Prologue

Apocalypse Acres was a big estate. Huge in fact. It stretched all the way from the outer-limits of suburban Valhalla in the south to the banks of the River Styx in the north. It's East Wall ran along pretty much all of Heaven's western border, and far away to the west the estate finally petered out into the marshes that bordered the equally huge estate belonging to Bill Gates. The very vastness of Apocalypse Acres made it seem an ideal residence for the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - so ideal in fact that most of those who saw it tended to assume that the land had always belonged to the quartet and their ancestors. This was not the case however - no-matter what was written in the 'official' family history. In reality, the estate had been bequeathed to the original Four Horsemen many millennia before by the grateful widow of a despicable philanderer who'd died in murky circumstances during the 52nd War of Valhalla.
At the time of this conflict the Horsemen were just plain old stable lads with a yearning to get rich. During a particularly drunken barndance - where, coincidentally, all four of them had failed to pull any women - they'd hit upon the idea of bringing terror and doom to all and sundry in the name of earning money, and decided to start their own business. After a month of advertising they had had no response however, and were on the verge of jacking the whole thing in when they got a call from the angry woman who would turn out to be their benefactor.
The woman explained that in order to spite her father she had seduced and married a mortal man from the planet below and had set up home with him just on the outskirts of Valhalla. It had not been long however before the mortal - enraptured by the beauty of the Goddesses all around him - had strayed from the marriage bed into the beds, Jacuzzis and back seats of every other woman in the suburb.
Forbidden by common etiquette to disembowel her husband herself, and yet feeling understandably humiliated and angry at the man, the poor wife had rediscovered the Draft papers she had lovingly 'lost' the day before, and had packed him off to war with the fervent hope that he would never return. Shortly after this she had come across one of the adverts the stable lads had place in the local paper and, figuring that she might as well make SURE he never came back, had decided to enlist their help.
And so it was that the four brave horsemen rode off into the sunset in search of the battlefield and their first 'customer'. They never got there. In fact they had barely covered half the distance when Fred - who would later adopt the moniker 'Famine', and who was at that moment still quite hung-over from the previous evening - spotted what looked like a pile of rags by the side of the road. Ever the opportunist and figuring that the rags may have been hiding something - a nice leg of lamb for instance - he dismounted his horse to investigate.
Upon discovering that the 'rags' were in fact clothes, and that these clothes were in fact still on their owner, and that their owner was in fact dead, Fred naturally assumed that it was just the body of another Mortal-Mercenary lost on the road to the battle, and happily set about divesting the corpse of anything of value. It was Percy - Pestilence's ultimate predecessor, and even then the sensible one of the four - who recognised the bloated face as belonging to their intended victim, and who realised that they were in trouble.
"We're in trouble."
"Eh?" Fred looked up from his rummaging. "No-ones going to care if we steal a bit of change from an MM are they? They're meant to be treated badly - that's why they're here."
"He's right you know," Agreed Doug, who would later rename himself Death. "Mortal-Mercenary's are worthless. No-one's gonna mind if we rob him. He's scum."
Percy sighed impatiently. "It's not the robbing you fools - look at the face! Ring any bells? Seen any photo's of this man lately?"
Fred and Doug looked speculatively at the corpse.
"Got it!" Exclaimed Doug. "He was the one on that gameshow - the one that won a million!"
Fred's hungover countenance took on a confused expression. "What was he doing taking mercenary-money if he was a millionaire? I thought only poor mortals were allowed up here?"
"Maybe he spent it all on beer and stuff." Suggested Doug. "Even mortals like beer don't they?"
"But he was only on last week!" Fred objected. "Even you couldn't drink a million's worth of beer in less than a week¦."
The fourth member of the group, who was called Wesley and whose descendants would wreak conflict upon the world below, had been riding a mile in front of the other three in his excitement at seeing a real live battle for the first time. He now appeared from round the next bend in the road and skidded his horse to a stop.
"Come on!" He cried, " We'll miss the battle! What are you doing back here anyway? You'd better hurry up or we'll miss all that fighting!"
Taking the opportunity to seize the conversational initiative, Percy pointed at the corpse.
"We've found him," he explained. "He never got to the battle - something else killed him first. "
Wesley was still overexcited and slow on the uptake. "We've found who?"
"The one from that gameshow," Began Doug, "The one who w-"
He was interrupted by a mighty bellow from Percy. "NO!" He cried "NOT the one from the gameshow - the one who we're meant to kill!" he dug a photograph out of his coat pocket. "Remember this? The picture that woman gave us? Well take a look!"
He passed the photo round and there was silence for a moment as they all tennis-matched they're heads from photo to corpse and back again. Finally satisfied that Percy was right and that this was the man they were looking for, they exchanged shrugs and raised-eyebrow glances. Fred blew out his cheeks and ventured a question.
"How come she never mentioned that he'd been on that gameshow then? She kept that quiet didn't she, wanted to kee-"
He was silenced by a mighty punch from Percy that knocked him clean out and into the grass at the side of the road.
"Anyone else want to mention gameshows?"
There was silence.
"Good." Percy paused. "Right. This is the guy we're supposed to kill, and he's dead already. So we're in trouble. Suggestions?"
Doug backed away until he was out of arms' reach and hesitantly inquired:
"Errrrm¦Why are we in trouble? He's dead, she wanted him dead - what's the problem?"
Percy sighed impatiently. " The problem, Sloth-Brain, is that she wanted him to die messily, and she wanted us to bring him home in as many pieces as possible! The less pieces he's in, the less money we get - remember?" The others looked at him blankly. He tried again. "That woman is paying us to kill him right? It says in the contract - though you probably haven't read it - that we have to kill him ourselves: if someone else does it then we don't get paid. It also says that for every extra piece we chop him into we get our fee doubled. Remember?"
