Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

“LESBO DEVIL GOAT RAPE,” Leon screams hoarsely before bringing the battleaxe back up next to his head. The deathly sharp blade severs all four arms from their zombie owners. Leon pulls away from the snapping monsters with four dead hands swinging from his unwashed hair. While the zombies stare dumbly at their stumps, Leon beheads them both with a single swipe. The two heads tumble to the ground in opposite directions.

The fat demon squeals and kicks his pudgy legs, which end in tiny little feet, and squeals while more bullets drop to the ground around the shit-filled pickup. Bud stomps and groans in frustration. Leon takes a step to help Bud, but six more zombies stumble around the corner, so he cracks his neck and readies himself for some good decapitating action. Two dozen more zombies shuffle up to join their brethren, and the ghouls form a half-circle around Leon as Bud fires yet again at the squealing shitting demon.

“Budddddd,” Leon says over his shoulder. He sees one of the zombie hands hanging there and slaps it back out of his vision.

“What?” Bud snaps, realizing he might just as well try to skin the immense demon with his eyes as expect the M-16 to do any good. He glances at Leon and sees the sudden swarming of zombies. “Damn.”

“Wife-swap?” Leon offers.

“Huh?” Bud asks. After a moment, he figures it out.

Bud flips the demon the bird. The monster shits. Bud snickers and turns to face the horde as Leon runs toward fatty. Bud sprays the zombies with shots aimed at head level. He knows better than to fuck around when dealing with the undead. Rows of heads explode, corpses fall, more take their place, and Bud blows their heads off too. The fat demon points and laughs at the effort of hefting the axe etched on his Leon’s face. It flaps its tiny wings, and a wicked grin replaces Leon’s strained expression as the battleaxe cuts through the demon’s dainty ankle, severing his tiny foot.

The demon stops shitting and screams. Leon hacks into the creature’s thick thigh, and it rocks forward flapping its little wings as hard as it can. The pickup’s groans rival Bud’s constant gunfire for decibel level as the demon’s fat ass raises a few inches. The demon’s wings flutter ever more weakly as Leon hacks away. Bud looks over between rows of target practice. He watches for the tiny wings to stop for just half a second. When one does, he fires a single shot at it. The bullet tears the fragile wing in half, and the fat demon collapses into his own shit with a squelch.

Leon shakes his head and says, “Demon diddle shat glory hole.”

The wounded demon looks at Leon with fear swirling in his beady eyes. “What? Did you say glory holes? Oh, shit, are they here? I can’t even run! Fuck you guys! I was just taking a shit! You guys don’t ever shit? Fuck! I am so fucked!”

“Yup,” Leon says as he drops the heavy battleaxe across the demon’s throat. The fat head rolls slowly off the pickup as Bud drops the last two zombies.

“Good thing the sheriff station is only two blocks away,” Bud says as he picks his two backpacks up off the ground. They trudge onward, leaving a parking lot full of shit and carnage behind them.

Two blocks away in the sheriff station, Deputy Fenton Morks is looking in the mirror. He rubs his chin and feels the stubble growing there. Then he runs his fingers up his jaw line to his cheek. His fingertips feel the stubbly flesh of his cheeks then a sudden yet smooth transition to the hard, firm plastic that is fused seamlessly to his flesh. The plastic holds a bright red ball gag firmly in Fenton’s mouth. He grumbles behind the thing and swings his battle-scarred nightstick at the mirror, shattering it and sending glass flying.

Sheriff Smoochole shakes his head and paces back and forth down the small block of holding cells. All three cells are full. Two with dead people still walking around and trying to bite living folk, and one with three blood-drunk pig- faced demons. Smoochole rubs his nose and adjusts his aviator sunglasses and his hat. Deputy Morks moans something from the lobby, and the sheriff frowns at the cells full of Hell. He adjusts the bandoliers he stole from the asshole general in the desert and walks out to see what Fenton is hollering about.

“Smmmphhh,” Deputy Morks yells.

“Yeah,” Sheriff Smoochole grumbles as he locks the door to the holding cells, “I hear yer mumbling ass.”

“Smmmphhh!”

“I said I’m coming!”

Sheriff Smoochole stomps into the lobby where Deputy Morks is peeking through their handmade barricade of tables and chairs. Morks has his nightstick out and is tapping it against the tables and chairs that make up the blockage. He turns around when he sees hears the sheriff and nods him to the window.

“I know, Deputy, the world has gone to shit,” the sheriff grumbles and then spits on the floor.

“Pmmmphh! Rmmphh lmmmphh pmmmphh! Ommmphh,” Morks struggles to shout around the ball gag fused to his face. “Lmmmphh Smmmmphhh!”

“People? Real live people outside? Really?”

Deputy Morks nods and steps aside so the sheriff can look out the peephole. Sure enough, Smoochole spots two living humans working their way in crazy zig-zags toward the fortified sheriff station. Zombies stumble from behind cars and out of alleys and lurch toward them. But they defend themselves well enough to impress the stoic Sheriff Smoochole. Demons dive from above, and the taller man, wearing green overalls and a faded White Lion tee shirt, swings a mighty battleaxe, cleaving them clean in two. The shorter man, wearing Smoochole’s favorite Hustler tee shirt (the black one with the bright pink logo), concentrates his fire from an M-16. Smoochole straightens up and pulls the leather g-string from between his flabby ass cheeks.

“Well, Deputy Morks, let’s help them boys out.” Sheriff Smoochole grins and moves the first of many folding tables from in front of the door. Morks clips his nightclub to his belt and helps the sheriff clear an opening. Sheriff Smoochole stands back, hands on pistols, while Morks prepares to open the door.

“Rmmmmpphh Smmmmmphh?” Deputy Morks asks.

“Yeah,” Smoochole growls.

“Ommmmphhh… Tmmmmmph…” Morks counts.

“Oh, just open the fucking door,” Sheriff Smoochole groans as he pulls his walrus tusk handled .357s from the holsters.

Morks shoves out on the door, and the small sheriff steps out, guns blazing. He drops the two zombies closest to the men with well-aimed headshots. Both men look up at the sheriff and abandon their zig-zag pattern for a beeline to the front door. The demons above dive at the sheriff, and he rewards them with hot slugs of metal that tear their membranous wings to shreds. As they hit the ground, the axe-swinging fella lops their horned heads off. The two run past Smoochole and into the lobby. Sheriff Smoochole fires a few more shots at demons and zombies both before backing into the lobby himself. Morks slides the tables back as soon as Smoochole walks in. All four men rush to set the barricade back up as their dead and demonic assailant’s pound at the front door.

The two five-foot-three-inch men, Smoochole and Bud, stand across from one another, pointing their weapons at the floor.

The two six-foot-two-inch men, Morks and Leon, stand across from each other with their weapons at the ready.

Morks and Smoochole wear sheriff-issued cowboy hats over their close-cropped hair. Leon and Bud both have greasy shoulder-length hair. Leon has four zombie hands hanging from his.

“Wmmmmphhh tmmph fmmmphhh ammph ymmmph?” Deputy Morks asks Leon, eying the four zombie hands hanging from Leon’s lank hair.