So Hot

For two weeks now, I’ve been trying to figure out if people are laughing with me or at me. Not that it really matters. Down in my purse, I can hear Famine giggling, high-pitched and shrill, but how do you think you would sound if your primary Aspect was a chihuahua? Famine and His brothers get the joke, but everyone else, even Carson and Nikki, think that I’m the joke. That was the idea all along, though. They say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions; I say it’s paved with celluloid and night vision handycams and cruel laughter, and in less than a month, we’ll see who has it right.

Two weeks ago; that’s when Famine and I went on Carson’s show, all smiles and hair products, to have a nice chat in front of the cameras and present our new clothing line, Sexy DeVille Designs. That was also when I revealed to the world that I am, in fact, the Antichrist, and that the proverbial End was nigh, on June sixth actually, and not quite as proverbial as was previously thought.

They laughed, and I pushed out my breasts and smiled back at them, but in my bag, I could hear Famine’s amusement. The gossip rags were going to have a field day with this. So was I. All the years of preparation, all the flirtatious simpering and inane catchphrases, all the careful cultivation of my persona, everything, is about to come to a fruition, and we’ll see if those smarmy tabloid writers have anything funny to say when Dad comes around to interview them.

It hasn’t been easy, you know. Dad had to pull a ton of strings to get me a rich granddaddy here in the Material World, and even the billions in my pocket wasn’t enough to get my message across. That took the media and Hollywood. Or at least the Hollywood producers. If it wasn’t for all the ties they had with Pops, my current incarnation may have been wasted. Fortunately, a string or two were pulled, some palms were greased, and before long Nikki and I were prime-time television stars.

One can’t attempt to bring Armageddon about without a plan, of course. I have mine laid out step-by-step in an Excel file. Microsoft was definitely some of Dad’s best work, if you ask me. We needed another box ticked before the show went live. Me and one of Pestilence’s Aspects spent a (frankly boring) night together with some alcohol and one of those cheap Sony camcorders. Two hours, a couple of calls on my cellphone, and some grainy green-and-black video later, the seeds of Lust were planted in the hearts of millions of people the world over. It even got the juices flowing, ha-ha, for the upcoming television project. Dad couldn’t have done it better himself.

Just never spend a night with Pestilence. The romp wasn’t too bad, but it took months for the rash to clear up.

The TV show was great. It got my face to the masses, inspired Pride in socialites and city snobs around the country, and caused bumpkins to rage in Wrath and Envy. Perfect! We became an overnight sensation – thanks again, Hollywood connections – preaching the words of Greed and Sloth. Who wants to milk a damned cow? The TV years were also when Nikki and Famine, in his chihuahua Aspect, became such good friends. Nikki had a lot to give, and Famine is always willing to take. Death told me once, over some drinks, that He finds Nikki’s new look pretty attractive. Death’s always been into skeletons and sunken eyes though.

After that, it was all T&A and fine-tuning. Succeeding with the TV show was the tricky part, the rest of the plan basically wrote itself. The ’leaked’ video where I poked fun at African-Americans? A really bang-up job of whipping up some Wrath. Drunken nights in short skirts with no underwear? Lust in some, Envy in others. The Whore of Babylon has nothing on me, not with these legs. Calling myself the ’iconic blonde of the decade’ showed people that a little bit of Pride was alright. Booze Binges? You got it, a form of Gluttony, and getting more popular by the second.

Slowly but surely, the fools drunk it up like wine. A legion of idiot teens and twenty-somethings parade down the street in every city in America every day, wearing over-sized glasses and undersized clothes and shouting ’That’s so hot!’ I knew my mission was a success when I went into a store and saw a toddler’s halter top with the word ’Sexy’ slanted across the front. All that glitters, kids. You’d do well to remember that.

So, back to my night with Carson. I told them I was the Antichrist and that they were all going to die and that they should buy my new clothing brand. They laughed, and they bought. Your children are going to school in spaghetti strapped shirts and low rider jeans with LUST and ENVY and SINNER splayed across their budding tits and asses, providing plenty of free advertising for me. Heck, it’ll even make it easy for The Man Upstairs to figure out who leave down here for Dad to play with when he starts to take his boring, braying sheep up to Heaven.

When the righteous riff-raff is gone, and only those of you with dark hearts are left here on the Material World, that’s when the party is really gonna start. I’ve got special T-Shirts made and everything. With gold, glittering letters.

Armageddon. The End Times. The final box of my Excel spreadsheet, the sum of many columns.

Hell on Earth.

Now, that’s so hot.


Bradley D. Chacos is a very hairy fellow who inspects sapphire for aerospace and military applications by day and scribbles down barely-readable fiction by night. He has stories appearing in/set to appear in Withersin, 52 Stitches, and House of Horror, and Nanoism.