Ash sat at the rickety wooden table in the ruined castle, the candlelight guttering as he shuffled the old, greasy tarot deck. His gloved hand flipped two cards: The Devil and a face-down one that seemed to twitch like it was alive.
“Groovy,” Ash muttered. “That can’t be good.”
The air grew heavy with perfume—something exotic, violet and jasmine—and suddenly a shimmering figure appeared in the smoke. The ghost of Elizabeth Taylor, dazzling even in death, draped in Cleopatra’s gold.
“Sweet mother of pearl,” Ash said, chainsaw twitching at his wrist. “Liz Taylor?”
Her violet eyes fixed on him, half sorrow, half seduction.
“You’ve reached across the veil, darling. Not many can do that… except me, when I was alive.”
Ash smirked. “Yeah, well, I had a hot date with the devil, but I’ll take Hollywood royalty instead. What’s the deal, Liz? Why the tarot hotline?”
She sighed, her voice echoing like silk torn in two.
“Larry was a blue-collar guy. He was the only one who made me feel like I was Cleopatra—not the jewel, not the star, but the woman. The real me.”
Ash scratched his chin. “Blue collar, huh? Guess I know the type. You ever see me wrangle Deadites in aisle six of S-Mart? Talk about romance.”
Her laughter rang like bells in a mausoleum.
“Careful, Ash. When you play with the Devil, even a queen can lose her crown.”
The Devil card began to smolder, smoke curling up in the shape of horns.
Ash tightened his grip on the boomstick.
“Yeah, well, sugar—when the devil calls, I’m the guy who puts him on hold.”
Ash leaned against the wall, chainsaw idling, eyes glazed with fatigue.
“Listen, lady,” he said, waving the Devil tarot card like it was a library pass. “My uncle’s dying wish wasn’t gold, wasn’t a Cadillac, wasn’t even a final round of beer pong. No. The old man wanted one thing—” Ash leaned in, dead serious. “—to cuddle with Madonna.”
Elizabeth Taylor’s ghost raised an elegant brow.
“The Virgin or the singer?”
Ash snorted.
“Hell, both if he can swing it. He’s a good Christian man, and he doesn’t deserve to die without holding a Madonna. That’s biblical, right?”
The room shook with sudden laughter—mocking, shrill. From the shadows stepped Lourdes, Rocco, Mercy, and the rest of Madonna’s kids. Instead of mourning, they burst into an off-key chorus straight out of South Park.
🎵 “Uncle f***er! You’re a…” 🎵
Ash’s jaw dropped.
“Whoa, whoa, timeout! This ain’t Saturday morning cartoons, kiddos!”
But the children only grinned wider, bouncing in rhythm like Terrance and Phillip themselves.
“We’re part Canadian, chainsaw boy,” Lourdes sneered. “Like Terrance and Phillip! You can’t stop us!”
Ash revved the chainsaw, grimacing.
“Fan-freakin’-tastic. First Deadites, now demon-possessed Canadian karaoke brats. What’s next—Celine Dion doing backup vocals?”
The Devil card on the table flipped itself, the flames licking higher. Somewhere, a deep laugh rolled like thunder.
Ash tightened his grip on the boomstick.
“Uncle, if you’re listening up there… I’ll get you your Madonna cuddle. But first, I gotta babysit the Canadian apocalypse choir.”
Sinj, Croatia — Summer 2026.
The trumpets blared, the crowd roared, and the knights of the Sinjska Alka spurred their stallions into the dust of the ancient battlefield. But this year, tradition was about to meet pop spectacle.
From the far end of the arena, the people gasped as a rider approached on a white horse, veiled in sequins and a glittering breastplate. The rider tore off her veil, and the sunlight caught her face.
It was Madonna.
“I demand to be trained for the female Alka!” she shouted, holding up a lance bedazzled with tiny crucifixes and neon LEDs. “It’s time to smash the patriarchy—medieval-style!”
The local knights muttered into their mustaches. One spat rakija into the dirt. Another crossed himself three times.
Ash, inexplicably pulled into the scene through the Devil’s tarot card, muttered:
“Oh, great. Madonna on a horse. The apocalypse has an opening act.”
The crowd of spectators, unsure whether to boo or cheer, started chanting half-heartedly:
“Ma-don-na! Ma-don-na!”
Elizabeth Taylor’s ghost drifted above the stands, whispering,
“She always wanted to play Cleopatra… now she wants to be Joan of Arc on horseback.”
One of the alkari stepped forward, bristling with tradition.
“Madam,” he said, “this is a sacred tournament, three centuries old. No woman has ever ridden in the Alka.”
Madonna leaned down from her horse, eyes flashing.
“Then I’ll be the first. And I want Ash here to train me. He knows weapons… and he’s not afraid of demons or tradition.”
Ash groaned, holstering his boomstick.
“Lady, I sell discount rifles at S-Mart. Training pop stars to joust wasn’t in the employee handbook.”
The horse reared, Madonna raised her lance, and the crowd went wild. Somewhere, a Canadian voice from the bleachers shouted:
“Hey buddy, let her ride—she’s part Terrance and Phillip now!”
On the stony walls of Sinj, as the bells rang softly in the night, a vision appeared: Elizabeth Taylor’s ghost, luminous, walking beside the Virgin Mary. The scene recalled the apparitions of Zeitun, where light itself bore witness. Their silhouettes glowed against the old fortress stones, a procession of warning and grace.
Madonna, drawn by the strange radiance, listened closely as Elizabeth’s voice—fragile yet resolute—echoed through the cool air:
“The party is over. It is time to prepare for the Four Horsemen.”
Her eyes, though spectral, carried the weight of eternity. She confessed in a whisper what shook her even beyond death:
“Of all of them, famine is the one I fear most. For famine strips not just the body, but hope, dignity, and the will to rise again.”
The Virgin Mary, serene and sorrowful, nodded, as if acknowledging both the prophecy and the pain it carried. The air thickened with the scent of incense though no censer swung. Some townsfolk swore they heard the faint clatter of hooves in the distance, as though the Horsemen were already on their way.