Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

The volume is increasing by the hour. People are flooding in like Tom Jones is performing tonight, but he isn’t. He’s rumored to be vacationing in Bali while the ‘excitement of possible coming events’ plays out.

The ground picks that moment to heave and ho like a ship that just hit a wave. He reaches out and grabs the arm of the pit boss to keep his balance. The bigger guy smiles at the minor earthquake and rides it while clenching down on his cigar with yellowed teeth.

“Another little one.” He shrugs off Charlie’s hand and turns to face the army of the old. “Come oh ye faithful. Spend yar fuckin’ money like it is going out of style.”

“This can’t keep up. People are going to get wise to the fact that they are still alive in a few days. Take that guy there. How long has he been at it?”

“The crazy in the robe? Three fucking days. He ain’t moved and ain’t that some shit?”

“What?” Charlie says.

“He ain’t moved in three days.”

“That a record or something?”

“Pretty close. That meth head made it for four, but he went out in an ambulance. This guy doesn’t look tired. He seems… I don’t know, elated. Go talk to him. See what he is all about. Offer the guy a nice room or something. The way he is spending money, we need to keep him happy.”

“Sure, boss, no problem.” Charlie steps away and is almost plowed down by an electric wheelchair driven by a demonic-looking woman with black cat’s eye glasses and a disheveled bun of blue that trails behind her. “I fucking won ten grand. TEN GRAND!” she yells as she almost runs him over.

He takes the long walk along losers’ row. How many times has he taken the steps and tried to reconcile what he does? How much money he helps bring in, how many dreams he has seen crushed. How many times has he stared into the eyes of someone who just lost a child’s college tuition? Offered comforting words, offered the devastated parent a free upgrade to a suite and a fresh line of credit?

It pays to look like a nice guy. At work at least. He tried to be a nice guy at home, but that didn’t work out so well with his lovely bride Edwina. Bitch kicked him in the fucking balls and drove over his legs. They found the car a few days later but no sign of her. He wanted to press charges, but he was too damn embarrassed that she’d beaten the hell out of him and stolen his car.

Stupid cunt. He gave her everything, and as payback he gets to walk with a limp everywhere he goes. Some days he wakes up and can’t feel his fucking legs. If he ever catches up with her, she isn’t going to feel her legs for a long time.

He strolls past a pair of patrons. A short man with bright red hair and a stunning woman dressed in something that resembles clothing. She has gigantic fake boobs that are barely contained behind her string top. They are kissing while she takes his dice and tosses them across the table. He grabs a handful of her ass and peeks as the dice come to a stop. Then he jumps up and down as they win a cool five grand. Charlie can tell the winnings from a mile away. His eyes lock on the color of the chips, and he feels like the money is being taken out of his own account.

They will probably lose it back to the house in a few minutes. Nothing else to see here; move along, folks.

He makes it to the craps table and gets an up-close look at the man who is perched over the back of it. One foot cocked up on the support of the leg rest. His other hand crooked, elbow on the table, hand cupping chin with fingers tapping pearly white teeth. He has a full beard, which reminds him of one of those Al-Qaeda mother fuckers on TV. The ones who want to kill Charlie and take away his freedom.

The man’s eyes are wide open and bloodshot. Sweat drips down his brow and onto the collar of his robe or toga or whatever the hell that sheet hanging to the ground is supposed to be. Probably works on one of the shows; he looks like one of those Broadway wannabes who run around in costumes. Looks like he could play someone’s dad with all that hair and those dark circles under his eyes.

“You… uh… you okay, sir?”

“Yep.” He doesn’t even look at Charlie. He just grabs the dice and tosses them with a flourish of his hand, white robe whipping out with a snap.

“Sir, if you would like to take a break, we can hold your chips for you. No one will let anything happen to them. Or you can take them with you, and the table will hold your spot.”

He tosses the dice again, and they come up a three and a two. He stares at them like they are his worst enemy, like he is going to reach across the table, sweep them up and toss them across the room.

“Me!” he exclaims.

“Pardon?”

The man turns his full gaze on Charlie, and the man who has seen it all recoils. There is something there. Something old beyond measure. Something that makes him want to find a hole and hide in it. He feels like he is under the gaze of his angry father, just like the old days when the drunk used to chase him out of the house.

He thinks of the first time he hit Edwina, and he feels a flash of pity, of shame. He feels like a child who has done something wrong but was never punished for it.

“I’m sorry,” he says to no one in particular.

“I said me, you half-tard. Now fetch me another of those wondrous drinks that make my head buzzy and dizzy at the same time.”

Charlie really can’t do anything. The man is in full possession of his faculties, that much is certain. He may be a bit crazed, but otherwise he is harmless. If he were causing a scene, it would be a different matter. He stands on unfamiliar ground here as he contemplates what to do with the man. Three days of gambling. That can’t be good.

He affects a tight little smile meant to look dismissive even though he is the one being summarily sent away like kid without his supper. He meanders back to the boss, narrowly avoiding a pair of midget Elvis impersonators who are belching fire from their mouths and asses.

The boss gives him the arched eyebrow. He doesn’t really know what to say, how to respond to the fact that he was told to go away. He shrugs his shoulders. A sound from the table he just left grabs his attention. The guy is stomping his foot. Is that a fucking sandal? “Me Me ME!” he yells.

“How much is he down?”

“They say three point four mill, but I find that hard to believe.”

“Jesus.” The room goes completely silent for a split second, and all eyes glance at the man in the robe.

“What the fuck?” the boss whispers, then it is chaos again as machines spit out money, take in money, lose money and clang clang clang like there is no tomorrow. Which there isn’t, according to most of the people in the building.

Charlie is not so sure. He still has customers to draw in, and he plans to wring every dime from them so he can keep the real bosses happy.

“Weird,” Charlie says to himself. Boss nods and goes back to work.

The building shakes again, and someone wails as chips fall to the floor and roll everywhere. Scrambling, fingers reaching then fists pummeling. Kicks, groans, bodies go down. Security descends on the scene and sorts things out with elbows and clubs.

Much later in the day and Charlie has watched the man in the robe for hours. He can’t figure the guy out. He orders enough vodka and Red Bulls to placate an army of alcoholics. He downs them, belches, scratches his ass. He shuffles from foot to foot, and every time he reaches into his robe he pulls out money. Where the hell does all that damn money come from?

Charlie returns. He has to learn about this guy. He is dying to know how he can hold in that much booze and not go to the bathroom. And where does he keep that fucking money stashed?