Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

Myron looks the demon in his beady red eyes before folding the paper open and reading half-aloud from the front page. “The Dark Lord, Lucifer, is proud to bring to you The Daily Cunt. Gone are the times where you should be worrying about who is fucking whom and who is getting fat. The end is upon you, and soon YOU will perish. Demons that will rape your soul, your sanity, and even your asshole have been loosed upon this soiled earth. The dead have risen, and they claw and bite the living into their ranks. You should be hiding. You should be praying. Allow us to be the paper that keeps you updated when everyone else is hanging from the streetlamps wrapped in barbed wire.”

Myron looks up from the paper. “So what does this mean for me?”

Azzehemadheadzqueerz’s tendril ashes the cigar on the desk, and the demon nods his horned head at the paper. “Keep reading.”

“We will feature constantly updated celebrity deaths!”

“Ha!” Myron laughs, “Impossible; it would take up the whole paper!”

As he finishes his sentence, he reads a small box on the front page of The Daily Cunt. “Who’s Who and Who’s Dead.”

Directly under the title is the sentence, “William Grimhole, actor 45, starred in Action Zone 1 through 4 and was dismembered by Bihferdar and Wildahgreadd during the happy couple’s honeymoon.”

“I love the Action Zone flicks,” Myron says sadly.

“Yeah,” Azzehemadheadzqueerz nods.

Myron looks back at the paper and sees that the sentence in the box now reads, “Chauncey Blipeppers, actor 34, former childhood star of Both Hands on my Shoulders, was feasted upon by a dozen undead inmates in the Hollywood County jail where he has been housed since an April 2009 indecent exposure arrest.”

“It… it… changed,” Myron says, amazed.

“Keep reading,” Azzehemadheadzqueerz orders.

Myron holds up his hands, looks back to the paper, and continues reading. “Former editor of The Daily Gab, Myron Bottomfeeder, slept on a cot in the basement of the Marvin J. Fartseinheimer Building last night. His wife was at home getting banged out by Mark Corhhole, former reporter for The Daily Gab. What?”

Directly below the paragraph is a picture of Myron standing in the lobby talking to the small green demon. He looks short and fat, and the expression on his face is one of utter stupidity. Below that picture is one of his wife, Mildred, on her hands and knees with her floppy tits swaying while Mark Corhhole fucks her from behind.

Mark’s glasses are fogged up.

Myron feels heat rising under his collar. His neck turns red, and the flush eases up to his ears and face. He shakes with rage as he continues, “Mrs. Bottomfeeder and Mr. Corhhole were both offered up as sacrifices for AssStretch the Inhumane of Hell 121 about an hour ago. All that Mrs. Bottomfeeder leaves behind for her overworked husband is a pillow covered in Corhhole’s pecker tracks. When alerted to the facts that he had no job and that his wife was fucking his employee and then was eventually fist-fucked to death by the large-handed minions of AssStretch the Inhumane, Mr. Bottomfeeder replied, ‘Arghhhhhh!’ before being torn apart by the paper’s new editor in his former office.”

“What…” Myron looks up from the paper. He doesn’t even have time to move before Azzehemadheadzqueerz’s clawed hand wraps around his throat and pulls him to his feet. The demon squeezes Myron’s neck until blood spurts from his ears and nose. With a snot-dripping grunt, Azzehemadheadzqueerz holds Myron above him.

“Nooooooo,” Myron bellows weakly before Azzehemadheadzqueerz tears him cleanly in half. Blood splatters the glass walls and drips slowly to the floor. Azzehemadheadzqueerz holds Myron’s torso in the air, greedily drinking the free-flowing blood, and then he tosses both halves of Myron aside like wrappers from a fast food meal.

“Fix that misquote,” he tells the green demon, who is now covered in blood and snot. “He said “‘Nooooooo,’ not ‘Arghhhhhh.’”

Agent Clearance Lickspittle is completely focused on the mission. He manages to tune out the constant whispered flirtations between his longtime partner, Fred Gallstone, and Gary back at ‘Control’ in the earpiece. Nope, Agent Lickspittle is a goddamned special secret agent, and a little bit of man-on-man dirty talk won’t cost him his chance to drive the Humscalade. Not now, not when it is within his reach, just down the block in an empty warehouse surrounded by stumbling, ravenous dead folks and shifty, howling demons. So far none of the dead or the demons has paid the three agents any mind. A fact that Agent Lickspittle recognizes as incredibly lucky considering the three agents are parked in the middle of the street in their secret agent double sidecar motorcycle.

Fred sits opposite Lickspittle’s sidecar, and a giant of a man drives the secret agent cycle. This giant is Manfred Manface. People never call him Manfred or Mr. Manface, oh no. He doesn’t exist. His friends, who are few since he’s preferred to be a lone wolf ever since losing his K9 partner his rookie year, call him Meat. Everyone else who meets him, also very few as well as very fucking unlucky, as such meetings usually happen at the wrong end of his oversized Uzi converted to the size of an AK-47, calls him Agent M.

Right now, Agent Lickspittle is going over every possible angle of the surrounded building that holds the most fashionable weapon of mass destruction ever: the United States government’s one and only Humscalade. The comfort and style of an Escalade with the ruggedness and .50 caliber mounted machine gun, state-of-the-art guided missile systems, and ten-inch-thick bomb-proof windshield, body, and frame of an extraordinarily advanced military Hummer.

Agent Lickspittle became a secret agent just for the chance to rub against the vehicle once in his lifetime. Now that he has a chance to drive it, he will leave a river of blood and gore in his wake. He smiles because he gets to keep his perfectly manicured nails around the Humscalade’s steering wheel. His eyes dart back and forth behind his dark sunglasses as his brain frantically scrambles for a strategy for evading the zombies and demons and getting into the fucking warehouse. He has been taught not to worry about a body count when there is a mission to be completed. So they fire up the mini-chain-guns attached to either sidecar and plow straight down the street.

On the bike next to him, Agent M ties one boot very fiercely. He cocks one eyebrow, and his large flat forehead wrinkles clear up into his generic flattop. He eyes the surrounded warehouse ahead and leans over to tie his other boot. When he leans back, the big man starts humming something by Rammstein and dropping the clips out of one of his many guns. He double and triple checks them, slamming the chambers back in and then replacing them in their holsters.

In the other sidecar, Agent Gallstone has one hand cupping his earpiece and one tucked into his cramped sidecar. He glances with furtive looks between his fellow secret agents and the zombies milling back and forth in their path. His attention is on the deep, gravelly voice tickling inside his ear. Every time Gary whispers a directive or asks for a status report, tiny tingles resonate from his ear all the way down to his dick, where they mature into throbs. Agent Gallstone is feeling randy, but there is no way he can rub out a quickie with his fellow secret agents so close. He figures he’ll settle for the next best thing and kill something.