and weekends off to allow for his apprentice to do the bulk work), Morty was rushing to find a clean pair of boxers, some jeans, a tee shirt that didn’t smell too bad and the sock that mischievously found its way out of the pairing and behind the television stand.
Despite the invention of the alarm clock in 1787; Morty, two-hundred and twenty-five, almost twenty-six years later, as it was December 21, 2012, still found a way to become Rip Van Winkle and therefore be late for an exceedingly important engagement with three of his eternally closest friends at a tiny, inconspicuous coffee shop not too far, but not too close to Central Park.
After Morty got out of his shower he still smelled faintly of rotting corpse, but with the added scent of the particularly pleasant Ocean Breeze fragrance of Zest. Rather than dry off- emulating the mortal and soon to be judged humans, like he would do most days, today being no different than any other day, other than the fact that he was indeed in a rush, and that it was the end of the world-he simply snapped his fingers allowing his powers to dry him off.
Outside of his upper-east side apartment he heard the sickeningly charming, musical chirping of a bird. Because he was already late, and becoming later by each passing second, the optimistic chirping of the bird agitated Morty provoking him to, once again, snap his fingers and stop the annoying distraction.
He only killed promptly when he was angry. Most of the time he was infamous for being late. Most infamously, in fact, was his unpunctuality with the death of the uncannily wild Russian, Rasputin. You see, earlier in the preceding century, 1916 to be exact, Morty had been trying to court a fellow immortal, Marilyn Monroe (While it is popular to believe that she wasn’t alive in 1916, and that she died in 1962 at age 36, that is not true. In reality, she was indeed an immortal, and was simply hiding out with Elvis, another immortal, biding time until once again it would be ok to present themselves). Unfortunately for Morty, he was late for his date with the iconic sex symbol, it went over time, and he was late for his appointment in Russia. Equally unfortunate for Morty was that his date with Ms. Monroe was disastrous, and they didn’t speak again until her pseudo-death in 1962.
Anyways, Rasputin took a back seat for a few hours to Ms. Monroe. In those few hours Rasputin should have been killed at least three times: Once for ingesting enough poison to annihilate a small tribe of African pygmies, once for being shot four times, which is enough ammunition for James Bond to save the world from an unbelievably insane villain dead set on taking it over, and once for being trapped under the ice and drowning. For fifteen minutes. Shortly thereafter, Morty finally arrived. He made Rasputin’s body develop hypothermia, finally killing him. It was the least he could do for the poor bloat for being late.
He was usually in an exceptionally mundane mood, which is odd considering his doom and gloom line of work. His job supplied him with income for all of eternity, but after today eternity would effectively be at an end, and he’d be jobless. The idea of bringing about the apocalypse, destroying the world and living in Heaven with all of the snobbish I-didn’t-sin-so-I’m-in-Heaven-and-you-are-not people didn’t appeal to Morty.
He decided that he wasn’t going to materialize instantaneously at the coffee shop; he’d rather take in the last day that this earth had to offer him, and ride his horse to take in the sites of New York City. The more and more he thought about the world ending, the more and more he became angry that this was his last day on the job. He figured that tomorrow he’d be wearing a penguin suit, waiting martinis back and forth for Jesus and Mr. Man himself. He opened up the door and stepped over the dead bird that littered his path to the street.
~*~
Being that riding a dead horse around the bustling streets of New York would undoubtedly raise suspicion with the citizens of the city; Morty rode his horse and assumed the image of a horseback Police officer. The only outward indication that the horse was indeed the horse of Death was that its eyes were a tomblike dull, lifeless green the shade of vomit. Any innocent bystander that was unlucky enough to meet the horses gaze would suffer an extremely painful, slow and torturous, untimely death. That’s not entirely true. The most they’d get is instant explosive diarrhea, grossing out everyone immediately around them making the victim feel like rather suffering an extremely painful, slow and torturous, untimely death instead.
Because today was the end of the world, Morty didn’t have any appointments. The only thing on his agenda was making his way down to the coffee shop to meet with his co-workers. He sat pensively on the back of his horse, his mind wandering as the monotony of the hooves guided his thoughts. Ever since Israel had been born in 1948, the apocalypse had been drawing nearer faster than Marion Jones on steroids. While some of the apocalyptic prophesies had been fulfilled before Israel gained nationhood, they really began rapidly checking off afterwards.
