The Worst People
Courtney Love rolled over in bed. The clock on the teak nightstand said 10:48 AM.
“Good morning, baby,” she said. “Three more days to Christmas.”
Axl Rose grunted.
“Sweetie?” She leaned in close. “I think next year we should make our love public.”
Axl groaned. “You want to do a sex tape?”
The door exploded open. Their Paraguayan butler stumbled into the bedroom, wiping away tears and snot.
“Misters Love Rose! Everybody dead!!”
Courtney bolted upright. “What?!”
“It on news!” the butler wailed. “Giant sun flare, it kill everyone! Just like Mayans tell! It end of world!”
Axl took the pistol from his own nightstand and shot the butler dead.
“I told you not to wake us until 11!” he roared at the corpse. “Well, congrats. I'm up now, bro.”
They dressed hurriedly and stepped outside, into the tropical sun. Surf lapped on the shoreline of Motu Attaku, the most remote island in the Pacific Ocean.
“Good thing we vacationed in the world's only lead-lined hut resort,” Courtney said.
“Everything looks fine to me,” Axl grumbled. “Hey, who's that?”
Another couple emerged squinting from their own hut, then strolled across the shimmering tropical sand towards them.
“I'm Karl Rove,” said a round little man in an open Hawaiian shirt. “And this is my wife-in-the-eyes-of-Christ, Ann Coulter.”
“We don't care who knows, now,” she said.
“Ann,” Karl said, smiling, “I told you to keep that flappy slit you call a mouth shut.”
“God, I love this man!” Ann said as Karl and Axl high-fived.
“And who's that?” Courtney said, pointing past them.
“I'm A.Q. Khan, father of Pakistan's atomic bomb,” a dour, deep-jowled man said.
“He's our guest,” Karl explained. “This ol' boy's a real cutup!”
“Yes,” Khan said, not smiling.
From behind, they heard, “Is it safe to come out now?” The group turned to find Jerry Sandusky emerging from the lead-lined commissary hut, one hand knuckle-deep in a jar of Nutella.
“I thought you were in prison,” Courtney said.
“There was a typo on my sentencing forms and I got sent here instead,” he said. “My lawyer told me to stay quiet about it. Man, there's decades of great food in there! What's that noise?”
A distant buzz grew louder. The group watched as a small silver aircraft approached, banked, sprouted rotors, and hovered down to land on the beach. The craft read COOZ ROCKET on the side.
“Lead-lined copter-jet,” Rove said with quiet awe. “Not cheap.”
Three young women popped out, blinking in the sun.
“OK. You're Khloe Kardashian,” Courtney said. “And you're Bristol Palin. But who are you?”
“I'm Asma al-Assad, Syrian first lady. Oops, former Syrian first lady. I have to get used to saying that,” she laughed.
“Karl, you throbbing nut-munch, come help me power this thing down!” Donald Trump bellowed out the cockpit window.
That night, everyone sat on the beach, watching the last fiery, velvet embers of sunset sink down into the horizon. Sandusky leaned against a palm tree, softly strumming a ukulele. The remains of the Paraguayan butler slowly roasted on a spit. “I wish my best friend Scott Stapp was with us now,” Axl mumbled tearfully.
“I kind of wish everyone on Earth hadn't died,” Casey Anthony said, running her fingers through Rick Santorum's hair. The pair had quietly emerged from their own hut for dinner, both appearing sexually exhausted and badly in need of protein. “Just so we could all rub it in their stupid faces that we did survive.”
Howls of laughter filled the beach. Courtney said, “God! We're, like, the worst people in the world!”
When it was quiet again, she added, “What now?”
Khloe Kardashian stopped gnawing her glistening hunk of meat, wiped the barbeque sauce from her chin, and turned to face the group. The ukulele fell silent.