Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

Nathan P. Chuzzle ignores the thing. His mind is spent. There is literally nothing going on up there. For the first time in his life, not a single thought intrudes on the nothingness. Twang twang? Nope, the guitar string must have broken. Nothing. Just a haze of nothing.

He sits for some time and stares at the wall. The ceiling. The fading light of day. He listens to the screams in the night, howls and cries of pain. Cries of ecstasy. He should get up and check out the excitement, but he can’t muster up the energy.

“Fuck this. I’m going to bed. In the morning everything will be fine. I know it.”

“No it won’t.”

“Yes it will.”

“How are you going to sleep with me back here?”

Chuzz is already heading downstairs. The roof hangs over the dimly lit passageway and threatens to give in at every step.

“Easy. I’m gonna pop a couple of Ambien, and when I wake up, everything will be fine and dandy.”

Chuzz dry-swallows the pills like they are going out of style. He tries to slip his jeans off but doesn’t quite manage the feat before collapsing on his sweat-stained sheets, pants around his ankles, raging hard-on standing at attention. The toy groans and shifts under Chuzz as he passes gas like a locomotive chugging up a hill.

“Fucking asshole,” he sighs and then closes his eyes. Chuzz farts again.

Father Maniwhore rants and raves at the increasingly large crowd of people seeking atonement in the face of the coming Apocalypse. He pounds his fist and screams so loud, his spit flies seven rows. It splatters across pale scared faces. Sweat drips down his long goatish face. His booming voice increases in volume when the sound of demons descending on the town creates a wave of panic that grips the enthralled throng.

The sound of clawed feet scratching at the old brick building echoes down on them. Father Maniwhore raises his arms and tells the gathering of frightened flesh that doom is upon them!

Finally, after all this time, he will attract his demon father with the ancient symbols he has studied over the years. The elaborate images he has carved into the building’s stone roof and outer walls, all to call his demon father home during the end days.

Father Maniwhore is only half demon; his father a full-blooded badass big-dicked demon and his mother a full-blooded white trash crack whore. Dad went back to Hell, and Mom dropped him off at the church in accordance with Dad’s instructions. Maniwhore’s father built the church, but he couldn’t handle wearing the human suit that was required to run it. The human suit itched and pinched his prick when he walked. So he ditched the suit and the hooker and left the church to the young Maniwhore. As little Maniwhore grew, he adopted the title of Father, though he had not been trained for the priesthood. That’s what Father Michaels was for. Father Maniwhore had lived his whole life for the moment that was now upon him and those unlucky enough to find themselves in his half-unholy presence.

Great chunks of the stone ceiling crack from the force of the hellborn creatures pounding on it from above. Father Michaels and Father O’Coddle fight through the panicked gridlock surrounding the confession booths. They are just in time to see a large section of roof fall and crush two pews filled with last-minute worshipers. Rays of sunlight, dirty with soot and ash, shine through the massive hole in the ceiling. Several horned heads appear at the rim of the hole to peer down at the speechless crowd.

Once the majority of the dust settles, one of the demons leans down into the church. Its long goatish face quivers with unbridled fury as it speaks, “Who amongst you is the foolish weaver of intricate insults in stone?”

Father O’Coddle looks from the demon to Father Maniwhore, standing behind his pulpit with his arms in the air and a look on his face like he just shat himself. Even Father O’Coddle’s meth-addled brain recognizes the family resemblance.

After a minute of awkward silence, Father Michaels crosses himself and shouts up at the goat-faced creature, “Leave here, foul demon!”

The demon scoffs, tears a chunk from the ceiling and throws it down at Father Michaels. It misses the priest, but brains the young lady standing next to him with a sick thud. Father Michaels scoots a few steps from the dead girl, who remains on her feet because it is too crowded for her body to fall. He shouts again, “Leave here, foul demon!”

“Okay,” the demon says tearing loose another chunk of brick. “I get it. It wasn’t you. But you make me sick anyway.”

With that he hurls his missile, again missing his target. This time, it caves in the skull of a fat man, and the crowd can’t hold his dead weight. He tips over, crushing people under his girth and against one wall of the church. Upon seeing the chaos caused by the brick, the other demons begin ripping away bricks and stones and throwing them down at the crowd. Father Michaels pushes his way through the mob, screaming his refrain of “Leave here, foul demon!” Soon the crowd is decimated as the demons tear the church down brick by brick and stone the congregation to death. Midway through the slaughter, Father Maniwhore slinks dejectedly out of the church and Father O’Coddle follows, dodging falling bricks as he runs.

Eventually, the six goat-faced demons stand perched on the remnants of the walls catching their infernal breath while Father Michaels, streaked with the gore of others but still very much alive, runs back and forth across the half-buried crowd screaming, “Leave here, foul demons!”

The six demons exchange indignant looks, then dive in and disembowel Father Michaels the old-school way. Through his ass.

Leon sets the Jamie St. Pucker Pocket Pussy back on his nightstand as he starts kicking through the mess strewn about his bedroom. He finds his faded JanSport backpack under a pile of heavy metal tee shirts. He dumps the contents (a stack of flyers for Jerome’s Sex Shop, two empty whiskey bottles, and a few old Taco Bell bags) on his bed and stuffs the pocket pussy and a handful of shirts into the backpack. He reaches for the doorknob at the same moment Bud swings his door open. The door cracks against Leon’s forehead, and he falls back into his room on his ass.

“Shit, sorry, Leon,” Bud says as he helps him up off his cluttered floor.

Leon holds his hand to his throbbing forehead and nods his forgiveness. “Cock Mary cock,” he mumbles.

Bud shushes Leon and pushes the door closed quietly. He stares at Leon over his thin-rimmed glasses, “You might jus’ want to keep your mouth closed. I know this sounds crazy… there are three fucking angels downstairs.”

“Whoa,” Leon starts, meaning to explain to Bud how he and Chuzzle just had this conversation and maybe the angels can help them, but Bud holds up his hand and frowns at Leon, cutting him off before he even starts.

“Them boys downstairs appear to be battle angels, if you can believe such a thing, and I don’t think you would want to anger them, Leon. And seeing as how you can’t help but blaspheme about cocks, gods, and twats, maybe you should just stay up here and keep yourself quiet.” He nods at Leon and, not wanting to hurt his friend’s feelings, adds, “you understand, don’t you?”