The
Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (although these days they mostly drive sedans
and minivans) meet every Wednesday afternoon at the local coffee house, about
an hour before they all have to go pick up their kids from their assorted
after-school practices.
“How’s
Cindy doing these days?” War asks Pestilence. “How did her audition for the
dance team go?”
Pestilence
takes a sip of her free-trade rooibos, expertly avoiding getting her Burt’s
Bees lipgloss on the china.
“She
made it of course – I never doubted all those ballet lessons would pay off,
although she swears the deciding factor was the hiphop – silly, of course,
technique is what really sells coaches – but I don’t know if I’ll let her
join.” Her botoxed brow attempts to furrow. “They want her to get some vaccines
before she starts coming to practices, and I don’t want to put those poisons in
her body.”
Death
sighs over the double shot of espresso she’s nursing. Her long fingers are
about the same shade of white as the cup.
“The
medical-industrial complex worms it’s way into everything,” she tuts. “I can’t
tell you how frustrating it makes my job. I swear, I have to check my
palm-pilot hourly to make sure the list of reaps hasn’t changed. One person
will drop off because they went to the ER and another will appear because some
pharmacist filled their prescription with a defective generic.”
Famine
pauses in reapplying her Estee Lauder lipstick, her skinny frap going largely
ignored. “And they make our government pay for those complications, too! I
swear, everyone just wants free hand-outs every which way!”
“Did
you hear they’re talking about slashing the military budget for this Obamacare
boondoggle?” War offers up. “As though paying for drug addicts’ fixes is more
important than national defense!”
They
all make accordant “hms” of anger.
“This
world isn’t for long at all,” Death says.
They
share small smiles as they all take sips of their drinks.
