zoom

tragic endings | a sitcom about the apocalypse

Famine came up with Thursday game nights. 

She’d done it with a pretty pout and a, “But it’ll be just like real roommates if we do!” 

To which Death had responded, “But we’re not real roommates. We’re not even real humans or have you forgotten?” 

And then the frown that had come over Famine’s face had been enough to cause War and Pestilence to chime in in favor of playing.

Thus, Thursday nights became Game Nights. Last week had been strip poker at Pestilence’s suggestion, and this week War had chosen Sorry! from the kids that lived two floors down; War had in fact stolen the board game from the Henderson children, and not borrowed, but those were semantics that they’d long since stopped caring about.  

The game was played always in the living room with various bottles of liquor surrounding the coffee table. 

“You fucking bitch,” Famine cried out, flinging her hand and grabbing the dice to throw them at Death’s head. 

Death smirked, blinking wide eyes at her brethren and then flicking a blonde curl over her shoulder. “Sorry.” 

“No you’re not,” Famine growled. 

“That’s the game, dumbass. I’m supposed to bump you back. So get your green little ass back to your Start.” Death bared her teeth in victory when Famine did so. 

(At this time, it is to be noted that in the next days the crops in China would all wither and die in the Eastern province.) 

“Ladies,” War cut in. “Let’s play nice, shall we?” 

“That’s easy for you to say,” Pestilence chimed up from her spot on the couch, one leg tucked under her. “You’re the one winning.” 

“Sucks to be a loser, Pest,” Death said, hand around her bottle of gin. 

“Fuck off, bitch.” Pestilence snatched the dice, taking her turn. 

(It should also be noticed that tomorrow morning Death would wake with a hair condition in which large chunks of her blonde hair had fallen out overnight. The disease would continue until Death threatened to kill the entire wing of Pestilence’s volunteer ward if she didn’t restore her hair.) 

The game devolved from there, not unusual at all; last week strip poker had quickly devolved into a comparison of naked vessels and the confirmation that War had the best tits and Pestilence won for legs. 

In all, the total count of natural disasters and outbreaks of fighting were limited to three, a new record. 

The Sorry! board disappeared though the following day, with the faint traces of baby archangel on the shelf they kept all their games on, smooshed between Famine’s trashy grocery store romance novels and Death’s Kant readings. 

The night was forgotten until the following Thursday when Pestilence chose Life as their evening’s entertainment; Operation was ruled out on account of Death and Pestilence being too familiar with dead bodies

fic by jordan