John Calhoun relished his cavalry sabre as he withdrew the flesh-choked blade from the Indian's ruined skull. He turned to Andrew Jackson, who was still slashing his bloody, retina-covered cane with furious anger. "How does Richard Lawrence taste, master?"
Andrew Jackson spat out an eyeball. "Like some kid with eyes."
Calhoun ducked an astronaut's poison barbed fist, digging his sabre into the beast's abdomen and letting the spray of viscera wash over his glorious spacesuit. The skulls' eye sockets on his shoulders grew brilliant with an infernal cast and vomited a bolt of light through an attacking native; he was thrown back against the deathwall, his flesh boiling in another dimension.
Andrew Jackson slapped Calhoun, who giggled maniacally. Andrew Jackson reminded himself to kill himself later.
"Master, look out!"
Calhoun's sabre glistened as it flew off from its scabbard, rocketing through the air like an early dream of mankind. It flew through three Cherokee braves who dropped their hellspears as the blade cut a hole in the ground beneath them so they fell to their demise in a placid island of ignorance, slathered in daemonic essence.
"Now, Johnny C."
Calhoun knelt before his master. Andrew Jackson withdrew his guitar, Fuckslayer, from a dimension where all screamed for naught. Wrought from the silver heart of heaven's false promise, laced with vessels that pulsed with angel's menstrual blood, hewn from the horns of Satan's generals, it laughed as it was set loose, a laugh that only Andrew Jackson could hear, but no one could share.
Andrew Jackson swung the guitar through Calhoun's chicken neck. He took the head of his fallen dwarfslave and tore open his stomach, stuffing the head inside. Andrew Jackson vomited steam and summoned a great meteor from space to smash into Washington and kill everyone there, for no reason at all. A vision then appeared. It was Martin Van Buren, entombed in his cursed mummy armor, calling Andrew Jackson from his Moonbase which wasn't on a moon.
"Andrew, you must rock the fuck out." Andrew Jackson channeled his rage through Fuckslayer. The angel blood boiled as he summoned the great meteor, swathed with the blood of the tiny fucklings in Congress, leapt onto it, and flew into space. He encased the entire meteor in a wreath of holy fuckfire and flew through Mercury, killing the fuck out of it. Andrew Jackson then did fly his meteor through space, punching astral vampires in half with his fists encased in fuckfire and throwing their ruined heads into the past where they bit cavemen on Mars so that history changed and now there are vampire cavemen on Mars. Andrew Jackson received another vision from Van Buren, who was having tea and chumpits with the president of Pangea.
"Care to have tea, Andrew?"
"You know how I hate chumpits."
Andrew Jackson slammed his book shut. It wasn't really a book, because the pages were made of lasers and the words were made of headless women making godless love to dragons made out of motorcycles, but it was still reading.
"Martin Van Buren, if you don't stop, we'll starve, and no one will be around to kill everyone in the universe if we get around to bringing everyone back to life after we killed them."
"I am no longer Van Buren."
The ancient man dropped some of the planets he was juggling.
"The worlds have shifted. I am Van Burenous, Emperor of Darkmeal."
He flexed one of his legs, which was made of pistols, and kicked a planet in half.
"Bugger your Darkmeal, faggart of a thousand suns."
Van Burenous sniffed.
"And what of it? Is it a sin, should a man feel like faggarting a sun or a thousand? Why should the suns heave through the void, if not to be skewer't bypon ourn fagpoles?"
Andrew Jackson cast a glance at the book. Unsavory sounds emanated from a particularly damned chapter. He was hungry. He looked at a nearby cup. It had a faded brown film on the bottom. He thought about chumpits.
At long last, Andrew Jackson had found some food. It was guarded by three and a million thousand clones of The Prophet, for it was the last food on Prophet Moon X. The ecology had been decimated by surf ninjas, so naturally the last food was a cabbage and mustard sandwich. Andrew Jackson squatted in the ruins of a castle which had been many skulls arranged to resemble one large one. It had been poorly done, with the cheeks fading into an amateurishly executed jaw line. The silent killers of the night had negated their innate advantage by only plying their craft on surf boards. During the day.
