Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

“I’m sorry,” the man and the weird plastic head say in unison.

“Just tell me what the fuck hell is going on. Why do you have a talking toy on your back? Why do you have a monkey with one arm, and why the fuck are we in a floating ice cream truck?”

“Well I wanted a house, but we had to get away from an army of demons and zombies. And don’t bother looking at me like I’m crazy. Because I’m not! I’m just as sane as you or Phil. Get it? Got it? GOOD!”

“’Sright. He’s not a crazy tosspot at all.” Goatboy chimes in. “’Slike this. He came down in ’is truck, blasted the shit outta that cunt of a monster, and then took us up in the sky. Maybe ’e’s an angel.”

“I’m no angel, but Gabriel gave me all these toys, and he was an angel. Said he was an archangel. He didn’t explain how to use them; he just left them on my kitchen floor and wished me luck. Then he flew away and was shot down by a missile. He also drank my beer.”

“Wait, like an angel angel? Like a guy with big wings come down from the fuckin’ ’eavens?”

“Why are you talking?! You’re a goat!”

“Jealous, then? What about the thing on your back, mate?”

“Crazy stuff happened to all of us. Can we stop the questions and just move along? Move the jingajangalang along? Let’s just accept that we are in the land of weird and I am your captain for the time being. I’m heading to Vegas to meet some people. Then we are going to stop the Apocalypse,” Chuzz yells at the assembled faces.

“Sorry?” Edwina shakes her head. Stop the Apocalypse? This loser? Then again, he does have some strange weapons. Something tore apart that demon.

“Nutter. Fucking nutter,” Goatboy grins. “I like you!”

“Look, boss, you got a fan now!” the toy pipes up.

“Everyone hold on. We’re leaving.”

Edwina shakes her head. She looks around the tiny truck and finds a spot that is relatively clear of syrups and sundae toppings. She sits and slides her backpack into her lap. The rest watch her in silence as she extracts clips and bullets, a couple of handguns and various items designed to screw up someone’s day.

“What are you looking at?” she barks.

“Yeah, you tossers. Leave her alone.”

Edwina glares daggers at the goat. She pulls out a very large knife and studies the blade.

“Oh, I get ya. I’ll just fuck off for a bit then,” Goatboy says and finds a nice quiet corner to sit in. Phil wanders over and falls down next to the goat. He lays his head on the creature’s soft side and closes his eyes. Goatboy is quiet for exactly two minutes and twelve seconds.

“I notice you ’ave a lot of guns. I ’ope you don’t plan to shoot me. Not old Goatboy. I’m as soft as a lamb and as smooth as the runs.”

Silence for a few more seconds before Goatboy pops his head up one more time.

“So. Two ’ookers were on a street corner. They started discussing business, and one of the ’ookers said, ‘Gonna be a good night. I smell cock in the air.’ The other ’ooker looked at her and said, ‘No, I just burped.’”

“Have you ever had goat curry?” Edwina asks quietly.

“Eep!”

Spittle slips from Pestilence’s lip into a small puddle on his lap. His hood covers his face except for his thin-lipped mouth and his pointy chin. A thick gray hand reaches up and gives his skinny shoulder a shake.

Pestilence stirs and mumbles, “Weed ain’t a drug,” before nodding right back out.

General O’Coddle looks at the zombie soldiers loitering around them. They appear to be eager for more flesh to feast upon. He turns his attention back to Pestilence, who is hunched over his steed. O’Coddle reaches up and gives the Horseman a second shake, firmer than before. Pestilence’s head bobbles and rolls, flinging spit and snot, but he still doesn’t stir.

The soldier zombies groan in impatient unison behind General O’Coddle. He turns his dead eyes on them and stares each one down in turn. He says nothing, but his furious dead eyes promise Hell sandwiches with a side order of shattered bones, and agony sauce for dipping. The zombies quit groaning and mill discontentedly about amongst the bloodstained rubble.

General O’Coddle grunts his approval of their show of weakness and reaches up to shake Pestilence twice as hard. Pestilence’s left arm flies up, slapping the general’s hand away. In the same instant, Pestilence pulls a curved blade from his robe and holds it to the general’s gray throat. The deathly sharp blade comes to a stop a quarter of an inch into General O’Coddle’s neck skin. If the general’s heart was were still pumping blood through his hardened arteries and veins, the general’s chest would be quite a mess.

Pestilence’s thin lips curl back, and he growls, “What the fuck, O’Fondle?”

General O’Coddle cocks one bushy white eyebrow and asks, “What in the cheerleader skid-mark fuck are we doing next?”

Pestilence gives the blade in O’Coddle’s throat a slight twitch, and his skinny frame rocks with an involuntary tic to match it. The blade sinks another quarter inch into the general’s throat.

“I mean awaiting orders, sir,” O’Coddle tells the shaking Horseman.

“Better,” Pestilence nods sloppily. “I don’t fucking know what we are doing next. I just woke up.”

Pestilence pulls his blade away from the general’s throat, wipes the black sludge covering it onto O’Coddle’s barrel chest, and slips it back into his robe. He rolls his head from side to side, and it cracks like gunfire. He smiles his graveyard grin and stretches. Muffled crunches sound from beneath his robe.

“What’s your fucking rush, General? It’s the end of the world.” He waves his slender hands in the air at as though conducting the sounds of chaos all around them. He wonders how he slept through the racket. Demons are screeching, zombies are groaning, and humans are screaming.

General O’Coddle holds up his hands and waves them at the soldiers. “We all will rot and fall apart where we stand if we don’t get the bored zombie fuck out of here.”

“Fine,” Pestilence huffs. “I smell tweek in the air anyway.” He tilts his head back and breathes deep. “Yup, just a few blocks that way.” He points in the direction of Jerome’s Sex Shop. “Good shit too.”

He wraps the reins around his fists, gives his steed a soft heel to the ribs, and tells the general, “We are going wherever that smell is coming from. Rally the troops.”

General O’Coddle grunts and addresses the soldier zombies. “All right, you rotting fuck rags, move out!”

Pestilence leads his pale horse away from the ruins of the church and toward the smell of meth. The street is clogged with vehicles, and Pestilence opts to lead his well-fed horde down an alley rather than through the maze of unmoving metal. He stops a half a block away from the sex shop and holds up his hand to General O’Coddle. The general stops and holds up his hand to the horde behind him. Pestilence presses one long finger to his thin lips, and General O’Coddle turns around to the zombie army and repeats the gesture.

Pestilence leans toward the general and asks, “Do you smell that, O’Fondle?”

“I don’t smell shit,” O’Coddle grumbles back, “because I’m fucking dead.”

“Well, be glad,” Pestilence says, waving his hand in front of his nose. “Because shit is what I smell. Nasty shit. And I think our tweekers are this way. The same way as the shit, unfortunately.”