The Apocalypse

A story by Kyle Guillet:

One day, a nuclear missile struck Michael Moore in the balls. Nobody cried about it, because he deserved it. However, the missile, being nuclear, destroyed far more than just Michael Moore's cash and prizes and in its terror devastated the entire city of Los Angeles. As it turns out, it wasn't Iran or even North Korea, but rather an obscure gay terrorist cult hidden in the depths of, where else? Los Angeles. But details such as this are unimportant, and immediately fingers started being pointed. Except instead of fingers, they were nuclear warheads. And instead of them being pointed, they were blasted into the balls of other countries. Well no one likes to lose a good game of genocide, so naturally every country with blast’ems set them off at random targets, some even going so far as blowing up penguin colonies in Antarcitca because, well," they had a fishy smell".

In a matter of days every bomb in the world had gone off, or at least any bombs that were left were hidden beneath silos that had themselves been bombed, thus rendering them incapable of doing any further bombing. The global population went from roughly 6 billion to some smidget of a number. This upset McDonalds because they had to change their popular billboard sign, but then a dud warhead suddenly became active and hit the McDonald CEO directly in the balls. Among the survivors was a gnarly, unshaven dope named Robby. After the crisis he immediately took up crack for shock therapy. But Robby had never been a druggy. Thinking that crack was named after where you’re supposed to put it, not only did he hit up in the wrong place but he did so with enough substance to kill a large hippo and shortly thereafter died. But he had a brother named Simon, and Simon was everything that Robby was not. Mostly, he was alive. And because he was alive, he was able to witness the coming of the Four Horsemen.

It all started when Simon was watching what little could be seen of the chaos on TV in his quiet, rural home. All of a sudden, a knock came to his door. It was the Four Horsemen. Simon dallied to the door, looked out the peephole, hesitated for 3.7 seconds, and then opened. "Can I help you?" He asked.
"Why yes, we're the Four Horsemen" one replied, in an oafish British accent.
"...of the Apocalypse?"
"None other!" he exclaimed with a proud smile. "Say, we've just come by to tell you that despite rumors, the Apocalypse IS in fact on. So go ahead and do your repenting, although now it prolly won't do you much good, because in just a li'ttle bit me and my chums here are going to start raising a li'ttle bit a' hell.”
“Why are you British?”
“He’s not British” one of the others replied. “It’s just we’ve been waiting so damn long for this day to come about we’ve spent the last 70 some odd years watching movies. And Brits make fairly decent movies. You listen to Hugh Grant talk enough you wanna talk just like him, you know what I’m saying?”
“You do know that Hugh Grant was recently struck in the balls by a nuclear weapon, right?” said Simon.
“Ohhh they got Hugh?!!” The first one cried. “Alright, that does it, I’m really not gonna regret dispensing chaos now. I mean I’m no fool, Hugh was going to hell in a finely woven handbasket, but I wanted to take him to my cottage in the Netherworld and hide him there from Satan. We could have played Old Maid and watched Love, Actually until the next Genesis.”
“Calm down Rupert. He had what was coming.” The third horseman spoke.
“I know, but ...I just wanted... well... I just...”
“You wanted his autograph didn’t you? Didn’t you? You lousy schmuck.”
“Is that so much to ask??”
“Damnit Rupert!”
“Uh, excuse me,” Simon interrupted. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but don’t you guys have thousands, if not millions, of other homes to visit? You sure are wasting an awful lot of time here.”
“Well, we actually don’t visit houses,” the Fourth Horseman spoke. “The plan was to go straight to hell-raisin’,” he said as he looked condescendingly at the other horsemen, “But Rupert thought it would be funny to baptize himself with the drinking water on the way over here, and, well, we have a lot of work to do and we've been thirsty for some time, so would it be much trouble if we could have a bit to drink?”
“Can I say get the fuck out?” Simon asked.
“No.”
“Let me get you some glasses.”
“We sure thank you, chappy. I didn’t mean to spill it all, I swear.”
“Rupert shut the hell up.”

And so they drank. Simon, having just witnessed the world go madcow and his brother bleed to death from the anus, could only be moderately taken aback. The Horsemen turned out to be rather well behaved gentlemen, and when all throats were quenched, they said their thank you’s, politely left, and then started raising hell. Fire began to fall from the skies, and that is when Simon’s story ends. A fireball intended for a nearby RV was redirected when Rupert thought the inhabitant looked somewhat similar to Hugh Grant, and in its deflection the blazing spherical mass hit Simon directly in the balls. So it goes.

Everyone else in the story died not too much later from either similar fireball attacks, syphillis, or the militant uprising of vendetta-bent penguins. Those who thought they would be delivered into Heaven were sadly disillusioned to find that God's special species was actually the chickpea plant, a main ingredient of hummus. Easily confused. When pious devouts prayed to God in frantic question, He replied, "Yeah... awkward mistake. Sorry about that." He then sent his one begotten Son to summon the chickpea plants that had been made into good hummus, and they were abducted elegantly into the heavens, leaving the dirty and corrupted chickpeas to burn in the scorching fires of the apocalypse. And that was more or less the end.