Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

“What’s the problem here, Officer Morks?” Sheriff Smoochole asks from behind.

The deputy drops his beat bag onto the hot Nevada sand. He is breathing in short wild bursts and smiling like a maniac.

“Nothing, sir,” he says before turning around to see the sheriff in a leather g-string. Thin leather straps rise from the revealingly little piece to meet on a metal circle in the middle of the sheriff’s old skinny chest. He still wears his cowboy hat and his aviator sunglasses. His badge is pinned to the leather strap going over his shoulder. Officer Morks stares at the sheriff with embarrassment reddening his cheeks.

“Sir… what?” is all he manages before he has to turn away from the rail-thin, wrinkly, and nearly nude Sheriff Smoochole.

“When in Rome, Officer Morks, when in Rome,” Sheriff Smoochole says as he walks past the man to get a closer look at the dirt asshole out of which the Cockbugs are climbing. Officer Morks turns back around just in time to see Sheriff Smoochole’s flat pale butt cheeks and the hand-shaped welts of various sizes rising on them. His cheeks snap and wiggle with each step, hypnotizing the young cop. He is still watching them, Sheriff Smoochole’s yells almost distantly lost in the odd rapture of the sheriff’s fabulously hideous ass cheeks, when Officer Dick Johnson bumps into him, stirring him from his trance.

Morks looks from the overweight Officer Johnson, dressed in assless chaps, bright green nipple clamps, and an orange feather boa, to the leather g-stringed sheriff. The sheriff turns around and asks Officer Johnson, “What’s going on in camp?”

Officer Johnson gives his nipple clamps a tweak, cringes with pleasure, and tells him, “There are Cockbugs everywhere! They tickle and they get you HIGH! Oh, Mother Earth loves us all!”

“Hmmmph,” Sheriff Smoochole says, and he turns back to the dreadlocked kid next to the hole. The kid has kicked off his hemp shoes and is tugging at his hemp rope belt. As he shakes, Cockbugs dangle from him before dropping to the sand and skittering to someone else.

“What in the dirty third knuckle fuck are you doing, kid?” Sheriff Smoochole asks the dreadlock, anger rising in his voice.

“I told you, man, these little Cockbugs are gonna take our spunk to Earth Mother. She is thirsty for our love, man. Come, let us fuck on her love-hole!” The dreadlock holds his fist up to his cheek and slides his hand back and forth, moving his tongue against the inside of cheek as he does so.

“I’d be all with ya’ if this here Earth Asshole was fifty feet that way,” Sheriff Smoochole tells the still-stripping hippy. “But as it is, there are rules, and you can’t just run around naked, eat drugs, and fuck anywhere in the desert! There is a camp right… there!”

Sheriff Smoochole’s frame shudders as he wheezes from getting so upset.

“Sorry then, Pops,” the dreadlock tells him with a wink as he drops his patchwork pants down around his ankles, “but we all gotta fuck on the hole so the Cockbugs can take our love spunk to Mother Earth. Ain’t no Earth hole over there; I’d just be blowing an old guy and I ain’t in college anymore and I ain’t blowing any old guys unless it helps MOTHER EARTH!”

The small surrounding crowd cheers and whoops, attracting the attention of more people in the camp. The nuns are yelling, “Cockbugs for Earth!” and “Dump love-spunk here!”

The dreadlock pumps his fist and gets an “Orgy on the Earth Asshole!” chant going.

Officer Morks leans close to whisper into the sheriff’s ear and accidentally rubs his crotch against Sheriff Smoochole’s paddled fanny. “There are too many to shoot, Sheriff,” Morks tells him, panic resonating in his voice.

Smoochole cracks a grin and says, “Yeah.”

The sheriff reaches one hand back and gives his deputy’s ball sack a good firm tug. He reaches from the other side and pulls his deputy’s pistol from the holster. He points the .45 at the buck-naked hippy whose pubic hair is as tangled and dreadlocked as his head. The hippy throws his fists in the air along with the “Orgy on the Earth Asshole!” chant. He leans close to Sheriff Smoochole and tells him, “You can’t shoot us all, Kojack.”

