Tag Archives: Apocalypse

[Procrastinating Armageddon]


Stephen Craig

Armageddon isn’t going to start itself.  Has anyone noticed that it is June 2014 and we still exist? Weren’t we supposed to go down in 2012? That’s at least what I was expecting, but here we are still on this green earth.   The Mayans specifically requested that the world end, but the majority of people expected something big to happen to take us out.  Well, guess what? IT DIDN’T!!!  Obama is not the antichrist, aliens haven’t come back, and North Korea is all talk.

We need to stop procrastinating and press the restart button ourselves.  We shall allow a new generation of life to grow more prosperous and make more mistakes than we did.  How is this going to happen?  Good question.  If you’re a chickenwuss, quit reading and keep procrastinating. But if you’ve got balls then learn your potential destiny in the next couple examples so we can produce our own Apocalypse.

[Scenario 1: Zombie Town]

For all idiots (like me) who bunkered down with food and weapons for the scheduled Apocalypse.

This radical idea calls for you to pack up everything you have.   I know it’s your life’s savings and no one else can have it, but you’re still reading then you’ve agreed with my opening statement.  Armageddon is not going to start by itself.  So why hold onto it if you’ll never use it?  GREAT question!  No answer.  After you have packed up everything and before heading to Israel you need to stop by your local costume shop or makeup store (Wal-Mart is a good substitute).  This is where you will purchase (or steal since the world is about to end) all the blood and zombie makeup that they have.  Trust me you’ll need it.

Once acquired all shall rendezvous in Israel and start operation Zombie Town.  Disperse all food to the streets drawing in all the famished and all beastly wild creatures.  Cripple everything in sight with your bullets or your baseball bats, keeping in mind not to kill anything yet.  You then cover the crippled specimens in zombie blood or its own guts.  After you have properly created your Zombie Town the food is running out.  Hostile holy groups are on their way in to postpone your Apocalypse and it’s time to defend yourself and your beloved zombie creations.  Cripple and cover what you can, and kill and feed upon the rest.  Fight against all possible odds and hopefully kick start the non-living race.  Job isn’t done until you actually kick start the non-living race and prank the world into its own apocalypse.

[Scenario 2: Persuasive Letters]

For all writers and people with powers of persuasion.

This radical idea calls for all fit and worthy to form an anonymous committee.  You will need to be at a secret headquarters and have an underground way of delivering anonymous information to all the world’s countries.  I would also recommend gathering lethal drugs that taste like strawberries.

Operation Persuasive Letters can now commence.  Write a letter to all the world’s leaders; this includes nation leaders, religious leaders, and others with significant power and/or intelligence.  The job is to convince them all that they are ignorant, unproductive, and most of all, a bunch of tool bags.  Tell them they can’t get anything done.  They may want to save the world, but that’s impossible without a global restart.  Then tell them to quit procrastinating, get off you lazy butt and go ahead and kill yourself.  The only way to get something done is to have the leaders all commit suicide at the same time.  Make it easy on them by providing the lethal drugs with instructions in the letter.

Now if you did Part 1 right, Part 2 should come naturally and with an abundance of entertainment to the committee.  The world is in shock, and without its proper world leaders it’s ready to make mistakes.  Start to write another set of letters insulting the new world leaders and what they stand for.  However instead of sending the letters anonymously, sign them from the other new world leaders.  This should surely piss everybody off and get them to start blaming the first anonymous letters on the same people they received the second letter from.  Job isn’t done until you cue World War III and prank the world into its own Apocalypse.

[Bonus Scenario]

With Obama failing to be the antichrist, Al Gore suspending a hellfire earth by calling attention to global warming, and North Korea being all talk, who is going press the reset button by destroying the planet and making way for the next generation of life.

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We Made It!

Kevin Cole

“We made it!” shouted Harold Greene on the steps of Town Hall. It was the morning of December 22nd, and Harold’s world had decidedly not ended. “We are the survivors! Let us join forces to rebuild society!” he exclaimed to the hundreds of passerby on their way to purchase the warm caffeinated beverages that would get them through the jobs that brought them in on the weekend.

Harold was a Doomsday Prepper of the highest degree. He wasn’t prepared for a smallpox outbreak or a nuclear war. He carried no belief as to how exactly the world was ending; all he knew was that on December 21st, 2012, some way or another the world would end. And so Harold went about the year prior exhausting his goodwill amongst friends and neighbors by ceaselessly discussing the coming apocalypse and openly critiquing the preparedness of acquaintances with the biting criticism of a reality television judge.

By December 21st Harold had managed to form a total of zero allegiances. Perhaps due to the wishy-washy explanation he gave as to how the world was ending, perhaps due to his ability to seamlessly weave the end of days into any conversation, perhaps he just wasn’t that likable. Still, the events of the 21st (or lack thereof) held no significance for Harold Greene.

