Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

“Pussy scramble Lucifer ass toy,” Leon tells him, trying to explain that he didn’t understand a fucking thing that Morks just said.

“Wmmmmmph?” Morks steps back and raises his nightstick.

“Devil shower,” Leon answers and raises his battleaxe.

“Whoa, he didn’t mean anything by it,” Sheriff Smoochole tells Leon and Bud. “My friend can only mumble on account of the ball gag.”

“Huh,” Bud tells the sheriff, “my friend only speaks in perverted nonsense.”

“We got caught in an orgy-turned-slaughter. A gateway to Hell opened up beneath us, and corpses clogged the hole. Hellfire spurted through, and one blast caught Deputy Morks here in the face and melted his ball gag to his skin.”

“Did it melt that g-string to you?” Bud asks with one eyebrow raised.

“Nope,” Smoochole answers firmly.

“Leon talks funny because our boss Jerome uses Leon’s straw to stir his homemade LSD,” Bud says with an inadvertent chuckle.

“Cock rim?” Leon asks, forgetting about his staring contest with Deputy Morks.

“Oh shit,” Bud says. “Don’t worry about it, Leon. I’m sure Jerome will die soon and he’ll never make that shit again. You’ll get right again.”

“Fuck,” Leon says. Knowing the reason for his constant tracers and wild hallucinations doesn’t make him feel any better. He sighs and the walls sigh with him.

Sheriff Smoochole asks, “Where are you two heading?”

“Las Vegas,” Bud says, leaning closer and talking more quietly. “Leon is bound and determined to go down there and fight the Devil. I know it sounds crazy…”

A wide smile creases Smoochole’s face, and he interrupts Bud. “Good! We’ll take our Hummer; it’s military issue. Deputy, pack what you need; the time for revenge is upon us!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Bud asks, confused, as Deputy Morks runs to the back offices.

“Revenge, friend. I’m talking about some mother fucking revenge,” Smoochole says, holstering his weapons. “We spent days getting fucked by a legion of smelly hippies, and now Morks has to wear a hellfire face mask. I saw that big red mother fucker. He shook one of his pricks at me. It… burns… in… my… mind.” Even as Smoochole speaks, a giant blood-red cock waves tauntingly in the depths of his brain.

“Fine,” Bud says. “Hear that, Leon? We got more firepower and a ride.”

“Slut bang demonhole smut, Bud,” Leon says with tears brimming in his eyes.

“I know, Leon.” Bud puts his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “But Jerome will pay for what he did to you, buddy. If not, once we smear that devil cock sucker out, we can come back and do the same to Jerome. Sound good?”

“Asslick foursome, Bud,” Leon says, waving his hand at the ready Sheriff Smoochole and Deputy Morks. He is ready to leave. The walls are crying the tears he won’t.

“The Hummer is parked out back,” Smoochole says, still grinning. “Hurry up, boys, I can’t fucking wait. Oh, yeah, Deputy, grab some of them sweet-ass shotguns on your way to the Hummer.”

Death ponders the remains of Las Vegas.

Buildings lie in rubble; girders and chunks of concrete are the sole remnants of the most luxurious hotels in the world. Now they are gravestones, marking the burial sites of people and chips and tons of money. Neon lights once shone like daylight. Now they are dead or sparking in the street.

The first quake was bad, and when the form of Satan rolled over, it was pretty much the end of the entire city.

People wander like zombies, covered in ash, blood and sometimes parts of other people. Every few minutes, a demon pops into view. Gets a hard-on at the sight of the destruction and cock slaps the shit out of some poor soul. Death could put an end to this. He could stretch out his hand and end the misery. He could wipe it away with a look. A smile. A grim grin as only the grim reaper can pull off. He has done it before, and he could do it now.

But he doesn’t.

A demon tosses a man into the air, a fat guy dressed in sweats with a big gold chain around his neck. The necklace flies away from the demon, but the guy is impaled on the demon’s raging member. His face goes completely white in shock. Then red in pain. Then his eyes light up, and his throat opens in the most bloodcurdling scream Death has heard in a few years.

Death should help, but what’s the point?

A green demon covered in flaming giant warts pops out of the rubble right in front of the man in black. He drools a vitriol that drips to the ground and burns holes in everything it touches. Death stands resolute, doesn’t even raise his hand. His hoodie slides off, leaving his bald head exposed.

“Sup,” the demon hisses.

“Taking in the sights.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The monster is at least eight feet tall with hips wider than its shoulders. It resembles a spider with a long neck and round head at one end and half a dozen knobby arms on its chest. The thing crouches down on haunches the size of semi tires.

“I guess I can’t eat you.”

“Probably not.”

“A lot has changed. A lot of the rules don’t work the way they used to.” More drool cascades out of the mouth that hangs long and lean like a giraffe’s. Snout the color of a pickle.

“This hasn’t.” The dark man gestures and a massive scythe forms in his hands. The demon whistles in appreciation. He looks over his shoulder as though he may have heard a friend call. Or maybe he left something back down the road. Maybe he doesn’t want to get sliced in two.

“Guess I’ll just fuck off then.” The demon turns away.

“Later.”

“Antichrist, I hope not. Hey, you wouldn’t know where Satan’s spawn is, would you?”

“Dead.”

“You sure?”

Death stares at him.

“Right. So… have a nice Apocalypse.”

The demon wanders away, chancing upon a showgirl cowering behind an overturned car as he goes. He pulls her out and rips off her red sequins to reveal a flawless naked body the color of ash. Her screams don’t last long, because his mouth opens to an impossibly large maw, and in she goes, headfirst. He pulls her back out, sucking the flesh from her bones like he is skinning the meat off a chicken wing. He tosses the pile of steaming bones in a heap.

Death walks deeper into the remains of the city.

A flickering sign proclaims the building that used to be the El Douchola Hotel. Now it is slabs of concrete. No demons lurk here, and Death has to wonder what’s up. He’s had to scare a few more away, which is a new experience. In the old days he would have sliced them to bits without a second thought.

A cry from inside pulls at Death. Something familiar, as though he were remembering an old song.

He picks his way through the rubble. As one of the Horsemen, he has a few tricks up his sleeve, but inhuman strength was never one of them. Instead, when he comes across a blocked path, he uses his scythe to cut through the obstruction like a hot knife through lard. He chops a column in half and jumps back when part of the floor above collapses.

He waits for the dust to settle, then continues, climbing over beds and chairs. Something shakes in what used to be a closet, but he ignores it and moves on.

He comes across the remains of tables, chips, money. People and body parts lie everywhere. There is a guy folded completely in half at the waist, crushed under a massive table. A loud groan comes from a giant rent in the floor. Death pokes his head under a fallen column and then weasels through a narrow gap where it meets the wall. Then he is through and staring down a tremendous gap in the earth like part of a plate under the ground has shifted.