The world was now at everyone’s fingertips. Information was instantaneous. Morty could log into Google and check out everything that was happening around the world in less than 15 minutes. Before checking out the newest YouTube political debate featuring Jonathan Albus, Morty would check out his favorite site featuring scantily clad “suicide girls.” Everyone needs a hobby. The suicide girls were also his vice. Back in the old days before electricity, cable, and the internet, information traveled about as fast as an obese man too lazy to move because he drained his energy while lifting his fork to, once again, shove food into his face.
Despite it being December, the temperature was absolutely spectacular. One might attribute it to global warming, which is almost correct, except that it wasn’t pollution that was the culprit; it was God fulfilling another one of the apocalyptic prophecies. Morty stopped on the corner of 79th and 2nd to purchase what would be his last dirty water hotdog. The hotdogs were the only reason why Morty chose to be stationed in New York City. He didn’t know what was in them, but he knew they obviously couldn’t kill him. And they tasted like Heaven; that is if Heaven was able to be scrunched up, shoved inside pig intestine and cooked in God knows what.
Morty never felt sorry for killing his appointments, because it was fate and needed to be done. In fact, he would actually be doing his appointment more harm by not killing them, like Rasputin. But that was an accident, anyways. However, for the first time Morty felt sorry for a man that would never again see the light of day. So, Morty decided to strike up a conversation with the poor gentleman.
“It’s a delightfully marvelous day for the world to end, wouldn’t you say?” Morty said nonchalantly.
“Abso-freaking-lutely! Gorgeous-that’ll be five dollars.”
“Do you want my first born, too?” Morty joked as he handed the man a five dollar bill. “It’s a shame the world is going to end,” Morty reiterated in a vain attempt to warn the man of impending doom.
“Whatta hell you talkin’ about man?” The vender questioned skeptically.
“Well, the apocalypse, of course. You know raining fire. Judgment day and the like,” Morty said as he looked to the helpless vendor’s left hand and then in the eye. “You should probably go home to your wife and children, sir. Spend your last day together, and get one last session of ‘alone’ time in with the wife, you know.” Morty winked.
There was a silent understanding between the both of them as their gazes drifted apart. The vendor muttered a quick “Ok,” proceeded to pack up his stand, decided that it didn’t need packing up, and ran home to his wife and children.
“It’s a terrible shame that I won’t be able to kill the old man off peacefully,” Morty mumbled to himself.
~*~
On top of the fact that after the apocalypse comes to destroy earth thereby effectively terminating the contract that Death had with God, was the fact that those going to Heaven weren’t in for a particularly pleasant experience. Heaven was actually quite boring. When you first arrive at the “pearly white gates,” which over the millennia have become rather dull and needing of a new lacquer finish, you are judged by God; which is really just God telling everyone that they are going to Hell so that he can see their reaction, very much like a hidden camera show. What mortals don’t know now is that there really is no hell. Heaven is just one big marshmallow planet, where everyone loses their identity and wanders around aimlessly for the rest of eternity. The ancient Greeks got it right with their interpretation of the afterlife.
The Holy Bible was just one of Gods elaborate jokes on humanity that will reach its climax later today when Morty and his friends act out their roles in the final act of the play that God penned. A handful of Gods other jokes on humanity include Criss Angel, George W. Bush, and NASCAR.
After his encounter with the hotdog vendor, Morty galloped pensively down 2nd Avenue closer to his final destination at the coffee shop. After being on earth for six millennia Morty had grown to love the place. In the beginning, after the one week creation of the world, Death had been quite vindictive when killing those whose death was upon them. He felt that all humans were evil sinners and deserved to be judged by a wrathful God. However, after meeting Ezekiel and learning of the congenial side-effects of mind altering hallucinogenic drugs, Morty became a much mellower and behind schedule personification of death.
He did have a few wrathful streaks since his acquaintance with drugs; most notably, after his disastrous date with Marilyn Monroe and his late appointment with Rasputin, he unleashed two world wars and a pandemic of Spanish Flu around the world, killing about a quarter of the world’s population in about thirty wrath filled years. Not that it mattered anymore, anyway.
~*~
Upon arriving at Garden of Eden Coffee Shop, Morty happened upon two men arguing. Apparently one of the men was an Atheist (with an uppercase A) while the other was a Christian.
“You have to repent,” the Christian exclaimed, receiving a quizzical look from his Atheist counterpart, “the fury of the Lord is upon us!”
