The Four Horsemen sat awkwardly in a WeWork conference room in Shoreditch, each nursing a lukewarm oat milk latte and silently resenting the presence of beanbags.
“We need to talk branding,” said Ashley, the PR rep, flipping open her MacBook.
War cracked his knuckles. “Branding? We are the end of days. Our names are our brands.”
Ashley didn’t blink. “And yet you’re being meme’d into irrelevance. Someone called Pestilence ‘COVID’s weird uncle’.”
Pestilence sniffled. “Well, I am, technically—”
“Not the point,” she snapped. “Let’s begin with Famine.”
Famine, gaunt and radiating Victorian orphan chic, offered a withering smile. “Do enlighten me.”
“‘Famine’ is outdated. Triggering. We’re rebranding you as Intermittent Fasting. Think: wellness, restraint, minimalism.”
“I kill entire crops,” Famine hissed.
Ashley tapped her screen. “So does clean eating. You’re very on-trend.”
Famine sank back, muttering something about quinoa.
“Next, Pestilence. We’re calling you Airborne Wellness Influencer. You’ve gone viral—literally—so lean into it. We’ll say you offer ‘transformational respiratory experiences’.”
“I gave a pope bubonic plague,” Pestilence mumbled.
“Exactly! Disruption! You’re the Uber of mucus. Now—War.”
He leaned forward, eyes glowing faintly. “I incinerated Babylon. I smashed the gates of Troy. I turned a continent to ash.”
Ashley held up a hand. “Yes, love that energy. But you’re coming off… toxic. You’ll now be Conflict Facilitator—focusing on personal growth through dynamic resolution.”
“I sunder realms.”
“And now you’ll be doing it via team-building retreats. Imagine: axe-throwing, trust falls, moderate bloodshed.”
War considered this.
Ashley turned to Death. He was skeletal, but impeccably dressed, with the timeless calm of someone who’d deleted empires before breakfast.
She hesitated. “Now you… you’re iconic. But… intimidating. So we’ve gone with Life Coach (Advanced).”
Death remained silent.
“We’re also removing the horse imagery. Feels too… equestrian. Instead: e-scooters. Sustainable. Disruptive. Uber for oblivion.”
The four stared at her.
“Look,” Ashley said. “the world’s ending, but it has to feel like a lifestyle pivot. We need curated doom. Apocalypse with a vibe. You’ll be verified, blue-ticked, live-streamed.”
Death stood. “This is obscene.”
Ashley gave him a tight smile. “And yet the algorithm loves it.”
She left the presentation playing behind her: stock footage of fire, collapsing cities, and stylish young people dancing on rooftops as meteors fell.
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