A heavy rubber glove brushed thick gray dust away, revealing an glimmering emerald plate beneath. Two hands now sank into the soil and lifted up the plate between them, tipping it up and letting the heavy dust fall away. A final wipe to clear it off.
Welcome to Detroit.
Kyle Quincey dropped the old road sign and sighed, a the noise making his respirator rattle angrily.
This had once been his home.
I am posting Friday’s now because it didn’t get reblogged originally and I really liked it and now you are subject to my whims bwahahaha but really pretend this one came before the most recent one
A banner flailed madly against the concrete edifice behind it. It was soaked a deep wine red in the rain, and struck with enough force to be heard over the distant roll of thunder. In a moment of stillness a shadowed figure looked up between the pillars and caught a glimpse of the white text.
Latin America Loves David Archuleta it read.
He felt a little dizzy. A moment before he’d been experiencing weightlessness, but now found himself sprawled out on solid ground. He sat up and looked around. The room was dark, except a spotlight overhead that refracted blindingly on his helmet. What had happened? Had he blacked out? Was he home safe?
The RV barreled down the sand-covered highway, the gunners tensed and ready to shoot if any neo-pterodactyls swooped down from the pea-green sky. The city was a speck on the horizon, but it was the first bit of civilization they’d seen in days. Dave Mustaine bit down on his cigar and stomped the gas pedal harder. “Hold on, boys,” he hollered.
It was the year 14 AC (“after crisis”). The world was still biting down on a belt, pouring whiskey on itself, and stitching up its scars with a chunk of sharpened spoon. AC London had just gotten running water again, AC New York had finally figured out a vaccine for the prolapse virus, AC Milan was mostly flooded but the radiation had given everyone gills just in time. AC Detroit looked more or less like BC Detroit.
As the RV reached the top of the hill and started going down the other side, Mustaine noticed a truck heading straight toward them! He slammed on the brakes, skidding for a quarter mile and coming to a stop right in front of the truck. “Why do people think that just because society has fallen that traffic laws don’t matter?” Mustaine muttered to himself. The lines on the pavement were clearly marked.
The truck stopped, and the driver got out. It was controversial musical artist Chris Brown. Brown spit onto the sizzling sidewalk and crossed him arms in front of him. Mustaine fumed. “I am gonna RIP Chris Brown a new asshole,” he told his passenger, Miley Cyrus.
“Mustaine! On your way to San Siro? I was just there. It’s a dump,” Brown said.
“Oh, is that why you left?” taunted Mustaine. “Sure it’s not because you’ve gotten kicked out of every crater you’ve tried sneaking into?”
“You’ll fit in just fine there,” retorted Brown. “Everyone there is a mutant with putrified genitalia.” He laughed.
“Get out of our way, Brown,” Mustaine grumbled.
“Why should I? What are you gonna do about it? You gonna shoot my truck?”
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” warned Brown. “Unless you also want to kill your long lost wife who I coincidentally found wandering around AC Atlanta. She is in my truck now.”
Mustaine’s eyes widened. He hadn’t seen Mary Mulgrew since the crisis! They had met two weeks before it hit, in a restaurant called the Heart Attack Grill. Their connection had been instant. You know you’re in love if they don’t have any major personality disorders and their favorite Kanye West song is the same as your favorite Kanye West song. That was his entire criteria for love. It probably would have fizzled out after a month or two had the crisis not hit and the loss of her had made him romanticize her in his head the whole time.
Back then, she had seemed troubled. She would push him away, but then come running back, unable to resist his improvised piano synth love songs he’d play her over the phone. “Lose my number if you know what’s good for you,” she would say, before kissing him passionately.
The window of the truck rolled down, and there she was, half her face missing, but the other half as beautiful as the day he left it. “Forgive me, Dave,” she breathed in her raspy voice.
“Why are you with this guy?” Mustaine asked, his eyes suddenly full of tears.
“It’s my punishment for what I did. I brought about the crisis. I was so foolish back then.”
“So they’re forcing you to date Chris Brown? I know the government has been a bit strange since the fall of civilization, but that just seems to far.”
“They aren’t forcing me to date him, merely to be in his company, and that is still more cruel and extreme than I can bear.” Mustaine walked up to the window. Mary kissed him deeply, then whispered in his ear, “Let us get a hundred yards down the road, then shoot the gas tank.”
“If you love me, you will. End my suffering. It will be a relief.”