By noon on December 20th, Harold was holed up in his cellar with a camping stove and a week’s supply of beans. Harold had painstakingly painted every inch of the cellar with lead paint, knowing that it would withstand nuclear fallout. He ate through a specially designed gas mask that would allow him to breath clean air while eating and filter out any chips of lead that made their way into the beans. He would stay quadruple-locked in the cellar until the morning of December 22nd, at which point he would chip away the paint covering the one window in the cellar and judging by the health of the grass, the poison-detecting parakeet, and the color of the sky outside he would be able to venture out of his Doomsday Hole.

Harold spent the entirety of Doomsday fantasizing about what the next day would be like. One peak out the window would decide everything, but it wasn’t the way the world might end that he fantasized about. The thought of Dec. 22nd brought the thought of a fresh start. A new day, with new people, like-minded folk who planned for the end as well as Harold. For he had spent the entirety of Autumn in social isolation, not by choice. The way he saw it, December 22nd brought two possibilities. In one line of thought, he would be greeted by new friends, people who were secretly planning to survive the end of the world would come out of the woodwork and the would become fast friends by a similar fascination with total obliteration. On the other, Harold would emerge to those ravaged by hellfire, pole switches, and the walking dead to instant recognition as a leader, a king, perhaps a god among men, who foresaw the end and knew how to sneak by it, he and he alone would lead the poor and starving into a new era.

Harold spent 36 straight hours indulging these fantasies, the women he was sure to meet, the subjects he was sure to have. Harold was in heaven, as the world around him was supposedly destroyed.

At last the time had come to return to civilization. Hastily, Harold prepared a sign that declared the phrase he would spend the day shouting. Perhaps the few survivors had gone deaf from hay fever or blind from smallpox. Adding a sign would leave both bases covered.

Harold Greene was unaware that the world had not ended the day before, yet it did not phase him to see the familiar faces out and about. Perhaps the world had split in half, and by some miracle the atmosphere had remained intact. Maybe the nuclear storm had yet to hit Pine Grove, Minnesota. Harold knew that there was no way these survivors had planned to survive, many of whom had cast him into seclusion, calling him “a nut” and “a goddamn moron.”

“We are the chosen people!” briefly attracted a family of Lutherans who believed Harold was a street-side preacher, until he began to make references to Quetzalcoatl. At this point the family, not well versed in Mayan prophesies, labeled Harold Greene a devil worshipper and left him to be consumed by hellfire in the way Harold Greene assumed half the country had been the day before.

Harold shouted until he lost his voice, an unfortunate side effect of post-apocalyptic life that he had not foreseen. Harold waved his sign with extra enthusiasm, but without his voice he was unable to provide context to “We Made It!”

Panic began to set in. Harold Greene had a message, and it was lost due to poor context. He had to be heard. He had to let survivors know they were not alone. He had to let the weak know there was a source of strength. How? HOW? DEAR GOD, HOW!? Harold knew this was the new world; he could try to develop a new means of communication, perhaps one that relied solely on hands. But there was no time for that. The world was in a state of chaos and Harold Greene was a solitary voice of reason. It was in this moment of panic that Harold remembered the old saying, “When Maya, do as the Mayans.” This saying was developed by people who used to work with him at Bank of America, as a means of saying the wish he’d mysteriously disappear, but this line of thought never got through to Harold. To Harold this meant it was time to let a bit of chaos take hold.

Harold looked to his left and saw a steel trashcan resting by a park bench. Using all his strength he pulled it from the ground and crossed the street to the local pharmacy. The automatic doors opened just as Harold went to toss the trashcan through the window. What luck! he thought as he was able to begin looting, free of the guilt associated with property damage. He grabbed a package of throat lozenges and walked out. Instantly pulled aside by a security guard, Harold was informed that the natural order still stood and that he now had a court date for January 27th, 2013.

Harold had a week’s worth of beans saved for the end of the world. It was unfortunate that he had not waited, his perfect legal record besmirched just before the sun exploded on Christmas Eve.

Stave 5: The End of It

“They are not torn down!” cried Scrooge, folding one of his bed-curtains in his arms, “they are not torn down, rings and all.  They are here — I am here — the shadows of the things that would have been, may be dispelled.  They will be!  I know they will.”

“I don’t know what to do!” cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath; and making a perfect Laocoon of himself with his stockings.  “I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy.  I am as giddy as a drunken man.”

He had frisked into the sitting-room, and was now standing there: perfectly winded and stark naked.

“There’s the saucepan that the gruel was in!” cried Scrooge, starting off again, and frisking round the fireplace.  “There’s the door, by which the Ghost of Jacob Marley entered.  There’s the window where I saw the wandering Spirits.  It’s all right, it’s all true, it all happened.  Ha ha ha!”

Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh.  The father of a long, long line of brilliant laughs.

“I don’t know what day of the month it is,” said Scrooge.  “I don’t know how long I’ve been among the Spirits.  I don’t know anything.  I’m quite a baby.  Never mind.  I don’t care.  I’d rather be a baby.  Hallo!  Whoop!  Hallo here!”

Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head.  No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; Golden sunlight; Heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells.  Oh, glorious.  Glorious!

“What’s to-day?” cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him.

“Eh?” returned the boy, with all his might of wonder.

“What’s to-day, my fine fellow?” said Scrooge.

“To-day?” replied the boy.  “Why, it’s Doomsday.”

“Doomsday!” said Scrooge to himself.  “I haven’t missed it.  The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like.  Of course they can.  Of course they can.  Hallo, my fine fellow!”

“Hallo!” returned the boy.

“Do you know the Butcher’s, in the next street but one, at the corner?” Scrooge inquired.

“I should hope I did,” replied the lad.

“An intelligent boy!” said Scrooge.  “A remarkable boy! Do you know whether they’ve sold the prize Hamloaf that was hanging up there — Not the little prize Hamloaf: the big one?”

“What, the one as big as me?” returned the boy.

“What a delightful boy!” said Scrooge.  “It’s a pleasure to talk to him.  Yes, my buck.”

“It’s hanging there now,” replied the boy.

“Is it?” said Scrooge.  “Go and buy it.”

“Piss off!” exclaimed the boy.

“No, no,” said Scrooge, “I am in earnest.  Go and buy it, and tell them to bring it here, that I may give them the direction where to take it.  Come back with the man, and I’ll give you a shilling.  Come back with him in less than five minutes and I’ll give you half-a-crown.”

The boy was off like a shot.  He must have had a steady hand at a trigger who could have got a shot off half so fast.

“I’ll send it to Bob Cratchit’s!” whispered Scrooge, rubbing his hands, and splitting with a laugh, by now the sinister, scheming tone in his voice was no more than habit.  “He shan’t know who sends it.  It’s twice the size of Tiny Tim.”

The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one, but write it he did, somehow, and went down-stairs to open the street door, ready for the coming of the butcher’s man.  As he stood there, waiting his arrival, the knocker caught his eye.

“I shall love it, as long as I live!” cried Scrooge, patting it with his hand.  “I scarcely ever looked at it before.  What an honest expression it has in its face.  It’s a wonderful knocker.”

In that moment Scrooge knew what it truly meant to be in love. He cozied up to the knocker, stroked it with one hand, all while whispering sweet nothings into the ear of the innocent, inanimate object. So caught up in his newfound love he failed to notice the butcher’s man approaching down the lane. “and then I’d like to rub my tongue all over your bolts and rust and —Here’s the Hamloaf.  Hallo!  Whoop!  How are you?”

It was a Hamloaf!  A hamloaf large enough to have come from a whole family of fattened pigs, all shoved into a meat grinder, still living. Together they would all squeal, but they would all squeal together, as a family.

“Why, it’s impossible to carry that to Camden Town,” said Scrooge.  “You must have a cab.”

The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which he paid for the Turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the boy, were only to be exceeded by the chuckle with which he sat down breathless in his chair again, and chuckled till he cried.

Scrooged cried in his chair. Scrooge cried on the floor. Scrooge even ventured to cry in the door. There he sat weeping for the mistakes he had made and for the mistakes he would be sure to make if he didn’t make the most of the day. The last day.

Scrooge popped a Xanax and like the Hamloaf Boy before him, was off like a shot! He dressed himself all in his best, and at last got out into the streets.  The people were by this time pouring forth, as he had been shown by the spirit on the night of December Twentieth; and walking with his hands behind him, Scrooge regarded every one with a delighted smile.  He looked so irresistibly pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humoured fellows said, “Good morning, sir.  You seem quite chipper considering the circumstances.” And Scrooge said often afterwards, that of all the blithe sounds he had ever heard, those were the blithest in his ears.

He had not gone far, when coming on towards him he beheld the portly gentleman, who had walked into his counting-house the day before, and said, “Scrooge and Marley’s, I believe.” It sent a pang across his heart to think how this old gentleman would look upon him when they met; but he knew what path lay straight before him, and he took it.

“My dear sir,” said Scrooge, quickening his pace, and taking the old gentleman by both his hands.  “How do you do.  I hope you succeeded yesterday.  It was very kind of you.”

“Mr Scrooge?”

“Yes,” said Scrooge.  “That is my name, and I fear it may not be pleasant to you.  Allow me to ask your pardon.  And will you have the goodness” — here Scrooge whispered in his ear.