“Right you are,” Sheriff Smoochole replies. Then he cocks back the hammer and pulls the trigger. The bullet slams into the dreadlock’s forehead, forcing his eyes to cross. A tangle of blood and hair flies skyward behind the hippy, and gray brain matter spatters the two bearded nuns. The dead hippy falls face first onto the puckered asshole in the sand. His tongue rolls out of his mouth and dips tenderly at the rim of the Earth Asshole. All the other weirdoes scatter, some running back to camp and a few less fortunate running wild and free into the wide open desolate desert most likely never to be seen again.

The two brain-splattered dick-swinging nuns are still yelling, “Cockbugs for EARTH,” “Dump love spunk in the Earth Asshole,” and now “Fuck in the memory of Dreadnuts Roberts!”

Sheriff Smoochole tucks the still-smoking pistol into the front of his g-string. It sizzles and he smiles. He turns to Officers Morks and Johnson and screams, “Stay here and keep the dirty lawless fuckers from fucking each other like sweaty feces-covered monkeys!”

“Where are you going, sir?” the two oppositely dressed cops ask at the exact same time.

“To call the goddamned Army. They can kill more hippies than we can,” he tells them as he turns and walks back toward camp. He says more, but both Johnson and Morks are hypnotized by his pale flabby ass flaps, and his voice is muffled. So is the rushing crowd of stripping hippies headed for the Earth Asshole behind them.

So is the strange high-pitched giggling rising from the slowly expanding Earth Asshole. It puckers more and more, growing so wide that the dead dreadlock’s head drops in. Blood runs like a crimson stream from the man’s massive exit wound, and the laughter rises up into the dry Nevada day.

Officer Morks feels something slithering across his crotch, and it draws his attention from Sheriff Smoochole’s horribly hypnotizing ass. A small Cockbug is tugging at his zipper and kicking its dozens of tiny legs against the thin khaki fabric of his uniform pants. The bulge in Morks’s crotch grows involuntarily, and the little Cockbug squeals in delight. Panic forces Officer Morks’s shaky hand, and he drives his nightstick into his own swollen package in an effort to kill the happy little Cockbug.

It stabs Morks in his balls with its tiny barbed horns before it falls to the sand. Officer Morks’s nuts throb painfully in response to the two deep pinprick stab wounds, making his stomach twist and knot. He squints behind his sunglasses and watches the death twitches of the nasty little bug.

“Cocksucker,” he spits.

“No, Fenton,” Officer Johnson answers, still distracted by Sheriff Smoochole’s leathery ass cheeks, “they are called Cockbugs .” He sighs and continues, “they get you sooooo high.”

“What? That’s not what I’m talking about, you asshole,” Morks snaps while tenderly rubbing his bloody ball sack.

“Yeah,” Officer Johnson says, “I can see Sheriff Smoochole. He is on the solar phone. I’m guessing he’s talking to them, because he’s waving his hands a lot. He has skinny little arms, but they make great tracers. His ass is like a car crash of fucking ugly, but I can’t take my eyes off it. I’ve worked with Sheriff Smoochole for going on fifteen years, and I never knew that pale atrocity followed him everywhere he went. You think you know a son of a bitch after fifteen years…”

“What the fuck ever,” Officer Morks says as his fat co-worker mumbles off into silence.

Officer Morks looks back to the ground where a live Cockbug is poking its horns at its fallen brethren. It whistles and then rubs its shaft body against the Cockbug corpse until the dead bug is covered in sticky white goo. Officer Morks’s jaw drops when the once-smashed Cockbug twitches back to life. It rolls over onto its dozens of black legs and stares at Officer Morks. The little zombie Cockbug howls, a thin whispery sound, and charges Officer Morks’s foot. His eyes wide with terror and amazement behind his shades, Morks brings his foot down with a satisfying crunch. He smiles wide and maniacally at the smeared Cockbug with one horn still thrashing softly from the small pink puddle in his boot print. He looks up from the Cockbug stain, and the smile slips from his face like a limp dick in silk boxers. The rushing crowd of naked hippies is nearly upon them.