“How do you figure, sir,” replied the Atheist, obviously trying to get a rise out of the Christian.
“The signs of the times are all around us,” the Christian’s burning passion was channeled through his voice box. “Even you, scoffer, are a part of the prophecy, Second Peter chapter three verses three through four explicitly state that scoffers in the last days, while walking after their own selfish lusts will ask ‘where is the promise of his coming?’”
“Look buddy,” The Atheist replied, with the intent of setting the record straight. “I don’t believe in God, but I do believe that I do more good in this world than you.” Morty lifted a heavy brow with intrigue. “When was the last time you went over to Darfur to help human beings that need your aid? When was the last time that you took a homeless man off of the streets and gave him room to sleep and a hot dinner to eat?-”
“I, I-”
“No, I’m not finished yet, sir,” the Atheist interrupted. “You see, I’ve thought long and hard about my lack of belief in God. I believe that one pair of hands working can accomplish more than one-thousand hands in prayer.” Morty stepped closer, trying to eavesdrop as best he could. “I’ve been around the world, and let me tell you, Heaven and Hell exist right here, and it is our duty as humans to help out those less fortunate than us.” At that the Christian promptly turned and hightailed his way out of the conversation, while the Atheist turned and faced Morty, who was clapping.
“Unfortunately, he was right, Thomas,” Morty replied, impassively.
“How did you know my name, and what the heck are you talking about?” For the first time in his life Thomas stared Death in the whites of its eyes, but stood firm.
“Well, not entirely right, but the world is coming to an end,” Morty provided doubting Thomas a clever smile. “You’re also right; minus the no God part.”
“What on earth are you talking about,” Thomas’ voice cracked. “What the hell are you, some kind of angel or something?”
“More or less,” Morty replied, matter-of-factly.
“Oh…what do you mean by I’m right, too?”
“Well, doubting Thomas, let me let you in on a little secret,” Morty looked over both shoulders before proceeding with his revelation. “There is a God, and there is a Heaven. Everyone will be in Heaven before the day is done, as there is no Hell. The Apocalypse is upon you, and I am one of the Four Horsemen.”
Thomas stood silently, taking in the revelation that had just been bestowed upon him and quickly formulated a response:
“But the weather is so beautiful, it can’t be the apocalypse. Not today. If anything, it should have been last night, it was storming like the world was going to end,” and on that note Morty and Thomas released eye contact and an instant epiphany coursed its way through the mortals body.
“Good day, Thomas,” Morty called as Thomas ran home to love his family for one more day.
Morty tied his horse up next to three other horses: One of which was the deepest and darkest shade of black imaginable, another was a peculiar reddish color of blood and fire mixed together, and the last was white. Pure, blinding, and awe-inspiring white; which of course belonged to the Anti-Christ.
~*~
Upon entering the café, Morty was greeted with a sneer from a blonde bombshell across the room. Marilyn Monroe had made it a point to stop flirting with John F. Kennedy when Morty entered the room, just to sneer at him.
“Hi there, Marilyn,” Morty said.
“Jackass.”
“Nice to see you, too.”
Peering to Marilyn’s left he found Mr. Kennedy sitting with his torso bent forward and his legs crossed, obviously hiding an embarrassing secret.
“How’s your head doing, John?”
“I still get splitting headaches now and then, but nothing too bad.”
Morty turned to the sofa and found his three eternally best friends sitting and waiting for him, each with a mildly annoyed look on their faces.
“You never fail to be late, do ya Morty,” a sterling man, with a tattoo of a crown visible on his left wrist, asked.
“Well, Jonathan, you know how it is-.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jonathan Albus interrupted Morty before he could finish. “You’re not actually late this time. We told you noon knowing you’d be late. We’re not slated to start for another five minutes anyways.” Albus laughed while making room for Morty on the sofa. “We’re still waiting for the rest of the immortals to arrive so that we can conduct our meeting away from the prying ears of the mortals.”
Albus’ inflection was that of a true politician. He could animate a crowd like no other human on the planet. Granted, he wasn’t exactly a human himself. He quickly rose to prominence in American politics and media after single handedly resolving the crisis in Iran, saving three families stranded on the top floor of an apartment building which, at the time, was a blazing inferno and walking forty-two old ladies across one of New York’s busiest avenues all in the span of a week. By January 2012 he was the medias darling, and in November was elected the 45th President of the United States of America.
Shifting position on the sofa, Morty turned and faced Erik, a large red haired, decorated ex-military, Irish drunkard.
