Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

He looks down into Satan’s asshole, and his mind snaps. The Devil’s cheeks spread wide open to reveal rows of teeth that make Gallstone think of the Sarlacc from Star Wars. Boils leak gray ooze on the cheeks, and angry-looking beetles skitter over and between the floppy bloody spikes that surround the hole. Agent Fred Gallstone grips the nuclear weapon to his chest, takes a deep breath, and dives headfirst into the seething beast that is Satan’s furious asshole.

The instant before he sinks into the sharp and painful darkness, he realizes he left the bomb’s remote on the dash of the Humscalade.

Chuzz paces to the front of the ice cream truck, leaving the crazies in the back. Idiots, morons, fucking double dipshits. He should pick up the microphone and toss them out the back. Especially the damn goat that stands up and talks like a spy in from a James Bond movie. Who the hell talks like that?

Nathan Chuzzle kicks the seat with the back of his foot and sinks back into the chair.

“Easy there, bub,” Stretch Bangstrom hisses in his ear. Chuzz leans back harder, which makes the toy squeak.

“You gonna start on me too?”

“No way, bud. No way. I wouldn’t dream of it. Are we supposed to be somewhere?”

“Sick of this shit. Sick of it.” Chuzz stares out the window at the expanse of land. At the trees that cover the hills and stretch up into the mountains. At the horizon where massive creatures are sailing up into the air. Are they more angels? They look more like the anti-aircraft missiles that chased down Gabriel.

He leans forward and sets his head on the wheel and then bangs it a few times until his brain rattles around. Then he reaches into his pants and massages his dick, which has been as hard as a rock for three days. If that stupid chick would just get him off, maybe a little thank you. He could stand behind one of the cabinet doors and pretend like she is on the other side of the wall. Yeah, just like Leon might do if they ever…

NO! He ain’t no faggoty fag! NO!

“Dammit I need a fucking glory hole,” he hisses.

“Wossit?” the goat calls from the back and clomps forward on his cloven feet.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Chuzz stares at the sky again and wonders which way to Vegas.

“Say boss, see all those metal boxes bouncing off into the distance?” The toy points over his shoulder.

“Yeah.”

“Follow them and you will get to Vegas.”

“Fine, whatever.” He sneezes a big wad of snot onto the seat next to him. Stupid dirt and crap on the ground. He has a hundred drugs with him and not a single antihistamine in the lot.

He pulls the microphone out of his pocket and pulls it back to his head. He should give his passengers some warning. Or take it easy and not go too fast. He glances back and gets a dirty look from the chick.

“Fine,” he mutters under his breath. “You don’t want to be nice, I don’t have to be nice. That’s how the world works. Damn diddly damn, bitch. That’s how it works, and if you don’t know that then you are just a stupid cunt after all.” He jerks the microphone straight out in front of his face. A clash of people and animal screams erupts in the back followed by a few thumps as the truck is propelled forward at lightning speed.

Chuzz grins, mainly because he has no choice. His body is pressed into the big seat, squishing the toy against his back. It gasps and then giggles in his ear. Chuzz’s lips peel back in a G-force-induced leer. He howls with glee.

Sheriff Smoochole stops his stolen Hummer next to the abandoned Humscalade, which is parked in the space between Satan’s ass and his enormous face. Bud and Leon climb out after the sheriff.

“That’s pretty fucking lucky,” Bud remarks as they slam their doors and arm the ground-to-air missiles.

“About fucking time we get some luck,” Sheriff Smoochole grumbles behind his shades. He misses his dedicated deputies. He adjusts the rearview mirror and focuses on a cloud of dust behind them. A skinny hooded man on a horse is leading what looks like a platoon of zombies. Then General O’Coddle comes into view, and the blood in Smoochole’s veins turns to fire.

“Change of plans, boys,” Smoochole says, climbing back out of the Humscalade.

Leon follows and asks, “Nipple bite demon suck face?”

“Don’t worry about me, Leon,” Smoochole says as he turns back to the general’s Hummer. “I got some unfinished business with that barrel-chested dead guy behind us. Go on now, Leon, and take care of that Devil face sticking up out of the desert. I’ve been waiting for this.”

“Devil cock sin shit shower, Bud,” Leon says as he slams on the gas leaving Smoochole alone to face the approaching zombie horde.

“Huh, I would have wanted the missiles if I had that many zombies running me down,” Bud says, watching the horde grow in the rearview.

“Corpse fucking demon day,” Leon tells him.

Two eyes as dark as moonless nights turn and watch them approach. A smile spreads across lips that look thin even on such a giant face. Two long horns reach from the Devil’s forehead to the smoke-filled sky above, and a long goatee swings off his chin and snaps at the Humscalade as Leon turns it off.

The Road Runner sails into the abyss with a roar from the eight-cylinder engine. The sound of AC/DC echoes across the canyon. The men in the car scream all the way to the bottom of the chasm. It’s a nice day; the sun glints off the red hood. Death is pretty sure he and Jesus can’t die. After all, what is he going to do, reap himself?

But that ground is coming at them awfully fast.

He clutches the scythe to his hand and prays, then he remembers who his traveling companion is.

Jesus picks that moment to throw up hours’ worth of booze. Death dodges to the left, but some of it splatters across his face and shirt and gets in his nose and his mouth, which he doesn’t close in time. Death joins in the pukefest.

Then the car hits the ground, and the world goes black for a while.

Drool flies from Pestilence’s gaping mouth as he and his horde descend on the two Hummers. The fancy one heads toward Satan’s face, and atop the other stands a small man in a g-string and aviator sunglasses. The strange fellow pulls two .357 Magnums and starts firing into the zombie horde, dropping dead soldiers left and right.

“It’s the hippy who killed me!” General O’Coddle growls when he sees Sheriff Smoochole taking shots at his now twice-killed men.

“Well, kill him!” Pestilence roars back. “I’m going after the other.”

General O’Coddle’s gray lips curl into a smile under his handlebar mustache. Half the dead soldiers follow Pestilence, and half follow General O’Coddle toward Smoochole. Not far behind them, the giant shit monster approaches.

Death opens one eye to see a scorpion checking him out. He reaches out to flick the thing away, but pain races up his arm. Then up his shoulder, into his head, down his back and into his legs. It terminates at his feet and then starts in his arm again, like he is lying a in a giant pile of fuck you. He rolls onto his back and stares up at the sky, which starts the pain cycle all over again.