Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

The second guard, Foley Shanktwan, does the one only thing he can think to do. He turns and pounds on the door. He screams for help, but the giant metal portal doesn’t slide open. It is made of several feet of solid metal and can withstand a nuclear explosion. It can also withstand Foley’s frantic pounding.

Guard duty? Guard duty! That’s what he screamed at his supervisor just before they dressed him in a uniform and gave him a gun. He is a scientist, not a fighter. He understands quantum physics and chaos theory, but he barely knows how to slide the thingy back on top of the gun that puts the metal thingy in the tube so another metal thingy can slam against a firing cap and project a round metal thingy at high enough speed to become subsonic in a split second. He could probably write the formula for the force of the recoil against the dampening effects of the rifle. He could go on about the accelerating bullet that leaves a barrel at high speed.

But he can’t explain the things coming down the hallway.

“Mate. Mate. We don’t want to hurt ya. See me and sunny Jim here just need a way in. We don’t mean to cause no harm.”

Foley scratches at the door in fear, expecting the claw to snap shut at any second. He slips on his fellow ‘guard’s’ guts and almost falls. He looks down in fear only to see a twitching hand, and his little scientist mind can’t help but wonder how long until the synapses in the dead guy’s head stop firing.

“Buddy! Look at us, buddy!” the demon croaks behind him.

“Yeah look at him, not at the guy next to you. He was gonna shoot at me, and there was no call for that mate. No call at fookin’ all.”

Foley turns in a half circle and looks the two up and down. They are walking nightmares that can’t exist. They can’t! Not even the top genetic engineers could design these sick things on a trillion-dollar grant.

“Please…” He trembles and almost faints at the sight. The two are dripping fire and sparks that sizzle and splatter on the hard metal surface of the floor. The smell of brimstone, has to be brimstone (What the hell else could that acrid scent be?), makes him want to gag.

“Right. See we just need to get in and have a little chat with the folks on the other side. Right civil one at that. We just need to make sure those nukes never get launched. Never.”

“Never,” the second demon echoes in his scraggly voice.

“Can I go then?” Foley asks in a trembling voice.

“Yep. Soon as we get in. So get us in and we are all good. Square, you and us. You walk right on up that ramp and embrace the new world.”

“You can’t get in. The door is shut from the other side.”

The two demons look back and forth. Then the smaller one drops the claw and walks toward Foley, who wants to cower behind something. But the only thing to hide behind is a big pile of nothing. Nowhere to even cower, what a way to die. Once upon a time Foley was the pride of the Pentagon. He was going places. He has an unlimited budget as long as he worked on larger and more powerful bombs. He had one of his babies right here, just about finished. Ready to move into an ICBM casing.

Years of research went into it, and when he was done he had the mother fucker of all explosions at his hand. It could take out a pair of cities with a single blast. New York wouldn’t stand a chance. The weapon was never supposed to see use, it was merely a deterrent. Enough leaked information to ensure that the right parties knew the US of fucking A had it.

“You gonna help us get in?”

“I can’t. I hope you understand. I’m just a scientist. I don’t know anything except how to work the computers. I just do research, that’s all!” His voice rises to a shrill scream as he begs to be heard.

“OK. We do things the hard way. Move over here so you don’t get hurt.”

“You aren’t going to kill me?” Foley looks on in disbelief.

“You are no threat to us, my friend. No threat at all.”

“Wow. You guys are cool. I thought for sure you were gonna do me in.” he says, walking forward. The demon steps aside and gestures. He could run up the passageway and maybe get away, but they would probably cut him down before he got twenty feet.

The demon shifts its back feet up and over its body so they act like hands as the beast stands up. It takes a chunk of metal out of one of the gaping holes in its side that look like big pus-covered vaginas. Or, as his ex-wife used to say, vajayjays. Not that hers got much use in their marriage.

The thing glistens in the dull light and gleams with whatever juice covers it. Makes the room reek of formaldehyde and acid. Foley puts his hand over his mouth and tries not to vomit.

“Watch this. It’s a pretty clever trick.”

The demon tosses the object at the giant metal door. It sticks and then melts in a circle over the surface. It shifts as it spreads outward, forming a pentagram with the image of a demon holding up its middle finger stretched between the points.

“Abraca-fucking-dabra” the big demon says.

The door sizzles where the shape sits. A river of molten metal pours out from the edges of the shape and onto the floor. The demon takes a step back and waits patiently. After a half minute, the giant pentagram has burned itself all the way through the door. A giant upside-down star remains in the eighteen inches of steel.

Gunfire blasts through the door and splatters against the demon’s skin.

“Fuckers!” he screams and dashes inside. He slithers through the hole in the door, and screams echo from the other side. A head sails through the pentagram and bounces off Foley’s chest. He stares down at it dumbly, then kicks it away. The features of John Slith, the asshole who made him stay outside with a gun, stare up at him.

“All clear!” the demon calls.

“Come on, we got some stuff you can help us with,” the other demon snorts.

“That is a fine idea!” Foley follows him into the nightmare.

Half an hour later, he cackles at a computer screen as he enters the codes he was handed by the skinny demon. Then he looks down, shocked, to see a burning hand push through his chest from behind. It reaches up and clutches his heart, and Foley bursts into flame.

Agent Fred Gallstone walks up the broken and bent section of freeway hanging above Satan’s spread ass cheeks. People stagger before and behind him as demons give the slower ones a poke with their pitchforks. Agent Gallstone sees fear in those humans near him, but he is content. Men and women are crying and begging for their lives at the edge of the road. The demons laugh and push them over the edge. He hugs his heavy silver briefcase to his chest the way a child hugs a teddy bear. More people drop into Satan’s steaming stink-hole, and the line moves forward. He won’t beg and he won’t cry when it’s his turn; he’ll just plug his nose and jump.

Everyone is dead. His president. His team. His lover. All dead.

Revenge will be his. He pats the briefcase, moves up the concrete folds and leans toward the long drop.

“Please,” the man right in front of him begs, “I’ll suck your dick!”

“Yeah?” the demon says. “All right!”

The demon pulls aside its loincloth to reveal not a dick, but a swollen purple demon twat. The begging man’s eyes bulge, and a small pitchfork erupts from the demon’s pussy with a slurping sound and stabs the man in his face. He stumbles backwards and falls into Satan’s waiting ass. The small pitchfork slowly and noisily retreats back whence it came.

Agent Gallstone steps to the edge, ready to complete his mission.