Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

Falls into Phil who curses in monkey at the man. “Fucking Phil!”

“Ass tickle farmyard fetish fuck,” mutters Leon.

Chuzz hits the seat with his gut and almost flips face first into the stupid steering wheel. Then he points the stupid microphone at the stupid horizon and practically throws the stupid thing at the window as he hits the stupid button.

The truck rockets toward the sky. Chuzz grabs the seatbelt and holds on for dear life as they are transported many miles away from the battle.

“Looky here. Just looky what I see. Are you ready to get in my ass now? No, that’s too good for you. I’m going to take you apart one piece at a time and then make your head a cock ring for my new growths. I’m going to have five this time. FIVE!” Satan howls with glee.

Edwina is not at all ready to be torn apart. She studies the remote and wonders where in the hell the nuke is. Well, no sense in waiting around to find out.

“Hey dickless,” she calls. “Here is what you can do with your new dicks if they ever grow back.”

She flips him the bird, drops her hand to the remote and triggers it. Everything goes very very white.

Death and Jesus stagger to the car. It was crushed from the impact, flat to the ground on four tires that will never hold air again. The passenger-side door flew off when they struck the ground. The hood is popped and crumpled in the center, and the trunk is wide open. Steam still pours out from under the hood. The car will never start again.

But they jump in anyway, Jesus in the front with his hand over the half of the steering wheel that is still attached to the car. Death in the back where the long seat is tented up in the middle. He picks the side with the fewest springs poking out of it and lays the scythe across his lap.

Princess Sally grabs hold of either side of the door with massive claws that puncture the metal. Giant wings flap at the air as the car rises and swoops away from the battle.

“Hold on, boys, we are getting out of town!” the demon caws.

“Damn big battle going on down there.” Death looks over the side.

War is rallying the troops and leading a fresh charge. His army runs into a shit wall of Hell as demons crash into them. Men are picked up and tossed aside, tanks are crushed to tin cans and helicopters are flung out of the sky. It looks like a full rout.

“War, what is he good for?” Jesus chuckles.

The car is carried eastward, away from Vegas, or what is left of it thanks to a growing mushroom cloud. Princess Sally has huge wings, and they are moved along at a pretty fast clip.

“I wonder if the stereo still works?” Death hits the button and it rumbles to life.

Growling fills the air, and double bass drums assault their hearing.

“What the hell kind of music is this?” he wonders aloud.

“They call it death metal. Personally I think it sounds like shit. I’ll take Liberace any day,” Princess Sally croaks.

“Death metal. That has a catchy ring to it, eh J-man?”

Jesus snores in answer. Death leans over the back of the seat and stares down at the son of God, who is passed out in the front seat.

A blinding flash of light ignites the world behind them.

“Fucking fly!” Death yells.

“Don’t gotta tell me twice.” Sally surges forward at breakneck speed. Death flattens back in his seat and hits his head on something. He reaches back and pulls out a bottle that sloshes. It’s vodka, one of Jesus’s, but he doubts the man will care.

He pops the top and drinks it down by the mouthful. If the world is going to Hell, he is determined to sleep through it.

“Screw you, world.”

“Yeah, what he said. Save me some of that, eh?”

“Your beak isn’t getting anywhere near this bottle.”

“Jerk.”

Death smiles as the alcohol takes him to oblivion.

The Apocalypse came. The Apocalypse left. The world was supposed to be remade, set free, started over. The sinners were supposed to be left to rot in a world under the thrall of the Antichrist. He would torture them, burn them and make a place for his father to live for eternity.

None of that happened.

The seals are still in place, the Antichrist is dead, and Satan is blasted into billions of dickless molecules. All in a day’s work, or so Nathan P. Chuzzle reckons. Nothing went the way it was supposed to, at least according to his kindergarten-level understanding of the Bible.

The Betty Blue Balls Burlesque club is rocking tonight. At least the music and booze are. Chuzz is sitting in a round booth with his best friend Leon, Phil, who is staring at the ceiling thanks to a fresh hit of H, and Goatboy, passing a bottle of Don Julio tequila back and forth. Goatboy has not shut up since they sat down. He just told a joke about a pedophile priest.

“’Ear another joke? Okay. A nerdy accountant is sent to jail for embezzlement and they put ’im in a cell with a huge evil-looking guy. The big guy says, ‘I want to ’ave some sex. You wanna be the ’usband or the wife?’ The accountant replies, ‘Well, if I ‘ave to be one or the other, I guess I’d rather be the ’usband.’ The big guy says, ‘Okay. Now get over ’ere and suck your wife’s dick.’”

Chuzz isn’t sure if Leon is having a good time or not, since he is still talking nonsense. The only way he can communicate is with a pocket pussy, and every time he does it, Chuzz freaks the fuck out. Goatboy thinks it is hysterical and begs him to do it over and over again.

Stretch Bangstrom says he is working on tuning into Leon’s psyche and might be able to translate if he keeps talking. Chuzz is not impressed with that idea at all.

There are a couple of guys at the bar. One has tons of ink tattooed into his skin. The other is scruffy-looking with a full black beard and resembles the images of Jesus he has seen in pictures. But it can’t be, because this guy is passed out. He has his hand draped over the bar and his face pressed against a bottle of vodka. His snores are so loud they can be heard over the ZZ Top that is playing from the juke box.

A woman who has to be in her sixties comes out and does a long, slow striptease that terrifies a couple of demons hanging out in the back. The pig-faced little bastards hoot at each other in fear.

“Don’t they have any hot chicks in here?”

“Pizzle piss fuck bucket,” Leon observes.

“I liked you better when you could talk.” Chuzz shakes his head.

Leon gives him the finger and holds up the pocket pussy.

“Oh fuck that!” Chuzz says.

Goatboy looks between the two and then launches into another bad joke.

“English, American and a Pakistani are sitting on the edge of the Empire State building drinking vodka. American says to Pakistani, ‘Do you know that you can jump off and the wind will loop you round and sit you right back ’ere?’ Pakistani says, ‘No chance. Prove it to me.’ So the American jumps off and flies round in a loop and gently sits back next to the Pakistani. The Paki looks amazed, jumps off the edge, falls headfirst onto the tarmac below and is killed instantly. The Englishman turns to the American and says, ‘Fucking ’ell, Superman, you’re a nasty cunt when you’ve ’ad a drink.’”