Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

The Road Runner spins a rooster tail of sand into the air as the car spins in a half-donut. Death cranks the stereo to an ear-splitting volume. Back in Black by AC/DC screams from the speakers, making his head rattle and threatening to mash his brain. The road roars past them as they get the old car up to eighty, ninety and then a hundred miles an hour. The giant engine thrums through the floorboards like they are sitting right on top of it.

The line of people being shoved into Satan’s ass comes into view so fast they go from look at those specks in the distance status to holy shit, they’re right in front of us in a split second.

“You be Thelma. I’ll be Louise next time.”

“Screw you, pal, I’m Thelma and you’re Louise!” Jesus laughs over the pounding music.

They’ve accumulated a decent pile of dirt by the side of the road. They are a good hundred yards away from the demons when Death cranks the wheel hard to the left. The car slides and threatens to spin out, but he pumps the brakes until he regains control. Faces rush past as the car accelerates under the force of his foot pressed all the fucking way to the floorboard.

When they hit the makeshift ramp, Jesus raises his hands into the air and yells as loud as he can, “I bless all of you, mutha’ fuckas,” gives the exploding demons and people the middle finger and then throws up as the car is propelled over the abyss and immediately starts to fall.

“The power of Christ compels you!” Death howls with glee. Then his smile turns upside down as the car’s nose falls forward and he gets his first glimpse of the giant red ass sticking out of the desert.

Pestilence pushes his horse and his horde harder than he ever imagined. Normally riding on his steed makes him queasy, but with Jerome’s bathtub acid coursing through his diseased veins, Pestilence is in heaven. He feels at one with his horse and imagines himself as a centaur galloping toward Leon, with his sweet acid-addled brain, through the desert. As luck would have it for Pestilence and his horde, the Nevada desert is littered with hidden meth labs. They will be full of survivors for the zombie soldiers to feed upon.

Pestilence grinds his teeth and scans the horizon. Far in the distance, he sees the two massive red ass cheeks he knows from centuries of pasting his pale thin lips to them. A large section of highway is hanging above the cheeks, and little dots drop from it into the valley of ass. Pestilence jumps when General O’Coddle runs up alongside him.

“I didn’t know dead guys could run as fast as a centaur.”

“What the pale junkie fuck are you talking about? I just wanted to tell you there is a giant shit monster following us.”

Pestilence shakes his head. Is he sitting on his horse or is he half horse?

“Huh?” asks the dreaded Horseman as his eyes cross and uncross and drool drips down his chin.

General O’Coddle reaches over with one meaty gray hand and grabs the reins to Pestilence’s steed. He tugs it to a halt, and Pestilence slumps forward as the horde stops. A huge cloud of dust rolls forward and engulfs them. Pestilence winces and blinks grains of sand out of his eyes. It burns, and the acid in his system makes his vision a rainbow of strange colors. General O’Coddle stares at him with his shriveled unblinking eyes despite the vicious sand cloud.

O’Coddle turns and points behind them. The horde of zombies step to either side so Pestilence has a long, clear line of sight. Not quite a mile away is a large dark sloppy shape slouching toward them. Pestilence squints, but his eyes refuse to focus. He shakes his head and pulls his hood down over his face.

“Shit,” Pestilence murmurs, “is that Famine?”

General O’Coddle stars dumbly at his hooded junkie master and something rolls in his undead brain. A dusty memory bounces, and the dead officer blurts out, “The big girl from the desert?”

“It is?” Pestilence asks.

“No, I don’t think so,” O’Coddle says. His dead withered eyes focus more easily than Pestilence’s drugged living ones. “It’s a big shit monster.” The general nods. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

O’Coddle looks back to Pestilence and asks, “Is that big girl single?”

Pestilence pulls his hood off in a flash and stares at the talking zombie with wild eyes.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“What?”

“She is a fat, abrasive, disgusting, rude…” he trails off and stares at the general incredulously. “Fucking gross, man!”

“I’d do her,” General O’Coddle shrugs. “Do you know where she is?”

Pestilence scoffs, “No, and thank fuck for that.”

Even as he says the words, a vision flashes brilliant and clear over the harsh barren desert. He sees dark rock walls lit by unseen flames that send trembling shadows across them. Famine walks around a corner, bleeding and sweating with her robe in thick shreds. Pestilence opens his eyes so wide the dry desert air burns them, but still he sees her. Holy shit, he really sees her.

Famine staggers, looking cautiously from side to side. She waddles with a limp, and her terribly thick make up runs down her cheeks to circle her beady eyes like a raccoon’s mask. She winces in pain and leans one hand on the nearest wall. It groans at her weight, and she pulls her hand away slowly. Then she slams her fist into it, sending a crack from the dirt floor to the high cavernous ceiling. She growls and turns from the wall, resuming her pained waddle with vigor.

“Horsey,” she calls in a high whiney voice. “Horsey, come here. Right NOW, Horsey!”

She leans forward and puts her hands on her knees to catch her breath. She seems unaware of the soft clop-clop of her emaciated steed until it sinks its teeth into her big ass. She screams in pain and spins to face the horse. Famine opens her mouth to yell, but the apocalyptic steed snaps forward and tears her floppy throat out in one quick bite. She stumbles backward, gurgling incoherent curse words as she dies. The skinny horse nuzzles up to her ample bosom like a loving pet before tearing one tit half off. It chews Famine’s flesh, strings of connective tissue still hanging from her wounds.

Pestilence snaps back to reality. “She’s dead,” he tells the general. “Let’s find this Leon cat, and we’ll find you some other fat girl.”

“What do you got against fat people?”

“Nothing, as long as they aren’t her. God is fat. Super fat,” Pestilence chuckles.

Borne on the desert wind, a copy of The Daily Cunt flies through the air and slaps hard across the general’s solid gray face. Pestilence grabs it and opens it up. He pages to the centerfold, which happens to be a big aerial map of Satan’s exposed ass and head.

“Put on your shit kickers, O’Fondle; it’s time to kick some shit!”

“Howdy fellas!” the squat demon yells before battering into them. The two guards have M-16s at the ready when the massive creature comes down the ramp. It lumbers and stumbles, shrugs aside gunfire from above and then bursts into view. The other demon is smaller, but he holds a giant claw that looks like it came from a fifty-foot lobster. The thing reaches out and snaps one of the guards in half, leaving body parts splattered all over the floor. The last thing the man says is “ARFULGARGUL!!!!”