“Lord bless me!” cried the gentleman, as if his breath were taken away.  “My dear Mr Scrooge, are you serious?”

“If you please,” said Scrooge.  “Not a farthing less.  My entire fortune shall do me no good on this day or any other to come, as no more shall come! Now it is yours and your responsibility alone to ensure that some earthly good is done with it before we are turned to ash by the coming hellfire!”

Scrooge reached into his pockets and began to empty them of every farthing. Pelting the poor man with coins and tossing them into the air as if they had no true value on this plane of existence. He did not cease until the man was buried to his neck by every cent Scrooge had to his name. Scrooge enjoyed pelting the poor man with such nihilistic glee that those who witnessed the horrid event did nothing to stop him, a few bystanders even joined Scrooge.


Over in Camden Town, The Cratchit’s were huddled around their last meal, the Hamloaf.

“Now Bob, why would someone send us a Hamloaf to-night?” asked Mrs. Cratchit, taken back by this mysterious act of kindness. “I looked out the window just as you were boarding it up and saw the marauders and lunatics lurking on the horizon. Are we to act as if they won’t come bursting through the door at any moment, taking our dinner and children with them!?”

“My dear, it’s Doomsday. Let us forget the looters and enjoy each others company for the la—” Bob found himself interrupted by a loud banging at the door.

“Well that settles it! Children, hurry into the cellar, your father and I will join you shortly.”

Mrs. Cratchit quickly escorted her family towards the cellar door, but as she rushed Mrs. Cratchit forgot about Tiny Tim who was hobbling to the front door.

“What if they’re cold and hungry?” Tim asked allowed “Or perhaps they can’t walk! They could use my crutch, I certainly won’t need it when the Earth’s core splits in two!” Tim reached up opened the door allowing Ebenezer Scrooge to waltz right in.

“CRATCHIT!” cried Scrooge.

“Mr. Scrooge!?” an entire chorus of Cratchit’s exclaimed.

“Cratchit! What’s the meaning of allowing your son to open the door on a night like tonight. You of all people should know that a boy of his size and stature would fetch top dollar amongst survivors, even with his gimpy leg.”

“Yes sir. I’m well aware sir. It won’t happen again sir.” Bob Cratchit groveled, before his wife stuck up for him in a way he had silently fantasized about for the past seven years

“Mr. Scrooge! What is the meaning of this? You couldn’t just let the world end? You had to come into our home and harass our family one last time? Make sure The Cratchit’s leave this world low on income and self-esteem? Well, I won’t stand for it Mr. Scrooge—”

“Please, Mrs. Cratchit, call me Ebony.”

A stunned silence fell across the household.

“I know it must seem strange to you, but that is what I prefer you call me. It is lighter and more welcoming than ‘crusty old Mr. Scrooge.’ I am a new man, reborn by the visions of the end of the world to come.”

“Ebony, I don’t know what to say…” Bob Cratchit felt a warmth in his heart, a warmth that was there the whole story because that’s just the man Bob Cratchit was.

“Well Bob, you can start by calling me Mr. Scrooge, I am still your boss, at least for the next fifteen minutes and will be treated as such… that is to say the lovely, beautiful, stunning, vision of perfection that is your wife can’t call me Ebony. In fact she may call me anything she likes.” Ebony let out a wink. “You may all call me whatever you wish!” he exclaimed “With the exception of you Bob, no hard feelings?”

“None sir. Thank you sir!”

“Now, where’s that Hamloaf!?”

Searching the room, the Hamloaf was nowhere to be found. It was left on the table, last anyone had seen it. Perhaps a cheeky looter had snuck in behind Scrooge only to make his way out, one Hamloaf richer. This was Mrs. Cratchit’s belief who felt the looter may be in cahoots with Scrooge in an attempt to beat down their family to a pulp in the most metaphorical of senses.

“Here it is Ebony!” Tiny Tim hobbled into the room, having molded the Hamloaf into a new wheelchair, the first of it’s kind. Relieved to find it was not stolen, they all laughed.

“Come now Cratchits,” Ebony said with a smile “a feast is a feast, no matter what handi-capable accessory it may be shaped as. Lets gather round as one and enjoy our final moments together before the skies open and fire rains from on high. Before the seas start to boil, the earth starts to quake, and our toes secrete mysterious slime.”

The Cratchits, along with their newfound friend enjoyed their last meal. That night they would sleep peacefully as the world outside plunged into chaos. Camden Town was left a pile of ash, but every single Cratchit awoke the next morning, the sole survivors of the apocalypse. From that day forth they would rebuild society a friendlier and nicer place, where good was seen in all men regardless of their ability to walk. And so, as Tiny Tim observed:

“Quetzalcoatl bless us, everyone.”