Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

Chester tugs his lips back in something suspiciously like a grin.

The slot machines fly over the front of the truck and smash all over the street, sending coins and shards of wood and metal into traffic. The resulting scene resembles overdone movie action as every driver on the freeway tries to adapt to the impromptu obstacle course.

The rider taps the stallion with his left foot, speeding him to the side of the road so the rider can see what’s going on.

Chester drinks it in. The guy he frightened tries to get out of his car, but a limo hurtles into the truck pushing the Dodge into the side of the car. The door flies back and pins the man to the side of the vehicle before his head pops like a melon.

“Sorry!” the man calls.

Chester is not.

Death is confused.

Nothing is going right. The seals haven’t been found. That was the first bit of concern he brought to his colleagues. The fact that all seven were still intact. But they didn’t listen; they said it was time to make up their own rules instead of living up to something a bunch of guys high on mushrooms wrote almost two thousand years ago.

The chosen are going to be pissed. Jesus is supposed to appear and take them to Heaven (which ain’t all that great; Death has been there and no one has a sense of humor) leaving the others to roast in Hell. Well it sort of works that way. Once he takes the good guys away, the four Horsemen have free reign. But none of it is happening the way it’s supposed to!

Where are the plagues, the fires, the mass deaths? Where are the locusts and shit? And where the hell is Jesus?

He wanders the streets, which are filled with partiers indulging in all manner of revelry. What the hell else would they be doing? It’s the end of the world and no one cares. Well he is going to make them care, he and the other three Horsemen. No one makes a mockery of them the way that woman on TV did today.

But he has something else on his mind right now. Something about which he has been thinking for thousands of years. Something that he is not supposed to try, but what the hell, the rules are all messed up. Nothing is going as planned.

“Its Arma-fucking-geddeon and no one cares!” he yells at the top of his lungs.

“Armageddon! Wooooooooo!” a bunch of college kids yell back with their hands and drinks in the air.

“ARMAGEDDON!” others yell farther down the street.

Death shakes his head and considers breaking out the old scythe right here and now.

He comes across a place that is just what he’s looking for. It was probably a pawnshop until recently, but the sign has been torn down and replaced with a fresh handwritten one. The windows are brightly lit, and the object of his quest is just inside.

He dismounts and shoos his horse away. Just before it departs, Death is pretty sure his steed gives him a sardonic look. What the hell is wrong with everyone today? The steed spins in a full circle, front legs kicking at the air. It stops with its giant horse cock pointed at Death and then leaps into the air and is gone in a half heartbeat. The air ripples where it passes.

He turns his attention to the shop. The figures in the front are pretty good-looking as far as mortal women go. He was always partial to those angels, the arch ones with the blond hair and muscular bodies, but most of them were far too pure and chaste to take up with him. He heard that War got a hand job from one once, but War was probably just talking out his ass.

A leggy blonde strolls up to him and hands him a flyer. She is dressed in a see-thru white top and a bright pink thong that reads Eat At Ella’s on the waistband. Her age is hard to guess, because she has enough make up caked on to make a clown break down in tears and worship her.

“Welcome to the Fuck Pit. My name is Ella, and here are our rates.” She sounds and looks bored. “You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”

“I have a face like that.”

“With all those tattoos? I bet you don’t at all. Are you in the movies or something?”

“Like you said. With a face like this?”

“Christ. What a day I’m having. With all the crazies in the street talking about the end of the world it seems like every virgin within twenty-five miles has been in and out of here.” She cocks a hip and strikes a pose that Death assumes is supposed to be sexy.

“Isn’t in and out all part of the game?” he asks.

“Nothing gets by you, smart guy. We just opened. Carl said it was on the up and up, but I have my doubts. You don’t just have a whorehouse spring up in the middle of the city in a day. There are palms to grease, people to blow. Why the hell am I telling you all this?”

“I guess confession is good for the soul.” He grins.

“So what do you want? Just look at the little flyer there, and I’ll bring out some girls.”

She rings a little bell on her hand, and within seconds seven or eight women in various states of dress enter the room. Death looks them over and settles on a brunette dressed in a bright red latex top that hugs her skin so tightly he wonders how she can breathe in it.

“Her.”

“Terra? You got a death wish or something?” She smiles.

“Her.” He grins.

“Fine. Work out the details in the room.”

The woman smiles demurely at Death and takes his hand. She is about five foot five, but with her red stilettos she must be closer to six feet, because he can see the back of her neck straight ahead. He can also see her ass around the strip of plastic she wears as clothing.

“My name is Terra Fuckbunny. Mind telling me what you had in mind?”

“Something I have always wanted to try,” he almost whispers.

She draws him into a room filled with all manner of paraphernalia. Straps and chains hang from every wall along with whips and paddles of all sizes. He whistles appreciatively. Death knew a few Inquisition types that would get hard-ons at such a display.

She turns to regard him, and he holds out the flyer with his finger pointed at one of the options toward the bottom.

“That’ll cost you.” She grins as she looks him up and down.

Death gives her a few of the hundred-dollar bills he found in the woman’s purse at the talk show that morning. She had a whole pile of them rolled up along with pills and powders of all sorts.

“Now get on your knees!” she orders, face suddenly stern.

When he is down, she puts one stiletto heel on his back and leans over to whisper in his ear. Death tries not to grin.

Charlie’s boss sucks on a cigar. He is as wide as a refrigerator and bald as an apple. He puffs when he isn’t gasping great big breaths that rattle and wheeze when he moves.

A waiter steers around the men and into the hubbub of the casino. Amidst rumors of the end of the world, people have flocked to Sin City like never before. Charlie has never seen so many luckless losers blowing their savings at such a rate. They are making so much cash that boss man hasn’t said shit about losses all day. Even the Chinese guy who left with two million house dollars was allowed to just go back home like he won two bits. Few weeks ago, Edgar Marcinni would have been all over the guy like a snake oil salesman until they won some of the money back. What the fuck was the world coming to?

A slow army of graying hair and tropical shirts pours inside. Probably another bus of rich golden-year retirees who are sick of kneeling in church praying for their souls.