Disclaimer: Parody
The apocalypse did not bang a gong. It did not announce itself. No, it simply walked in like a guest who insisted on arriving early and never leaving. Some did notice. A finance minister sweating over spreadsheets. A climate scientist muttering to herself. A general sketching supply lines that made no sense whatsoever. Most though, went about their business as if everything would, of course, sort itself out. Classic.
Economic Collapse came in first. You could spot him straight away. He wore a suit of precise, oppressive grey. A tie that could slice glass. Shoes so polished they reflected the panic of anyone nearby. His briefcase vibrated faintly, stuffed full of defaults, bankruptcies, and all the usual bad investments. And the smile. Oh, the smile. Part charm, part menace. Enough to make an accountant faint on sight.
“Good morning,” he said politely to a banker who clearly hadn’t read how credit worked. “I hope you brought your spreadsheets. They’re about to get interesting”.
The banker dropped the spreadsheet. Not dramatically, mind you. More of a slow-motion kind of despair. Economic Collapse chuckled. Softly. Like a credit rating quietly downgrading itself to zero. Markets staggered. Companies folded mid-memo. Governments printed money with a frantic energy. Ordinary citizens noticed only that their paychecks were smaller, queues longer, and social media even louder than usual. Riots started. Popcorn sales might have been a sensible side business, but Economic Collapse preferred to just watch.
Then came Climate Change. She didn’t sneak, tiptoe, or ask politely. No, she arrived like a smoky goddess of mild inconvenience turned catastrophic. Smoke, ash, vaguely scorched leaves clinging to her hair. Hair twisting like vines caught in a breeze that didn’t exist. Eyes glowing green. She did not speak. Why would she? Her work was loud enough. Rivers disappeared for dramatic effect. Forests ignited. Crops wilted. Cities baked. Governments invented paperwork so complicated you could frame it and call it art.
She paused, occasionally, to jot notes in a notebook that nobody would ever read. One entry read, for example: “City of Venice. Water rising. Residents panicking. Outcome: amusing”. She smiled faintly. Humans never did read the signs properly. Honestly, who could blame her?
War arrived next. Striding in like a general who had wandered into a cocktail party and decided to stay. Red tie. Boots polished to a terrifying shine. Grin that suggested he knew every secret in every government. He did not start bombing straight away. No, subtler was his style. Proxy conflicts. Cyberattacks. Embargoes. Threats so vague they caused weeks of frantic speculation.
“Ah”, War said, addressing an invisible audience, “You humans are such predictable creatures. Give them scarcity, a few angry tweets, and suddenly they fight for my amusement”. He inspected the growing arms industry with a satisfied nod and took a metaphorical bow. Soldiers, generals, and politicians scrambled, trying to figure out which supply lines to protect, which to sabotage, and, of course, who to blame. Civilians clapped at parades. Social media celebrated minor victories. War watched it all, polishing his boots on the tears of those who lost dear ones.
Epidemic, smallest of all, arrived last. They were unassuming. Masked. Gloved. Utterly unconcerned by the general panic. At first, the effect was minor: a cough here, a fever there. Harmless, you might think. But piled on top of collapsing economies, scorched lands, and geopolitical blunders, Epidemic became terrifying. Hospitals overflowed. Supply chains snapped. Misinformation spread faster than any actual disease.
Epidemic wandered through cities like a polite observer. Tilted their mask occasionally. Muted voices: “Oh, this is going well.” They didn’t care about blame. Or heroics. Timing was their art. Every badly managed system made them grin a little wider.
In London, a finance minister wept over her spreadsheets. “I thought we had buffers!” she yelled, throwing her tablet across the room. Her assistant ducked. “We had optimism, though,” they muttered. “That counts, right?”
In Nairobi, a climate scientist stomped on a map. “Did you read the report?!” she shouted. Bureaucrats nodded politely and hid the charred remains of their offices under papers. Not very convincing.
In Moscow, a general scribbled supply lines that defied physics. Soldiers stared. One whispered, “Why are we here?” The others shrugged. Good question.
In Beijing, an epidemiologist stared at Zoom reports from their cat. “At least someone is paying attention,” they muttered. The cat, naturally, stared back, unamused.
Meanwhile, the Four Horsemen watched. Nodded politely to each other when chaos hit particularly satisfying heights. Economic Collapse nudged failing banks into regions suffering heatwaves. Climate Change responded with flooding and fires. War exploited shortages, redirected shipments, and maximised drama. Epidemic waited, of course, for the perfect moment to accelerate systemic collapse.
By the time anyone realised things were irretrievably messed up, the Horsemen had moved on. The next city. The next government. The next unlucky crowd of humans who thought resilience was a plan. Humanity clung to slogans about “bouncing back,” and “resilience,” while the horsemen sipped metaphorical champagne, smirked, adjusted their attire, and quietly reminded everyone that the apocalypse is neither polite nor patient.
Some called it the end. Others, the few still breathing, called it Tuesday.