Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

A green demon the size of a gorilla hurries after the thing. He is covered in snakelike hair that shakes and spits as he runs. He catches up with the box, grabs it, lifts it into the air and then slams a pair of giant cocks into the metal monstrosity. It jumps and bucks, but he screws it like it owes him money, humps it right across the road until he disappears around the rubble of a fallen hotel.

“Me.”

“You can say that again.”

They finally find something large and stately. A 1969 blazing red Plymouth Road Runner convertible. The front is higher than the back, and it boasts gigantic gleaming silver rims. The roof is off, torn off to be exact, and it is the perfect size for Death’s scythe.

“Really?” Jesus asks, his dark eyebrow arching up

“Fuck yeah!” Death replies.

Death hops in the driver’s seat, and Jesus sits next to him. The keys are on the floor, so he fires up the engine. He has never driven a car, but he drove a giant chariot a few thousand years ago, so this thing should be no trouble.

He rides over a curb, chases a pair of tiny demons from behind a condom machine lying in the street and then runs into a Kia, which pretty much destroys the piece of crap.

“Fuck!”

“Practice.”

He drives like an old woman for a while, just until he gets the hang of it. Then he plows into a man being chased by a gnarly demon dressed in drag. The man is screaming while covering his ass. The demon is screaming while brandishing a male sex doll.

The guy crumples across the hood of the car and flops onto the ground. His head hits like a melon and opens up with a splat.

“Shit!” Death yells and looks over the hood.

“It happens.” New Jesus sighs.

They raid a 7-11 and come out with Big Gulps filled with Slurpee mix that is mostly melted. Even so, Death gets a wicked case of brain freeze almost immediately. The flavor is Electric Blue, but it tasted tastes more like electric fuck you. His head hurts so much he almost asks the man himself to touch him and take away the pain.

Jesus gnaws at a piece of beef jerky while appearing to be deep in thought. He chases the jerky with a shot of Cheez Whiz straight from the can. Death saw him grab a few six packs as well, but he didn’t see what they were. Probably beer. Who could blame him?

“You get some good brew?” Death asks. The wind is whipping at his hoodie, but every time the hood falls, he tugs it back into place. Old habits die hard, and covering up all the mass murder is one of them.

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Really? I thought we might open a cold one while we cruise.”

“It’s not cold, but you are welcome to try some.” He retrieves a slim blue can from the brown paper bag and hands it over.

Death pops the top and takes a sip. It is sweet and tastes of chemicals. He grins and drains the can in one long swallow like he is shotgunning a beer. He suddenly feels happy, filled with energy. He hasn’t felt this way in a long while.

“Red Bull?” He reads the side of the can aloud.

“Tastes wonderful with vodka.” Jesus grins, his bruised eye giving a twitch.

Death smiles and guns the engine. The car leaps ahead with a roar. He reaches for another drink and pops it open. He slurps this one more slowly, savoring the chemicals as they fizz down his throat.

A whole herd of dancing news boxes runs alongside them. They twist and turn, clank and crash across the road. Some range ahead of the car while others stay with them. The boxes come in various sizes and colors, but all feature the same logo. ‘The Daily Cunt.’

“Must be a hundred of the things,” Death whispers to himself.

Death pulls up to the next store he sees, and Jesus dashes out of the car. He runs inside with his hands over his head screaming about the end of the world. No one runs out. He walks out a moment later with a box of bottles and sets it in the back seat.

The two men pour out the leftover blue sludge from their Slurpee cups and mix up a batch of Red Bull and vodkas. Then they are back on the road and headed for the desert. The smell of blood and death fades as they drive into the desert. It is replaced by dirt and a very dry sun.

The metal boxes clank purposefully off into the distance like they have a mission. Death is tempted to pick up his scythe and cut the things down, but Jesus ignored continues to ignore them, which isn’t really like him. He should be forgiving the things and blessing them, but he doesn’t seem to be in a blessing mood lately.

“We need some tunes!” the bearded son of God screams. He fiddles with the dials until he finds a station that is still broadcasting.

“Welcome back to Fuck You AD Radio, your source for the end of the world. I’m still here and I’m still rocking, so until the world crashes and burns around me, here is Motorhead with Ace of Spades! And don’t forget, folks, if you see a demon in the street, you better hide ’cause he will eat you whole. I’m Louis Lamer, and here is your next half hour of nonstop butt rock! WAAAHOOOOOOO!”

Jesus leans over and cranks the stereo to head-pounding volume as the car blazes a trail through the sand. Massive subwoofers in the back of the car make it feel like it is going to break through the street surface before they arrive.

Death grins and breathes in the new world.

An hour later, they come to a massive parade of people. People of all sorts. Tall, thin, short, fat, walking, crawling, and being prodded. An army of demons walks behind them, whips in hand as the they herd them toward some destination. They cry as they shuffle-step, wail, and scream. There is terror written on every face that as they glance back and beg for help. Men, women, children, three-legged dogs. They are an army of misery.

“What in the hell is this?” Death remembers to close his mouth after a few seconds.

“Hmmm.” Jesus squints around his busted eye.

A bulldozer rolls around the corner without a sound because it is being pushed by the biggest damn demon Death has ever seen. The barrel-chested monster is the same shade of purple as an engorged cock. Veins run up each arm and end at shoulders without a neck, just a tiny head that looks like someone dropped an afterbirth on a dickhead and gave it six eyes. It has squat legs that look like they would be at home on a T-rex. It’s dropping turds the size of subcompacts as it pushes the machine.

The demons herding the humans move aside so the massive machine can take their place. The demon groans as he rolls it against a column of people, goading them onto the freeway like cattle.

Death rolls to a stop and stares at the savior. Is he about going to start doing his savior thing?

The man in the dirty white robe opens the door and slams it shut behind him. He drains the entire Slurpee cup of vodka and Red Bull and tosses the cup in the car. He stands on unsteady feet, his body waving back and forth. A breeze blows over him and lifts his straggly hair up and around his head.

Death grabs his scythe and joins him. If this is to be the end, so be it. He knows about War, about how he died with a ball of lead to the face. Not a great way to go out, not a great way at all. He knows the other Horsemen are vulnerable now that the rules are messed up. He doesn’t understand it, but he is pretty sure he is immune to whatever malarkey is going on. He is Death, after all, and he gets a free pass.

“Run!” One of the men in the back of the ranks yells in their direction. Death looks around. That is a pretty good fucking idea. He could call his horse and be out of here in a second, or he could just grab Jesus and they could make a U-turn. Head toward the coast, maybe see if Reno is a hellhole as well.