just another end of the world tale of woe
The comics were wrong: Cher didn't survive the apocalypse.
In fact, she was one of the first to die, back when the Goa'uld nuked LA. Before New York, but after DC, and soon all that was left was the Canadian tundra, some pretty nasty cockroaches, Cassie, and the Olsen twins. Oh, and me, your tour guide for the evening and this particular handbasket to hell's commanding officer, Brigadier General Jack O'Neill.
You can call me Jack, though, everybody else does. Not much use for rank and frou-frouery in a world without a military. Or a government. Or more than fifteen human beings, all told. So, yeah, call me Jack; everyone does. Except Cassie, of course, who calls me Uncle Jack while glaring in a manner that's eerily reminiscent of her mother.
I miss Doc. Hell, I even miss her damned needles.
I miss a lot of people. Carter, Danny, Teal'c. Even Jonas and his banana fetish.
But that's beside the point, so back to the story. The comics were wrong, yadda yadda, end of the world as we know it badness. Hell, even Kinsey's dead, and that's something I thought I'd never get to see. I mean, what's it say about a world where even the anti-Christ is dead?
But I digress. Again.
So two mini-moguls, an alien college kid, and a guy who never quite managed to retire from the military walk into a bar...
Carter's on the Alpha Site, or at least I think she is, and Teal'c joined up with the rebel Jaffa around the same time Ba'al finally defeated the other system lords. Danny's... and I don't really know about Jonas. Doc was the first, though, of our group. Not the last.
The first to, you know, stay dead. To not ascend, turn into a Goa'uld, be resurrected in a sarcophagus, or magically show up naked in a field. And it only got worse from there. It only got worse, and now Ba'al's taken over Earth and everyone's dead and even Carter can't make it all go away.
Cockroaches don't taste a thing like chicken. Don't let anyone try to tell you otherwise.
That's what we in the military like to call a non-sequitor. Also some damned good advice.
And the Olsen twins, for all their angelic appearance and sweetness and light image, are nothing like you'd imagine. Or maybe they are, if you always pictured them as semi-incestuous spoiled little rich girls who smile too much and... yeah. You get the picture.
They really don't like the cockroaches. More than Cassie and me, I mean, and we pretty much hate the things with a passion. Just sit there pouting and making googly eyes at each other, if you catch my drift, and picking at their leaves and twigs. And then they have the nerve to complain that they're tired when we need to make tracks; hell, I'd be tired, too, trying to live off grass and dirt. At least the roaches have protein.
We should've left 'em to Ba'al. Cassie said as much, when we bumped into them outside Vancouver that first night after the end of the world, but I was too stupid to listen. Or preoccupied. Too something, at any rate, and now we're stuck with the two mini-divas for good.
I blame Carter. Not like she's here to fight back. And it's all her fault, anyway, so it's not like I'm being irrational for blaming her. So, yeah, let's all blame Carter. When the sirens began blaring, she could've refused to go through the Gate without me. She could've played with one of her doohickeys, creating the sort of uber-weapon that could scare the Goa'uld off Earth for life. But, no, Little Miss "I'm a Lt Col now" had to go off and try to save humanity, didn't she?
And then she failed. I bet that's killing her.
If she's still...
Anyway, the Bobsey Twins from Hell are over in their tent, making kissy noises and all around grossing me the hell out. (That's my story, and I'm sticking to it, thank you very much. Two blonds making out in a tent equals no good very bad things, especially when I find myself in close proximity to the girl, the woman, who's practically my daughter. Or something.)
One of them- Mary-Kate, maybe?- just giggled. And then moaned. My fingers are planted firmly in my ears and I'm singing the national anthem; Cassie's sound asleep and her hand's in a really awkward spot on my thigh.
God, it's been a long time, what with the world ending and running from the ultimate baddies and all. A really fucking long time. And, hell, I'm only human, and Cassie's hand just moved up an inch, and the fucking Olsen twins are getting it on only a few feet away. So, yeah, I'm hard; wanna make something of it?
"Ashleeeey," another giggle, "that tickles."
Oh, yeah, definitely Mary-Kate. She's the hot one.
I think.
"Mary-Kate Olsen, you stop that wiggling right now or-"
"Or what? You'll stop. Fine, then stop; I can take care of myself." I can just see her pouting, and I finally give in and touch myself at the same moment she's doing the same thing to herself. I can fucking see it, in full-blown Technicolor glory, and nobody ever accused me of being a saint.
But I am a gentleman, so I roll over so I'm facing away from Cass.
While I jerk off. Right next to her. And suddenly, I'm pretty damned relieved that Doc's not around. Woman was deadly with a scalpel and there are few pieces of me I'm sure would be missing come morning if she was.
Another moan from the other tent, and I bite my lip to keep from reciprocating.
Cassie moves around a lot in her sleep, and suddenly she wraps herself around my back. And her breasts are- danger, Will Robinson!. And she's mumbling and rubbing against me, which is so not helping things. Only it is, it really is.
I am a dirty old man. A perverted dirty old man, and oh my godisthatCass'shandonmydick?
I oversleep, and it's already light when I wake up. Thor's not here to save us, and, nope, it's definitely not raining any donuts.
"Sun's up, girls, better get a move on. If you're not ready in fifteen minutes, we're leaving without you."
(We won't.)
I still blame Carter.