Chester A. Arthur XVII paid for his bag of Slim Jims, pretzels, and soda and exited the 7-Eleven. He made it about halfway to his car before a large, malformed hand pressed against his chest—not actually stopping his forward movement, but forceful enough to imply that was the goal. The hand was attached to an outstretched arm attached to a shoulder that belonged to what was pretty clearly an atomic mutant.
“Can I help you?” asked Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“We don’ want yer kind here,” said the atomic mutant.
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Sorry?”
“Well, for starters, what do you mean by ‘kind?’ Men? Guys standing in front of you? Walking replications of the genetics of dead presidents? Or is it some kind of pent-up rage against any and all non-irradiated, non-mutated human folk? Maybe you’ve mistaken me for a robot, or a werewolf, or one of your cousins who owes you money?
“Then, of course, there’s the issue of ‘here,’” continued Chester A. Arthur XVII. “Are you referring to the convenience store I’ve just vacated? The parking spot the two of us are currently standing in? Or something more general, like the state of Pennsylvania? Perhaps you are referring only to this particular stretch of nuclear wasteland? Am I somehow on your lawn? You’re going to need to make your meaning more apparent if you expect to elicit some kind of response from me, whether it be the one you intended or otherwise.”
“Hold up, hold up… what’re mah options ‘gain?”
“Well, they were really more akin to suggestions than options. There could be myriad other reasons you’re impeding my exit beyond the ones I mentioned.”
“Well, sure, son. And ah’m sure the heart ah the matter, tah reason ah’m in yer way to ‘gin wit’ is somethin’ else ‘tirely, if’n we’re bein’ honest. Can’t live in the middle ‘a miles an’ miles ‘a ‘radiated badlands ‘t’out some kinda life-alterin’ trauma, tha’s fer damn sure. Here and now, tho’, I ‘as jus’ tryin’ to reply in kind, makin’ sure I ‘dressed all yer listed concerns ‘fore we continue this little altercation.”
“Oh, well, that’s not really necessary. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the effort, truly, but what I said previously was more of a hastily assembled collection of hypothetical guesses than any grouping of actual concerns.”
“That so?”
“That’s so.”
“Well, a’right, then. Yah want ah should start from the threatenin’ shove ag’in? Er yah good to jus’ go from here, pickin’ up where’n we left off?”
Chester A. Arthur XVII bit the side his lower lip, considering his options.
“I think it would be fair to say that, regardless of how we choose to proceed, your aim is for this to end in fisticuffs or some other kind of physical harm?”
“Wouldn’ say ‘aim’ so much as a’ ‘nevitability. Mah goal ‘volves more ‘round robbin’ yah than it does beatin’ yah, ta be truthful. Tho’ the two does go hand in hand, mos’ often.”
“And understandably so. The difference this time, however, is that you will not be getting my wallet. Even should this interaction of ours come to blows.”
The atomic mutant raised his gigantic eyebrow incredulously.
“An’ how ‘xactly you figger that?”
“You remember about a half dozen Armageddons ago, when the gorillas hijacked all those satellites and Washington, D.C., was evaporated? How there was a mad scramble to reinstate the government?”
“Course.”
“Well, one of the possibilities floated about was to fill the seats of the United States government with clones of assorted previous leaders. The greatest political minds working together for the greater good and all that. Now, while that particular plan ultimately wasn’t implemented, there were still several football stadiums full of presidents and kings created in preparation. Clearly, there was no way they could let that many clones out into the world—it would cause far too much confusion. But killing us all, well, that would be genocide, which, as we all know, is an ethical no-no. The geneticists in charge, in their infinite and heartless wisdom, figured one of each clone would be more than generous. So they had each leader fight himself to the death.”
Chester A. Arthur XVII rolled his shoulders and stood up at his full height.
“I killed sixty-two other Chester A. Arthurs that day. With only a tire iron,” he continued. “You’re not getting my wallet.”
“Ah was not ‘ware ah that,” said the atomic mutant, spreading his open hands in a show of submission. “Please ‘cept my ‘pologies for this inconvenience then, and you go on an’ have yerself a fine day.”
“And you as well,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, raising his plastic bag. “Slim Jim?”