Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

As Morks nears the end of the row, another dead lot lizard lunges out from under a trailer and bites down on his thigh. Instinctively, he brings his nightstick down on the back of her skull with a satisfying thud. She falls away with a scrap of his skin between her teeth. Morks stumbles forward and into sight of Leon, Bud, and Sheriff Smoochole right as a third truck stop whore attacks. This one stumbles forward on big cheap heels and clamps her rotten teeth onto his shoulder. He shrugs her off and smacks her with enough force to spin her head halfway around.

“Damn it,” Smoochole grumbles. “Leon, can that magic pocket pussy of yours help us here?”

Leon looks at Sheriff Smoochole for a second, then at Deputy Morks, who is fighting off a fourth dead hooker. Leon holds up the Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy and tells Smoochole, “Finger fuck, butt fuck, titty fuck.” He sticks two fingers in the sex toy and wiggles them, making the shaft dance slightly. Then he shakes his head and holds it up like a telephone, “Evil snatch golden shower, Chuzz.”

He looks to the slowly stumbling Morks, bleeding from numerous bite marks and whimpering behind his ball gag, and tells Smoochole sadly, “Rimjob stiff mung jump dog-faced demon three way donkey porn devil nutsack.”

“I was afraid of that,” Smoochole mumbles and draws his guns.

Morks sways where he stands, and the life leaves his eyes. He takes another step, and Sheriff Smoochole puts a bullet in his forehead. His dark eyes cross, and Smoochole fires two more shots, which blast the top of Morks’s skull away.

The ball-gagged deputy falls to the concrete, and dozens of zombies stumble from the rows of trucks, summoned by the gunfire. Bud levels his M-16 and fires wildly. A stray bullet blasts the lock on the back of a trailer, and a parade of dead illegal aliens stumbles out, howling for blood. Bud and Smoochole open fire, but more dead are appearing from everywhere.

“Fuck this,” Smoochole yells, and the three jump in the Hummer.

“Sorry about your deputy,” Bud tells Smoochole as they pull away.

“Don’t worry, I’ll avenge him.” Smoochole grits his teeth. “We’re only ten minutes from that evil fucker’s giant face.”

“Dude. I am so wasted.” Death is stretched out in the back seat with both feet over the door. Jesus hums to music, out of tune, in the front seat. They parked after their last cup round because Death was seeing two roads, and he was afraid he was going to drive off at least one of them. He hit a small demon that looked like a pig, but J-man just laughed about it. Some of the yellow ooze that made up its blood splattered all over the window, and no amount of windshield wiper fluid could get it off.

He fingers the end of his scythe and tries to see into the soul of the foul weapon. The blade is still as clean and sharp as the day he got it. Handed to him by the man himself back when he still strutted around the Earth and did things for himself. Then all the damn people came along, and he had to outsource the management of the cosmos. The four Horsemen were an afterthought. The bigwigs needed someone to come in and take care of mass murder, but they didn’t want to do the dirty work themselves. They needed someone to collect all the dead, grab the souls and funnel them to the right place. Death was working his way up the chain to archangel status when he was tapped to take on the job.

They said he met a certain profile, something about all the cackling with glee when he was doing the dirty work, also known as ‘killing in the name of.’ He was good at his job, very good. Need a city razed? Just point the way, and he was at the head of the other angels. But all that changed when they gave him the scythe. They didn’t bother to tell him that every time he committed genocide, he would be marked somewhere on his body. At first it wasn’t so bad. Wipe out a few cities and get a new one. Just a few pokes. But after a thousand years, they started running out of room.

“You think I look okay with all these marks on my body?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Really?”

“No.”

They both tap their feet to the ZZ Top song that thumps out of the speakers.

“They said I had to wear them, you know, to remember.”

“It’s because they are shit at keeping records, so they used you as the file. I think it’s wrong, but what the hell do I know? I’m just the son of God.”

“That’s gotta be some pressure there, eh?”

“Oh fuck yeah. And the worst part is I need to get laid. Like bad. Really laid.”

“We’re in Vegas. There’s a whorehouse on every corner. Tell you what. After our little chat with the red guy, let’s find one and have some fun.”

“Sure. Why not?” Jesus slurs.

“Can you do that? You know, do a woman?”

“Sure. I have the equipment. I should have done it a long time ago, but I never got up the nerve.”

“God wouldn’t let you?”

“Nah, more a matter of timing. They didn’t leave me alone much when I was out spreading the word. Pretty much had one of those uptight jagoffs with me all the time. If it wasn’t Peter, it was Paul. I still think some of my apostles had the hots for each other.”

Death chokes on a mouthful of booze. After coughing a few times, he sits up and looks at the huge chasm. The wind crackles over the edge of the cliff. It carries the screams of those falling into it. The valley does that, makes the sounds carry. Like a bunch of banshees. Death is familiar with that sound. Way too familiar.

“How are we going to get down there?”

The men stagger out of the car. Jesus slings an arm around Death so he doesn’t fall on his face. He grips his Slurpee cup of Vodka and Red Bull in his other hand, and it sloshes everywhere as he walks. The guy has put away at least two fifths of the stuff. Death can’t keep up; he has never had booze before. But he does like it. Likes it a lot. Why didn’t he try this a long time ago?

Tumbleweeds and sand are the order of the day, and it is hot as hell out here. Death shifts his hoodie and then unzips it to let some air in. His old ratty shirt is soaked with sweat, and he would give just about anything for a cool shower right about now. That and a cup of ice. Something cold and wet to suck on.

The sun has a red haze over it, probably owing to the Apocalypse and all, but the desert is so desiccated the redoubled glare doesn’t even faze it. It does look a bit like Mars now, though. While the guardrail has fallen off in a few places, the highway stretching along the giant pit is mostly intact. Death goes to the edge and lifts his robe. He pees into the abyss far below. Jesus takes up station next to him and does the same.

“Look at us, a couple of swinging dicks!”

“I still don’t see how we are going to get down there.” Death leans forward and stares down into oblivion.

“We could jump.” Jesus grins.

“Wouldn’t we die? War got killed, so I figure we are all vulnerable.” Death wavers back and forth on that free pass issue.

“Nah. I can’t die. Last time I tried, I came back.” Jesus sputters into laughter then falls on his ass in a puff of dust and sand. A little dark gray scorpion darts out from the shade of a rock and then hauls ass away from the two madmen.

“I’m Death. So can I die?”

“Nah. That would be ridiculous. Hey… I have an idea.”

Death leans over to help the son of God get up. When he is back on his feet, he puts a hand on Death’s shoulder and leans over to whisper in his ear. Death leans back when he is done and stares at his loony traveling companion. Then he looks at the car and breaks out into fits of laughter.