Mustaine nodded. He always knew it would come to something like this. He conceded the road to Brown, who, thinking he had won, drove off with a smirk.
At the command of their leader, the gunners took aim, and blew the car up.
No sooner had they done this than the sky turned blue, the stink of sulphur left the air, and Mustaine found himself on a crowded Amsterdam street. Had it all been a dream? Or had Mary Mulgrew actually been a time traveler whose existence caused a parallel apocalyptic timeline which was reset by her death?
It was the second thing.
As he stood, drenched in blood and sweat in the middle of the desert, Macaulay Culkin tried to remember how he had gotten there. It was midnight, and the air was cold. There were footprints in the sand behind him, and being a brilliant detective, he reasoned that he had not been in the desert for long, or these footprints would have blown away in the wind or been covered by tumbleweeds or something. He followed the tracks and soon came to a road where his 2012 Porsche 911 was still running, the passenger-side door open.
In the driver’s seat was a red velvet box and a card. “Happy Chocolate Day,” it read, and Culkin furrowed his eyebrows. Those close to him knew he was part terrier on his mother’s side, and very allergic to chocolate. To most people, this would look like a friendly gift, but Culkin knew it for what it was: an attempted hit. He threw the chocolate violently into the desert, got in his car, and headed east.
Meanwhile, in his lair deep below the Gulf of America, Kirk Cameron sipped on a virgin martini, ate some virgin peanuts, and wiped his lips with a virgin napkin. He required everything he touched be virgin, not for religious reasons, but he liked the way “virgin” sounded when he said it, and wanted to say it as much as possible.
With Culkin out of the way, his goals could be more easily met. The apocalypse would come, and Cameron would make sure there was no child left behind… by freezing them in carbonite before they could sin. For some reason, people had a problem with that, and Culkin was the foremost celebrity speaking out against it.
It had been a while since Cameron had needed to hire an assassin (six months is “a while”, right?), but he was pretty sure he’d gotten a good one. He planned to pin the murder on Lebron James. Of all the things blamed on Lebron, this one was one of the most probable.
There was a knock at the door, and Cameron’s person secretary, Stelena Reunion, entered the room with another martini and a box of kittens. Ever since he’d become infested with an alien parasite, only live kittens could really sate his hunger. Stelena put the box on his desk and turned to leave, but Cameron stopped her.
“Miss… Reunion, was it? Tell me, do you have any children?”
“Oh, uh,” she blushed. “I use birth control.”
Cameron frowned. He didn’t need someone like this on him team. He unhinged his jaw, and Stelena joined the kittens.
The blood pounded in Culkin’s ears and his mind raced faster than his car. Only one person could be capable of this kind of work: Lebron James, one of the few people who knew about his canine ancestry. The GPS informed him that Lebron’s house was only twenty minutes away, and Culkin arrived just before sunset.
He waited outside the log cabin where the basketball star liked to relax at in his off time. Lebron went outside for his morning jog, and was surprised by a swift jab to his neck that paralyzed him. He tried to speak, but nothing came out.
“Don’t try to speak,” Culkin ordered. “If you know me, you know I have no patience for lies. Someone attempted to murder me last night. Murder by chocolate. Only you and one other person have I told about this, and the other person was Michael Jackson. I will release your vocal chords from paralysis if you promise to tell me what I need to know. Okay?”
Lebron nodded. His stomach was feeling very strange, like the time he ate six pounds of venison taco meat, but somehow worse. Culkin released him from his mute state. “Got drunk,” Lebron explained in short breaths. “Hollywood party. Ran into… Kirk Cameron-“
“You fool!” cried Culkin, eyes flashing with anger. “You told my nemesis what my greatest weakness is!”
Lebron’s stomach gurgled loudly, like Ke$ha’s music in reverse at 1/4 speed. It began to expand. Little did Lebron know but Cameron had planted a bomb inside him during that party. A chocolate bomb. A timer rang out and the bomb burst, flinging chocolate on everything in a half mile radius. Godiva dark chocolate.
Kirk Cameron read the paper the next day and laughed. But his laughs were cut short by a gurgling in his stomach that sounded like Nickelback played forward at normal speed.
To his horror, he realized he had killed the one person who could be counted on to bring him fresh kittens every morning. Now the parasites were starving and angry. Cameron screamed as black worms exploded from his gut, flew into the air vents and out into the world.
The apocalypse had begun.