Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

General O’Coddle moves toward the ruins, but Pestilence taps him in the back of the head with his crossbow. Pestilence twitches as his gut clenches, and he tells O’Coddle, “None for me, none for you.”

General O’Coddle smiles his black grin at Pestilence and sticks one meaty hand into the front of his pants. Drool drips at the corners of Pestilence’s mouth, and he wipes it away with the back of his slender hand. The general pulls his hand out and tosses Pestilence a bag of heroin three times the size of the last one.

“Hold out on me again and I’ll tear your soul into tiny pieces and cram it up the ass of every soldier here,” Pestilence smiles at the tan in his hand before dumping the entire contents of the baggie onto his spoon. He snaps his fingers, and a sickly green flame sparks to life from his fingertips. He heats the spoon, fills the needle and slams it into his forearm, only hitting a vein by sheer chance.

Pestilence’s eyes roll back in his head, and he tells the general, “Fine. Eat. We’ll… find… more… shi…” He nods off midword while the horde enjoys the congregation buffet.

Nathan Chuzzle lives on a big-ass hill in Southern Oregon that overlooks an idyllic valley. In this valley sits the small town of Spewmuller. Named after some old fart who settled here about a million years ago. They said he came out west to make money. Dig up gold. But all he found was a big puffball of nothing. So he built a bordello and filled it with every kind of woman he could find. Big girls, little girls. Girls in fine clothes and some in rags. Every madwoman, outcast and recovering nun he could get his hands on ended up in the place.

That’s how the town started. Built on the backs of whores. Literally. Chuzz once read on the Web that the city is one of the most promiscuous in the United fucking States of A. Hallelujah, brother.

There used to be a lot of trees in Spewmuller. Rows of green that would inspire penis envy in the evergreen state of Washington if it could put down the coffee mug long enough to swing by.

Now the town doesn’t look so good.

Chuzz remembers driving to the grocery store just a day ago. No way he can do that now. The street is on fire. As are what trees remain, and most of the houses around him. Streaks of yellow crisscross the sky as rockets burn away clouds and anything else that gets in their way. A flock of fighter jets streaks overhead with a large shape in pursuit. It looks like a dragon, an actual dragon, with three heads and black oily spikes that drip ichor as its mighty wings beat at the air.

Chuzz drops his gaze to the horizon just in time to see a foot swing into view. A really big foot. The thing looks like it’s the size of a bus, but maybe it is just his perspective. He tries to assure himself it’s just the angle, until the foot smashes the city into kindling. A horde of giant demons follow in close pursuit. Big red bastards about the size of minivans. Another one exits a house near Chuzz’s—just smashes through the wall like it’s not even there.

Big horns all over its body. A human guy follows the demon, not out of any desire to be near it, but because he has no choice, impaled as he is on two of the demon’s ass horns. The red spikes protrude from his stomach and shoulder, and all he can do is flail and scream.

Chuzz plucks a thorn out of his own ass. One of Stretch Bangstrom’s little gifts. Without thinking, he flings it at the demon. It falls short, and the creature turns to regard him.

“Tasty.”

“AHHHHHHH!” yells the punctured man. All Chuzz can see of him are his feet flopping from behind the red demon.

The thing has a face like a movie star who has been through five or six too many plastic surgeries. Tight, bulbous, perched on a long neck that stretches at least three feet from its emaciated upper body. The lower body is where the mass is. Like a snake just finishing digesting a sumo wrestler.

“Go away!” Chuzz yells.

“AHHHHHHHH!” screams the guy stuck to the demon’s ass.

Phil picks that moment to wander outside and investigate all the noise. He takes one look at the demon and screams in his best Phil.

Fucking Phil!

The monkey reaches behind himself and pulls a turd out of his ass with his one hand. He throws it at the demon and hauls ass back inside.

“Oh real nice, Phil. You useless shit-flinging ass-monkey!” Chuzz calls after him.

Stretch Bangstrom peeks over Chuzz’s shoulder. “We can take him. He ain’t so tough. Probably a second-circle fuck. Just use the microphone and toss him.”

Chuzz looks at the little face from the corner of his eye and feels another sliver of sanity slip. Like a big block of cheese at which someone has been hacking all day. The chunk falls away and melts into a gooey lunacy dip complete with bell peppers and a side of fuck you corn chips.

“You aren’t real. This isn’t real. None of it is real,” Chuzz whispers. The demon turns in a full circle as he seeks the source of the flung poo. The man stuck on his backside continues to scream.

“I’m real, fucker. Real enough, bub. And you better get your act together or we are gonna be dead meat. You wanna die stuck to that demon’s ass? I don’t think you do!”

“Get off my back!”

“Idiot! Just pick him up with the microphone. Do it!”

Stretch Bangstrom unsticks one arm and reaches into Chuzzle’s rear pocket. He pulls out the microphone and holds it up. Chuzz takes it in a trembling hand.

“DO IT!”

Chuzz stares at the demon, and the demon stares back. Blood drips from the thing’s mouth in a steady stream that sizzles when it hits the ground. Nathan P. Chuzzle points the microphone at the beast and wiggles it.

Nothing happens. The demon takes one massive earth-pounding step toward him. Chuzz wiggles the thing again, but it doesn’t do anything.

“AHHHHHHHH!” the poor bastard screams from behind the demon.

Another flight of jets roars overhead, this one pursued by a squadron of harpies. They screech and howl as they close in on the jets. A couple of them sweep close to the ground, and Chuzz realizes the things are massive. Wings the span of a housetop. Maybe larger. They drip blood as well, and Chuzz is pretty sure he sees little chunks of people and metal hanging out of their mouths. Then they break straight up and rip the fighters out of the sky.

“Hit the button!” The demon is so close that Chuzz picks up the distinct smell of rot and burning rubber. Or melting electronics. Maybe it is a combination of the three. Whatever it is, it is the smell of wrong.

He hits the button while pointing the device. The demon breaks into a full charge. Big bug eyes swivel around in sockets the size of serving platters. They are green and brown, like diarrhea swimming in Jell-o. They lock on him, and Chuzz feels his knees go weak. Screw this hero shit. Screw going to Vegas to stop the Apocalypse. What was he thinking? These things are monstrous. They tower over him and drool blood. How the hell is he going to stop them?

The toy! He triggers it again, and nothing happens. Then he remembers that he has to move it to make the thing do his will. He moves it up like he is going to toss the demon in the air. But he makes the trip instead.

“Wrong button, fucktard!” Stretch Bangstrom yells in his ear so loud that it goes deaf.

They are tossed fifty feet straight up. The chunk of asphalt on which Chuzz is standing is still beneath him, but the ground below is FAR away. He holds the microphone as steady as he can considering he is shaking like a leaf on one of those burning trees.