The Four Wotsits of the Doodad

Fam the Man

He spoke slowly, something he often felt the need to do in the company of his siblings.

"I am not talking ANY rubbish, Famine." His voice was a growl that even Cedric's uncle Cerberus, that lovable mutt that guarded the gates to Hades, would be proud of. "And I know we ARE the Apocalypse - or at least its bringers. But it appears we don't need to even bother anymore."

War had been enjoying a nice drink of ice cold water. He wasn't one for pop or alcohol as they gave him wind, and when War broke wind, whole countries could enter into battle. As it was, water only slightly made the bubbles dance in his belly. This particular minor burp caused a minor scuffle in the pub down the road, supposedly (but not really) over a spilled pint of lager.

He set down his glass on the coffee table, careful to wipe the bottom clean of any drips. No need to be messy, is there?

"Death," he said. His voice was calm, as ever, with a slight musical tone that made him sound like he was just a shiver off singing. "Why do you want to go bothering yourself with all that 'news' stuff? You know it just upsets you. Another couple of millennia and we'll be able to bring about the Apocalypse and then we can relax on a beach somewhere and sip cocktails."

Death, Famine and Pestilence all knew there was no chance that War would ever set foot on a beach. All that sand getting into his nooks and crannies? The sun giving him wrinkles? It'd never happen.

Plus, after the big day, it was unlikely that there'd actually be any more beaches to relax on anyway. Still, they knew what he meant. What was the big deal? Why worry? They were the Four... erm... Four... oh, what was it they were called...?

It had been so long since the brothers had been involved in anything even slightly apocalyptic, they couldn't even remember their proper name. That they were Four was obvious. They could count. And they knew it had something to do with Judgment Day. But...?

Oh well, it didn't matter. When the time came, they'd be ready, oh yes indeed. They'd leap into action like the A-Team trying to save a small town from the clutches of an evil megalomaniac. Except they'd be on the side of destruction. And none of them smoked cigars. Well, Famine did try once, thinking it would look 'uber-cool'. But he choked for an hour and was sick for a further two, so he gave it up. Pestilence didn't like flying... did that count?

War pulled out his bottle of hand wash from his cloak pocket and squirted some in the palm of one hand. He smiled warmly at Death as he rubbed his hands together, a well practiced, almost medical, routine.

"Don't let it bother you."

Death didn't say anything. They were all correct, in a way. The world was running itself into Oblivion all on its own - and it was stopping at stations Murder, Riot, War (nice one bro') and Fast Food along the way. The four of them barely needed to lift a long bony finger or don a cowl. But still, the end of the world was supposed to be THEIR baby! They were the ones who had to... erm... do something... Well, whatever it was they were meant to be doing, they were going to and that would end the world. Them and no-one else.

It was like playing with another child's toys. These mortals, bent on ravaging their world and each other, were stealing the brothers' action figures and breaking off the legs. Well Death was having none of it.

"But it does," he said finally, slapping his hand on his thigh and causing Henry, the goldfish that lived in the bowl on the chest of drawers in little Emily's bedroom at number 64, to float slowly to the surface.

Slapping his thigh was a habit that Death had when he was aggravated. Luckily it didn't happen too often, but the habit had a habit of causing fish to float, lifeless, to the surface of their tanks. It also worked with small dogs, although they tended not to float to the surface because they were already there. They just sort of keeled over. He wasn't necessarily evil.. He was just... Death. It kind of went with the job.

"It does bother me. We're supposed to be the bringers of the end. Us. A mighty cataclysm. Instead, all these people, or whatever they are, are doing it themselves and the Earth is sort of... fizzling out! It's like a wet firework that's meant to explode but is only sparking a bit."

Pestilence's eyes lit up then. He liked fireworks. They always had a big bonfire once a year, on which would be thrown any bits of bird Cedric had missed and the odd animal that happened to be wandering through their garden at just the wrong moment, such as when Death's hand connected with his thigh. War had a shed at the bottom of their garden where he liked to play with gunpowder, and had created some exceptional examples of exploding excellence through the years. The neighbours often came to join in the festivities, bringing sparklers (again, which Pestilence loved) and having apple bobbing competitions.

They used to have 'pin the tail on the donkey' too, but Famine thought it would be a good idea, one year, to use a real donkey - and its tail. As it turned out, it wasn't one of his best thought out plans, especially with the fact that Pestilence insisted on going first. By the third person the flesh was hanging off the donkey and it was no longer moving. And maggots, for some reason, make people feel sick.

Fam the Man lifted his baseball cap, ran his fingers through his thickly gelled hair to lift it up, then flattened it again by plonking his hat squarely back in place. It was a purely pointless manoeuvre but one that was well practiced - literally in front of a mirror. Hey, it looked cool.

"Chill, dude," he said. Death was quite possibly the most unchilled person you were ever likely to meet. He practically rumbled as he moved, a walking thunder cloud. And when his cowl went up, the thunder cracked. And you made sure you weren't even in the same time zone.

Death resisted the urge to growl. He also resisted the sudden craving to pick Famine up, turn him on his head and drop him. Sometimes his brother's attitude, in fact his brothers' attitudes, left a LOT to be desired. He went back to his newspaper. Politicians were making false promises, footballers and their wives were making too much money and the rest of the world was flailing about like Pestilence did when he decided you didn't need lessons - swimming came naturally.

Well, he was right. It does. If you're a fish.