The governments of the world have failed. The people are tired of their constant bickering, corruption, and inability to bring back the 1980s sitcom Webster.

The people riot for four years. This concludes in the dissolution of all government bodies and the creation of a single world government.

Obviously, this makes complete sense.

This government will get things done.

What those things are, nobody knows, but certainly these things will be important things.

This new government is made up only of celebrities, as people vote for the names they recognize.

All twenty celebrities/governors of the world convene at an oval-shaped table in Copenhagen to decide what the world should be doing.

Dead Steve Jobs is at the front of the room with one of those fucking tablet things, which is wirelessly connected to a large screen. He is showing everyone how he’s going to eliminate malaria through selling portable music devices to malnourished children.

“People love these products because they all look similar,” Dead Steve Jobs says. “I am wearing all black.”

Michael Jordan interrupts the presentation. “If you’re so smart, then why are you dead?”

“Excellent question,” Dead Steve Jobs says. “But let’s get to the heart of the issue. We all hate each other. As famous people, we hate everyone else who is famous. After all, fame is a zero-sum game, and each one of us knows that if the other nineteen did not exist, he or she would easily be the most famous person in the world. Clearly, this would have benefits. For example, if I had been more famous, I would have beat the shit out of cancer.”

Oprah jumps on the board table and yanks the cord on a chainsaw. She screams, “I enjoy bland mantras and giving my audiences extravagant gifts!”

She whirls around and decapitates Daniel Craig. His head falls to the ground. His head does not look surprised.

“I yell at people and then pretend to vomit when they cook food that is not up to my standards,” Gordon Ramsey says.

Meanwhile, Dead Steve Jobs has snuck up behind the British restaurateur.

Jobs proceeds to chow down. He does not make any witty comments about how Ramsey’s flesh is undercooked or poorly seasoned because he is famished and does not have time for that.

Jordan turns to Deepak Chopra. “As our spiritual advisor, what do you think of all this? How can we restore peace?”

Jordan has failed to notice the rocket launcher Chopra has aimed at his face. A rocket explodes him into a million little pieces, covering James Frey from head to toe in slimy, Space Jam-star innards and blood.

“People know me because I wrote a bunch of shit that I said was true, but it turns out that none of that shit was true,” Frey says. “Somehow I am smug about this.”

At this point, chaos breaks out, because that’s what chaos does.

Lindsay Lohan feasts on the eyeballs of Miley Cyrus as she rips Justin Beiber’s heart from his tender little chest, Oprah severs the limbs of PSY, Fifty Cent cries in a corner about how his girlfriend broke up with him, Hulk Hogan yells, “I wear brightly colored underwear and still have a reality TV show, I think.”

But Chopra has the upper hand. He reloads and takes out Dead Steve Jobs and what is remaining of Gordon Ramsey’s corpse. Then, with one shot, he obliterates Bollywood star Salman Khan, chainsaw-wielding Oprah, Frey, weeping Fifty Cent, and the entire Jonas Brothers clan.

Chopra cackles maniacally and yells, “I am a proponent of eastern medicine!”

He does not take into account that Tom Cruise has snuck up behind him with a switchblade.

Cruise slices the guru’s neck. Covered in blood, Cruise says, “I am too old for the action hero parts that I continue to play. Also, scientology is real.”

Lohan doesn’t have a weapon, but she is kicking some serious ass. She head butts the Hulk and stomps on his junk with her six-inch heels. Then she roundhouses Steven Seagal, rips out the throat of that guy from the Dos Equis commercials, and swallows Emmanuel Lewis whole.

“I sing, I act, I drink, I drive, I wear few clothes, I do many drugs, I probably have an eating disorder,” Lohan says.

Cruise lunges at her and misses. She bites off his nose, spits it into his face, and bashes his head on the board table.

But with his last ounce of strength, Cruise whips out an energy-healing crystal and stabs Lohan in the chest.

They die in each other’s arms.

It would be beautiful if it totally wasn’t.

The door opens. Keanu Reeves has arrived four hours late. He has sunglasses on.

He removes his sunglasses and discovers that the room is a mass grave for all of the world’s major celebrities.

After a couple of hours of deep contemplation, he realizes he is the only major celebrity left in the world.

“Far out,” he says.

*

Chris Rhatigan is the editor of All Due Respect. He blogs about short fiction at Death by Killing.