“Look, I’m telling you,” said Thor, sitting atop the Holiday Inn’s concierge desk, “Steve McQueen would win in a fight.”
“And I’m telling you,” said Catrina, sitting in a chair behind the desk, “Burt Reynolds’ mustache is more of a man than Steve McQueen ever was.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Oh, come on, admit it. McQueen was just a spoiled pretty boy. Burt Reynolds was the embodiment of badassedness in the seventies.”
“That owed as much to the Trans Am as it did to him.”
“Burt Reynolds’ mustache would kick Steve McQueen’s ass.”
“How, Catrina? It’s hair!”
“That’s just how fucking awesome it is.”
“That’s absurd,” argued Thor. “You know what, we’re gonna settle this right now.”
“Yeah?”
“Might even be able to make some money off of it, too,” continued Thor. “I read about some dude somewhere who’s renting out zombies to ghosts. Apparently ghosts’re getting tired of being the internet’s bitches and actually dumb enough to pay to be corporeal again.”
“Dumb enough? You saying you’re too cool to drop a couple dollars to live again?”
“Hell yeah, I am. Ethereal immortality is the way to be. I have had nothing but issues with this meat suit since I got it.”
“Oh, right, yeah. I forgot Mr. Big Bad Norse God is really just a whiny little bitch.”
Catrina pouted her lips and proceeded to mock Thor, her approximation of his voice a spot-on mix of him and a pissy six-year-old girl:
“Oh, I’m a human now, boo hoo. I keep having problems because I’m stupid and dumb and too stubborn to listen to Catrina, wah.”
“Instead of insulting me,” said Thor, “you should be tracking down the ghosts of Steve McQueen and the Bandit’s mustache and convincing them to fight each other.”
He hopped off the desk.
“I’m gonna go rustle up some bodies for ‘em.”
At precisely that moment, a pair of torsos was hurled through the glass doors of the hotel and into the lobby.
“Will those do?” asked Catrina.
“Nope.”
Two more torsos bounced into the lobby.
“OK,” said Thor. “What the hell.”