Andrew Jackson was about to eat his cabbagewich when a man in a tuxedo appeared from behind nothing much. He stood ten feet tall and his head seemed wrapped in unwrappable darkness.
"I am Sequoya. I write critically acclaimed fiction that always turns into fact. That's why I have more money than anyone."
Andrew Jackson dug a bit of cartilage out of the cabbagewich and continued chewing.
"Would you care to discuss one of my books? I hear that my..."
Andrew Jackson fished out another bit of cartilage. It was a cartilage and mustard sandwich.
"You shouldn't believe what everyone says about me. I moonlight as a ghostbuster. And I have racist thoughts."
A nibbet of yellow cartilage landed on Sequoya's shoe.
Andrew Jackson awoke to the throaty grumble of the National Bank.
Not a National Bank, but THE National Bank, the last of its kind after the subjugation of the Bankforest. Its people once graced the canopy, their banknotes proudly grasping the vines as they swung through the night, their hundreds of illegible counterfeit checks trailing a now-fetid memory in the National Bank's watering eye. As his ocular ducts began to well with ancestral pride, so too did the countless hungry orphans sprouting from the National Bank's every hairy inch. From its eye sockets, ear holes, even its calloused concierge booth, a pitiful font of cry-juice birthed a deluge.
Andrew Jackson observed this with consternation, as he was tied to a table. Neither magic nor supracosmic strength would free him from his bonds. Had this creature access to an unknown material of deistic strength? Or did the National Bank have a secret yet more baffling?
Andrew Jackson squinted so he could see the subatomic strings of the ropes. He began tossing antimatter at them with his mind as a group of children entered the National Bank's hiding place. They were well-groomed and impeccably attired, and there were 5.8 of them, just enough to represent an array of genders and races that would leave no one unhappy, save for the Eskimos. They were on their own, as far as the National Bank was concerned.
"Why do you cry, National Bank?" asked child 3.2.
The National Bank, unwilling to hide its greasy primal money tears, hung its head, and gravity coaxed the eyes downward, languishing in misery.
"We are bound in this ligature of lingam, brother National Bank," said child 4.6.
The children surrounded National Bank, holding their hands, and began to sing. Andrew Jackson was transfixed as he watched the children, gently swaying with the song, float skyward. The little ones began to orbit the National Bank, which was convulsing as though stricken by the seizure devil. As the song increased in tempo the childflesh bubbled and merged into a spinning wonder turbine. The fleshy kidmass sprouted greedy insolence just like the National Bank, and sprayed confetti into skies of past and future, setting the constellations aflame with the opalescent of the perished National Bank. An explosion of color and hair left Andrew Jackson alone and still bound. He thought about sandwiches.
Andrew Jackson awoke from his dream within a dream in a pit that reeked of powerful hot sauce. He could feel viscous fluid under his fingernails, burning the tender skin. Everywhere were brown bags bulging with foul product. They were paper sacks stuffed with chicken bones and hot sauce, their foul odor blossoming in the muffled dark. Andrew Jackson's nostrils begged his brain for mercy. He flew upwards, away from the saucy mysteries below. The smell grew faint, calling him to return. Andrew Jackson ignored their lies, flying beyond the lips of his prison. He was in a laboratory, with machines that had no purpose beyond blinking lights and soft hums.
"Hello, my boy son! You make a father so good!"
Andrew Jackson had flown out of the nose of an old man. This man wore a white coat, yet was drawn by the hand of an idiot. His voice came not from his mouth, but from elsewhere, a sad attempt at humanity.
"I know you'll do so well! Now you choose!
The man reached into his coat and laid out three bags, each brimming with the spicy bones of the nose prison. He removed his head and stuck it on a spike on the counter, to keep it from rolling away. The bags began to stir as creatures clawed out of bony wombs. Arrayed before Jackson was a turtle, the reptilian body so frail that it seemed an afterthought to the shell, a bald weasel with toothpicks for legs, and a wrinkled thumb in a glass of water. The old man's head called out from the spike.
"Everyone has one! Make your best friends for life!"
Andrew Jackson drank the glass of thumb water and spat the thumb at the old man's head.
The End