“So, I haven’t seen you since the invasion of Iraq. How’ve you been?’
“Well, oi’ve bin prehty bus’y en the Mit-hel East ‘nd East Africah, but nutin’ like those World Wars seven’hey yars ago, lad.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Morty nodded in assent. “Say, do you have any idea why Albus has us here today?”
“Not a tiniest feckin’ clue,” Erik responded before expelling a large belch.
With that, Morty turned to his other side and addressed Mr. Nero, the Secretary of the Treasury of the United States.
“Well sir, I haven’t seen you since the Great Depression, and I’m assuming you’re doing all right since the world is in another recession,” Morty smiled mischievously at the gentleman whose eyes were on fire with the burning desire of ambition. “Do you have any idea what we are doing here, so close to the end?”
“To tell you the truth, Morty, and I reckon I don’t do that too often, I honestly haven’t the damndest idea,” Mr. Nero said in a deep southern accent, and quickly diverted his attention to Marilyn Monroe and crossed his legs. “In any case, we will find out soon. Elvis is closing the door, the meeting will begin shortly.”
At 1PM Elvis headed over to the door, letting in the remaining immortals from the street, and quickly turned the “Now Open” sign to “Sorry We’re Closed.” By filling up the café with only immortals it allowed the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to conduct their meeting away from the prying ears of nature’s most cunning beast, human beings.
~*~
The Apocalypse was to begin at precisely 1:33 PM on the twenty-first day of the twelfth month of the two-thousandth and twelfth year. But before the festivities were to begin, Albus had called to order an emergency meeting between the three other horsemen. Over the years of campaigning for the presidency Jonathan Albus had an epiphany. He’d been on earth since the beginning and he’d watched the humans wage wars, form alliances, and all of the other things it is that humans do. Albus knew that with the Apocalypse around the corner the fun he’d been having people watching would be at an end. He also knew that he wouldn’t be able to have any fun while being the President of the United States. He wanted to have fun.
“I have gathered all of us here today to propose a very ambitious plan,” Albus scanned the room with his eyes and produced a wry smile. “If we decide, by way of three fourths vote, to go through with it, the book of Revelation will have to have a new chapter written in it, and you know how the editors up in Heaven get when a new edition of the Bible has to be published,” As he said this a gasp raced its way through the crowd. “So, before I get started, are there any questions?”
“Well, Alby, it’s not so much a question as it is a comment,” Morty said. “I just wanted to personally congratulate you on your Presidency, not that you’ll be seeing the inauguration, anyways.”
“Thank you, Morty,” Albus replied as the room broke into applause. “However, that’s the thing. I will be President of the country, and there will be no Apocalypse.” At that a profound gasp, ten times that of the first gasp leap out of the throats of those in the audience. Even Marilyn and JFK popped their heads out of the maintenance closet to gasp at the incredible statement.
The room was instantly thick with apprehension, and people’s minds were racing with questions, their mouths eager to vocalize them. Morty sat utterly stunned, upon hearing the news, which he couldn’t decide yet if it was good or bad.
“What do you mean,” a man inquired.
“You can’t just not bring on the Apocalypse,” roared another from the crowd.
“Well now you’re making things all shook up, there buddy,” Elvis interjected.
“Don’t get too crazy on me, people,” Jonathan Albus said as he tried to calm the storm that had taken over Garden of Eden Coffee. “Theoretically, it works. You see, God can’t kill us, because if he does then there can’t be an Apocalypse.” The crowd looked at Jonathan, piecing together what he was saying. “So, God is pretty much at our mercy on whether or not we want to continue with the prophecy, and personally, I don’t find any reason to.”
The more he thought about it, the more clear it became. The heaviness in Morty’s heart lifted immediately. If there was going to be anyone to second the motion it would be him. This was the escape that he’d had in the back of his mind all this time. Morty realized that he wouldn’t have to lose his job and that he could go about killing for all of eternity the way he had been doing for the entirety of earths existence.
“I second Jonathan’s motion,” Morty said while both Erik and Mr. Nero nodded their heads in agreement, for they had been harboring the same feelings about the Apocalypse as Morty and Albus had.
As they exited the café, they shook each other’s hands, wished each other well for the rest of eternity, and went their separate ways. No more than three seconds later did a Heaven sent asteroid impact the earth, obliterating every atom of the earth in a fiery inferno, much like the one prophesized in that book all those years ago.