There had been twenty-two apocalypses to date. There were now four distinct variations of humanity roaming the earth — six, if you counted the undead. It had been suggested that there really should have been a new word to describe “the end of everything forever,” but most people had stopped noticing, much less caring, after the tally hit double digits. Not to mention the failure of “forever” in living up to its potential. The last apocalypse wasn’t even considered a cataclysm by most major governments. It was just a Thursday. is the tender, heart-stirring tale of crappy jobs, a slacker cult, an alcoholic Aztec god, reconstituted world leaders, werewolves, robots, and the shenanigans of multiple persons living after the twentieth-aught end of the world. Fast-paced, frenetic, funny, and frequently fond of other f-words, is the only book that will have you looking forward to the end of the world.
