Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

“Uh.”

The man… angel… lets out a loud burp. He wipes the back of his mouth with his hand, leaving black smudge marks behind. A look of discomfort troubles his flawless features, and he reaches in his pocket and pulls out what appears to be a small finger. It wiggles around until he drops it.

Was that a little dick?

“Stupid Cockbugs.” The big man smashes it with his boot and grinds it into a pulp.

“Cockbug? Am I losing it?”

“Probably. I came, well the boys and I did. We came to give battle, to protect the world. Only one problem, bud. Know what that is?”

“Uh.”

“I like you, Chuzz. You’re simple, and I can respect that. Anyway. The problem is simple, like you, as I just mentioned. We got our collective asses kicked six ways from Sunday. Boss man never showed up to help out or to collect for the rapture. All those people sitting around, being good, thinking they were on the way up. They are so screwed.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I bet you don’t, but time is short and you are all I have. Well, you and perhaps one other. I’m leaving you with some gifts. Have a nice life, Chuzz.”

He takes off his overcoat and drops a bunch of doodads and toys on the floor. His skin is covered in feathers that were probably white at one time but have crisped around the edges to a nice golden brown.

“Uh.”

“Not everything is what it seems, and stuff will change out there, which will affect these things. They may be good and they may be evil. I have no control over that. I just grabbed a handful of them on my way down.” Chuzz can’t stop staring at the big wings that bulge up over the guy’s shoulders when he talks. A small pile of feathers is collecting underneath his angelic visitor, and that isn’t good. Chuzz sneezes just looking at them.

“I don’t really…” He wipes his running nose.

“Right. As I was saying. If you try hard enough, you may be able to warp one or two. Just think of what you want them to do and they may do it. It’s not some innate gift you have. It’s the toys. I mean, you are kind of a scumbag, but yours was the closest house to where I crashed.”

“Who are you calling a scumbag, you godless son of a whore?!” Chuzz blurts before he realizes that his lips are forming the shapes for words and his vocal cords are following suit.

“Nice one, buddy! I wish I could stay and hang you by your balls, but I need to run. Need to go find some help or something. Enjoy your last days, or day. Maybe hours. Hard to say at this stage of the Apocalypse.” The man takes another PBR from the fridge and drinks this one more slowly, from the pop top. “You might be able to use some of that shit as weapons. Hard to say. Have fun saving the world. Later.”

“Uh. Why me?”

“Why not? Do you see anyone else around? Anyone? Besides, I like an underdog, and I don’t think I have ever seen a bigger one in my life.”

“Uh.”

“That’s a good shtick, man. Keep it up. Later, fucker.” The angel sweeps out his wings in an arc that smashes Mother’s clock to pieces. He looks up and raises one hand like he is Superman or some shit. Then he rises from the ground and rockets out of the house with a whoosh that tosses Chuzz on his ass.

“Uh… fuck.”

Chuzz covers his face to protect it from the falling debris, but some hits him anyway. Through the hole in the roof, he sees a missile streaking across the sky and the angel hauling ass to get away from it. Then another streak as one more missile joins the party and the angel disappears in a feathery explosion.

Dirty fallen feathers swirl around the kitchen. This is really going to play hell with his allergies.

Chuzz gets up and brushes himself off. Stares down at the mess and wants to cry. Mom is going to be so pissed! He pulls a curtain back from a side window and gasps because the world is on fire.

“Dammit! I had shit to do today!” He glances back and forth between the fire and his ridiculous hard-on. Now what?

Despite the meager shade provided by his gray cowl, the sun burns his eyes. They have grown accustomed to the dark. The desert sun is brutal even with the massive plumes of smoke darkening the sky. He smells thousands of rotting corpses broiling in the sun and flash frying from hellfires below. The stench doesn’t bother him as much as the ride. He rocks back and forth, back and forth, back and fucking forth. His horse moves forward, trudging through deep ruts of tank tread. If it could whistle, he bet it would. Smug motherfucker. But then again, it didn’t need a fix.

Withdrawal tugs at his guts, and the constant rocking motion of his steed forces vomit up his throat. The rider pulls at the reins wrapped around his long slender fingers. The steed rears back on its hind legs, and the rider curses and clutches at its neck. He swings off the horse, his gray cloak billowing, and lands on his knees in the sand.

The notorious Pestilence of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse gags and spits out a mouthful of ash and vomit as his horse walks a slow, steady circle around him. He has nothing left in his stomach, but still the need twists and tugs and he dry heaves in response.

“Keeeerist, let me die,” he begs with drool and snot dangling from his slender face.

“Sir?” a frightened voice asks from behind his kneeling form.

Pestilence wonders to himself how long he spent in that last opium den. If people are already calling him “sir,” then War must be riding around on his hard-on raising an army of the dead and loosing the Dark Lord. War is a smug motherfucker too. War would be pissed that Pestilence is so far behind the plan.

As his chest heaves and burns, Pestilence doesn’t feel like hearing about it. It occurs to him somewhere deep in his ancient subconscious that zombies don’t normally talk. And it’s common knowledge that most demons speak with foreign accents. He is supposed to be the first Horseman to hit the scene but, damn it, there is great heroin in San Francisco. If War got impatient and did what Pestilence was supposed to do, then he might be out of a job. Screw it. The job has gone to shit anyway.

Every plan Satan has spent millennia planning has gone to shit.

The Antichrist is dead. Stabbed in the eye by an old lady. What a pussy.

The brilliant aphrodisiac and hallucinogenic Cockbugs Satan and Pestilence created together were too effective. And that was kind of his fault. Pestilence, on a six-decade runner of highballs, speedballs, heroin, meth, and sometimes straight dirty cotton, insisted that they should get people high. They got humans really high. And really horny. The orgy, always intended to be a slaughter, got wayyyyyy out of control. The fucking hole got plugged. Satan himself couldn’t push through all the rotting corpses. The Dark Lord went insane with anger and exploded on Las Vegas, leaving demons from all 147 circles of Hell pushing at the corpse plug for a chance at the Earth.

No word on Jesus.

He hasn’t heard about God.

An angel hasn’t fucked with him for as long as he can remember.

If War doesn’t get here soon, Pestilence will crawl back to an alley in Reno and fill his veins with something. Anything.

“Sir,” the small voice reminds him, “we are awaiting orders.”

Without standing, Pestilence focuses his sunken bloodshot eyes at the Army captain staring at him. Recognizing the man as living, Pestilence stands straight and notices the line of military vehicles and tanks. Hundreds of soldiers mill about; piled in the shade playing cards, napping, and a few cleaning their weapons.