Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

Grabs the headset of the phone and listens to a scratchy dial tone that warbles in and out. It fades and then speeds up, and he can’t help but wonder how a solid tone can go faster. Then static and a voice asks if he would like his skin laundered today.

“What?”

“I said. Would you. Like to have your. Skin laundered you. Stupid fucking. Monkey.”

“Phil, it’s for you.” He holds the phone up in the air. Phil gives him the finger for the second time today. The one that was up his ass.

“… the h double hockey sticks am I doing?” he whispers.

The monotone on the other end scratches at the phone like it is trying to get out. It stops and starts like an asthmatic trying to sound evil. It doesn’t sound evil. It sounds downright retarded.

“Leon, that you, you sonofabitch?”

“Not Leon. Not that easy. Not that easy at all. Not. Leon that lazy. Fuck. Er.”

“Are you the government?”

“Not quite. Not. Quite. Now I need. To talk to. You. Face to. Face.”

More warbling and the line goes dead. The phone line just drops like it fell off a cliff. Then a loud squelching sound rips into his already throbbing brain. He throws the phone down. It hits the pile of old blankets and doesn’t bounce, so he kicks it as hard as he can, which is a big mistake since he’s barefoot.

“Mother…”

A knock on the door upstairs cuts off his words. No one visits. Mother doesn’t like it when people visit, so they keep away. She used to keep a potato cannon by the front door that she would try to heft to scare away salesmen. A nice bright biohazard sign does the job now.

The knock comes again, louder this time. Then the house shakes and shudders, like something fell over outside. Something big.

Polite knock again, and Chuzz limps to the stairs. They are old and rickety, and he is pretty sure they will kill him one day. He spends enough time stumbling down them after getting fucked up on crème de menthe shooters. Washes those fuckers back with a Reese’s cup and calls it a day after noon. All that booze and all that sugar get him nice and lit up. Then he does his best work on the Web.

He stumbles against a computer monitor he used to swear he’d toss one day. One day has turned into one year. Pretty soon it’ll be one decade. He kicks that thing too and regrets it the moment he readies his leg. Regrets it again when he swings it and really fucking regrets it when his foot slams into the monitor and his toe curls back the wrong way.

A whole string of obscenities this time.

Knock knock.

“I’m cumming!” Chuzz thrusts his hips at the stairs like he is fucking them. When he finishes that, he plans to fuck up whoever is banging on his door.

He tugs his sweat-stained shirt over his raging hard-on and walks up the stairs on his sore foot. Limps, staggers, tries not to put pressure on it, which is a bitch because he weighs two forty and change.

Pictures of the old days line the walls, the days when he and Mother dressed as clowns and went to work at a local fast food joint called The Circus Fat Burger. Most of the food they served went to feed Mother.

She was bigger then, and when she used to walk around upstairs, it didn’t just make the house groan, it made the poor thing break down in tears.

As though remembering those days, the house shudders as another earthquake hits. Chuzz holds onto the railing for dear life even though he is only on the third step. The polite double knock comes again, and he is tempted to go downstairs, get his gun, and shoot the knocker in the kneecap.

He puffs up the stairs and slams open the door. It swings back and hits the wall. This is the part where it normally smacks him in the face. But thanks to all the Viagra, it smacks him right in the cock, and that’s when he loses it.

“Mother fuck! Mother fuck! I am going to kill the fuck out of you if you are a mother fuck of a door-to-door salesman. I am going to kill you and feed you to Phil! You hear me?”

Phil picks that moment to let rip an explosive fart that probably leaves chunks on the wall. Fucking Phil!

The kitchen is a mess. Mom hasn’t been around the last few days. Probably shacked up with those guys again. The Malore Twins. He shudders at the thought of those former wrestlers tag-teaming his mother. Those poor poor little men.

The kitchen table is littered with popsicle sticks, and it appears Mother has been hard at work building a new clock. The massive timepiece covers most of the surface area. Mom always did have crafty fingers. There is a pack of Platinum Lung Busters on the table. Big cigarettes without the filter. About the size of cigars but intended for inhalation. He tried one once and puked for half a day. Learned his lesson, because Mom laced them with Pine-Sol.

The ratty blinds don’t open anymore, so he slips his finger between their greasy slats and peers out. There is a shape in the shade of the porch, but all he can make out is brown.

“Oh a delivery!” he says and opens the door wide to greet the UPS driver. He is pretty sure he hasn’t ordered anything recently, but maybe they are bringing him something anyway, maybe something he ordered years ago that had slipped through the cracks until now.

He puts a smile on his face to greet the driver. A big smile that says “Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m glad I don’t have to kill you.”

The shape doesn’t move so much as unfold. Two talons uncurl where the feet should be. They scratch at the old concrete patio as the shape shifts. Chuzz’s gaze moves up the skinny legs, which end at a brown overcoat.

Long fingers fall from sleeves that are torn and burned in spots. Black smudges streak along the jacket as though it had caught fire and its owner rolled to put it out. Through the coat’s many holes, Chuzz can see something like smudged gray ash on feathers.

The man’s face is painfully handsome. Rugged, like a model or a baseball pitcher on the edge of retirement. He looks built, too, like he’s hiding an Ah-nold body under that thing. Not much of a neck, but what does show is thick and ripped with muscles.

Blue eyes sit under blond hair held back by a thin gold band. He doesn’t have a lick of facial hair, and one side of his perfect face is black and blue.

“Help you?” Chuzz asks. Voice stupid in his head because the thing on his porch should not be. He has the urge to tug his sweatshirt down again to make sure it covers his erection in case this guy is after his cock. Stupid faggots. Can’t ever tell where they’ll turn up!

“Hello, Chuzz. I got a delivery for you.” The man’s voice is ridiculous. While he speaks slowly with a sense of vibrato that hums across the tiny space, he sounds like he just inhaled a huge hit of helium. He sounds like a fucking chipmunk about to break into a Christmas song.

“You do?”

“Yep. Got a beer?”

“No. And I think you should…”

The massive man shoulders past Chuzz like he isn’t even there. He grabs Chuzz’s hand as he passes and shakes it vigorously. Nathan returns the shake automatically, then wipes his hand on his shirt. The guy with the talon feet has very cold hands. Cold and clammy. Gross.

“I bet you think a bunch of stuff, buddy. I bet you think I’m here to do bad things to you.” He stops and spins around to confront Chuzz, who comes up short. The man’s eyes are wide open like he knows a secret.

“Uh.”

“Whole lot of that today. Whole lot. I’m Gabriel, by the by.”

“Uh.”

“Right. Archangel, warrior, representative of the Almighty hisdamnself. Praise Jesus and shit.” He opens the refrigerator and extracts one of Chuzz’s PBRs. He pokes a hole in the side with one clawed finger. He puts the hole to his mouth and in one smooth motion pops the top and shotguns the entire thing in two point four seconds.