Doug looked troubled. "You really go in for that contract shit don't you?" He asked "How do you remember all those little clauses and stuff? They're all Greek to me."
Percy closed his eyes and counted to ten.
"The way I see it," Said Wesley, who had now recovered from his blood-lust enough to think straight, "There IS no problem. No one can prove we didn't kill him can they? And we can just chop up the body into as many parts as we need¦"
Percy opened his eyes. "That's just it." He said. "Look at him. He's as stiff as a board - we'd need a chainsaw to chop him up and blow me if I haven't gone and left mine at home¦" He shook his head. "But it's not just that," He continued, "The contract also says that we have to get a witness to verify that we were the ones who killed him. And since he's dead already that could be a bit tricky."
There was silence for a moment as they gazed at the body by the side of the road. The quiet was broken by the familiar bells of a Minced-Mortal Van in the distance. A moment later Percy smiled. The sound had given him an idea.
Minced-Mortal Vans - until they were banned by the Revised Valhalla Convention many years later - provided a highly valued service to immortals everywhere. A cross between an ice-cream van and a dustbin-cart, horse drawn MMV's made their way around the country in times of war, collecting up the corpses of dead mercenaries. These were then fed through the spinning mincer on the back of the cart and turned into delicious and nutritious Mortal-Burgers, which the van driver would then sell to the inhabitants of local villages. For generations the happy carillon of the MMV's bells was the signal for children to stampede into the streets, money grasped in their chubby fists, clamouring for the sweet, sweet taste of Mortal-Burgers and chips. It was a good living being an MMV driver, and some enterprising drivers made it even better by not waiting for the mortals to die before feeding them into the mincer, instead snatching them as they slept by the side of the road. Many a mortal-mother scared their child into wakefulness with tales of the MMV, bells smothered and silent, creeping through the darkness towards their unsuspecting prey. Eventually such practice was outlawed, and it was made clear that any MMV driver who was found to have killed a mortal would have their immortality revoked before themselves being put through the mincer - without the benefit of being killed first. It was this fact that Percy planned to utilise.
The sound of the bells was nearer now and getting louder all the time. After reviving the still unconscious Fred, Percy explained his plan and positioned the group just past a sharp bend in the road, hidden behind the hedge that ran alongside. They each held tightly to one of the dead man's limbs and were swinging him lightly through the air between them like a toy doll. Percy grinned evilly. It was going to be a piece of cake.
The MMV came round the bend in the road and instantly they threw the corpse beneath the hooves of the leading horse, which reared and whinnied shrilly before trying to bolt. The cart itself ran over the corpse - neatly cutting it in half - before losing traction and somersaulting into the ditch on the far side of the road, throwing it's driver clear on impact.
The lads dashed through the clouds of dust to the stricken driver, feigned looks of concern on their faces. Percy was the first to reach him.
"Are you alright?" He demanded, turning the man over and hoping he wasn't dead. That would really cock things up. He sighed with relief when he saw the man was breathing. He slapped him round the face a few times to wake him up and then, satisfied the man could hear him, continued with his act.
"We thought you were dead for sure! Mind you, it would've been your own fault¦What the hell were you playing at trying to run that mortal down? Don't you know that's illegal?"
The man was still dazed from the impact but he knew danger when he heard it. He raised his head and groggily tried to speak.
"Mortal?" He managed. "What mortal? I didn't see no mortal. One minute driving, next minute ditch. I'd not kill mortals. Illegal that is."
Percy was not to be swayed. "It's no use lying," He asserted "We all saw it. That man was in the road and you ran him down. That's murder that is. We'll have to report you¦"
Wide-awake now, the driver was shaking his head. "But there was no mortal¦"
Still looking the man in the eye, Percy clicked his fingers and Fred and Wesley appeared behind him, each holding half of the unfortunate mortal. The driver's eyes widened and his face turned ashen.
"But¦but¦but¦ It was an accident" He stammered. "Please don't report it! I'll¦I'll do anything you want but don't report me!" He was pleading now and tears were welling in his eyes.
Percy stayed motionless for a moment, letting the man stew. When he thought the timing right he muttered "Hmmm, I suppose it could have been an accident¦ For the right price, anyway¦" He raised an eyebrow at the stricken burger-seller. "How much have you got?"
Two hours later the boys were riding home, their saddle bags full to bursting with Mortal-Burgers, cash, a newly minced adulterous husband and a signed statement from the MMV driver saying that they had indeed killed this mortal, and that he'd seen them do it with his own two eyes, no question about it, yes indeed.
As they rode they threw the corpse's head - which they had saved from mincing for identification purposes - from one to another, and argued over what they should spend the money on. When they got back to the widow however, they had a nasty surprise.
"What do you mean you haven't got the cash?" Percy demanded. "You said double fee for each bit of him, it's there in the contract!"
The widow looked contrite. "I know, but I didn't expect him to come back in 14,823 pieces..."
Fred cleared his throat. "14,824 pieces you mean - you forgot the head."
"Yes, well I know, but¦I haven't got the money!"
Wesley and Percy stood up menacingly and fingered their new swords, the gestures clearly intimating that whilst Immortals couldn't be killed, they could be made to feel agonising pain. The woman got the message.
"Ok, ok!" She said hastily "I haven't got the money, but there's always my father's estate - I'm sure he'd gladly give it up if I told him the situation. After all, he hated my husband more than I did."
And so it was that the four lowly stable lads inherited the huge gothic castle and surrounding fields that would, over the millennia, grow into the huge sprawling estate of Apocalypse Acres. Their personal 'official' history books tell it differently of course, but that's another story.