'The world’s gone to shit, but at least we’ll be together' by Jennifer Lai

When the apocalypse nears, the townsfolk bargain with the Master Lord for more time.

Old man Wen divulges his famous char siu recipe to hotbox in his Camry for thirty minutes, Snoop Dogg style, The Next Episode playing on repeat. Da-da-da-da-dah.

When the sky turns crimson, Bruce, the bodybuilder, surrenders his barbells to soak for an hour in a frothy lavender bubble bath, newspaper in one hand, a grape-flavored juice box in the other.

When the air blurs with fury, Justice Marla Miller gives up her robe for a husky dog fur suit to attend the 75th annual Furries convention for the meet-and-greet hour.

When black steam rises from the sewer holes, Farmer Ray-Ray-Bob gets fifteen minutes to join Marla in exchange for ten crates of Yukon Golds. Twenty minutes if he throws in carrots.

When the ground cracks open, Carol, the math teacher, trades in her TI-85 calculator for fifteen minutes with a mug of hot chocolate, adding not one, not two, but twenty-eight mini marshmallows despite her diabetes. Because fuck it.

When the sun expands over the corpse-gray mountain range, Officers Perry and Santos relinquish their badges to push it real good, elbows bent, pelvis thrusting to Salt-N-Pepa in the interrogation room for as long as they need to.

Later, when there’s no glint in the sky, no twinkle of a star, no time left to bargain for, the townsfolk will take to their living rooms. They will gather on carpets, snuggle on couches, recline on armchairs. They will dine on fine China, indulge in aging wine, origami their rainy-day dollar bills into cranes with flapping wings. They will watch The Terminator for the very last time (on Netflix), take their very last breath, and listen to their very last words: Hasta la vista, baby.

Hasta la vista.