After the Apocalypse

In case the Mayans are right...

Photo: Soderlind

STRATEGY: “I plan on using my Summer Teeth towel to harness Dane’s indie powers and seduce my enemies…then I’m heading for the hills. No guns or jiu-jitsu for me—I’m not manly.”

LIKELY RESULT: Needless to say, Sterling Spencer is the first to go. The Centaur is surrounded by a pack of Hawaiian groms on the bike path off Ke Nui Road. Spencer reaches for his Summer Teeth towel, hopeful that these grimacing tykes, the oldest of whom might be 10, will be placated by the DIY whimsy of Dane Reynolds, surfing’s answer to Michel Gondry. The groms, raised on an all-beef diet of Sunny Garcia power-hacks, are unimpressed by the magical hipster terrycloth.

The Centaur shuffles his hooves nervously.

“Whatever you’ve heard about Jello being made from horse hooves, it’s not true. And the upper-half of me is all man, after all…” The groms glare at him, unconvinced. Sterling begins to twist his towel, then ruefully attempts to give the fattest miniature moke a whip, as he’s seen jocks do in movies.

Within seconds, the pack is upon him, tearing into his horsey flesh with their dirty little fingernails. Between panicked neighs, the Centaur lets out a few feminine squeals, their pitch evocative of either horror or delight. As dark blood pools on the pavement, black smoke fills the wind-whipped sky. The pack of blood-smeared little faces look up in wonder at the descending heavens.

The first of the firestorms has started. Death surrounds them. The end has come.