The Four Wotsits of the Doodad

The Milkshake of Doom

War, Famine and Pestilencio were standing in the middle of the town centre. A small covered shopping mall that played host to a variety of businesses, tending wares from mobile phones to food to clothes. In actual fact, that was about all there was. A card shop or jewellers might squeeze its way in between but it was often lost amongst the signs for the latest smartphone or the best meal deal. Overlooked in favour of flavour.

People walked or shuffled by, ignoring the bringers of the Apocalypse. A little disappointed that they didn't instil at least some portion of fear or awe in the passersby, the three brothers looked around them.

"Ideas?" asked War. He held little hope of hearing anything constructive, but he could try. Maybe a good idea might be hiding out in the dross.

He doubted it, but you never knew.

"Can I have a milkshake?" asked Pestilence. They were standing across from a milkshake bar - the kind that crammed any kind of chocolate bar you could think of into a mixer with half a tub of ice-cream and a pint of milk and shoved a straw in the results.

"No," sighed War. "You can't have a milkshake."

Pestilence hung his head. "I think better with milkshake."

War wanted to tell him to pick his bottom lip up off the floor and tuck it in his belt. He also wanted to tell him that he thought the same whatever beverage he happened to be throwing down his neck - and that wasn't much. But he didn't. Instead, he ignored the request and turned to Famine. Fam the Man might not be much of an improvement on his shadow, but even 'not much' was some.

Famine was standing with his arms folded, back straight, stomach sucked right in and one eye-brow raised. It was, War knew, his 'cool' look. He nodded and smiled at the various young ladies that were unfortunate enough to walk by. Some ignored him, others smiled back and one or two looked like they would rather be hung from their feet over a cauldron of acid, with rats gnawing at the ropes, occasionally missing and biting into an ankle.

War thought about sighing, but decided it would be a wasted effort. He handed Famine some money, rather than trusting Pestilence who still hadn't figured out, after all these centuries, the difference between five pounds and fifty.

"Get Pestilence a milkshake," he said. "It's food related, so maybe you can do some good. Make the milk milkier or the chocolate chocolatier. Or something. Try not to curdle either of them."

He looked at Pestilence. Right. This wasn't going to be easy. He pointed over to an old man. The man was coughing heavily into a handkerchief, struggling to stand on his walking stick as he did so. He was also wheezing.

"See if you can make him feel better. But don't kill him in the process."

"What are you going to do?" Famine asked, his smile widening as a pair of twins flashed him matching sets of pearly white teeth.

War indicated a family just outside the nearest mobile phone shop. The man was telling the woman to shut up - he was on the phone. She was telling the oldest child to walk properly, don't drag his feet and stop asking for 'stuff', and the youngest - roughly being pushed by the woman - was screaming.

Happy families.

"I'm going to help them. See you both back here in half an hour. Choose carefully and do your best, ok? I have the upmost faith in the pair of you."

If he was honest, War had more faith in the fact that Monday would follow immediately after Wednesday, one passing the baton of time to the other in a seamless race against the clock. Thursday would be lost somewhere in the middle of Saturday and Friday was having a lay in after a hard week partying. In other words, he expected them to, quite probably, kill someone. In both cases.

But, again, he could hope.