Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

The door swings open and in saunters a rail-thin, nine-foot-tall, four-titted demon stripper. The pig-faced demons howl their approval of the new dancer as Chuzz groans as loudly and obnoxiously as humanly possible.

“Can you believe this bull-fuck, Leon?” Chuzz asks, bending down to collect stray dollar bills as they tumble from the slick stage. The tall skinny demon stripper coils up the greasy pole and then slithers across the stage, slapping her four breasts against slobbery pig-faces as she moves.

“Hooker heartbeat damnation,” Leon mumbles. His orange and green eyes dilate and twitch, entranced by the dancing demon.

“That’s sweet, bub,” Stretch says over Chuzz’s shoulder to Leon, “What happened to her?”

Leon sighs and tells the grinning toy, “Bud’s buttplug hover toy bang deadman desert fist fuck.”

“’Nother joke? All right. There’s these three men on their ’oneymoon and they are talking. Each one reckons ’e will shag ’is wife the most that night. They decide to let each other know the number of times by the number of pieces of toast they order at breakfast the next morning so the wives don’t get suspicious.

“Next morning, the first man orders three bits of toast. The second man orders four bits of toast and looks pleased with ’imself… until the third man says in a loud voice, ‘I would like six bits of toast and make two of them dark brown.’”

Leon stares at the talking goat and then bangs his forehead on the table a few times.

“I’m sorry, brother,” the toy responds empathetically.

“What are you two wack-a-doodles talking about?” Chuzz chortles and steals Phil’s drink.

“Easy, bub, Leon here has lost his best friend and his girlfriend, Martha, and he just needs a friend. And what does the poor bastard end up with? You .”

A man wearing a ‘Don’t make me go Zelda on your ass’ tee shirt, jeans and cowboy boots walks by. He stops and stares at the table of misfits, then breaks into a grin.

“I’m the Chapster. You guys here to see my band?”

“What?” Chuzzle asks.

“Fuck duck cock stain.” Leon shakes his head.

“Yeah, brother! You’ll like us. We are The Keeper!” The man pumps his fist in the air and walks toward the stage. He rubs his hand over his close-cut hair and jumps up onstage. The demoness shakes her ass at him and then goes back to grinding the pole.

The band tunes their instruments and the guy steps up to a keyboard and fiddles with the knobs and buttons for a while.

“Stupid toy! Get off my back!” Chuzz yells, his attention back on the creepy face right next to his own.

“No need to be rude. I like you, buddy. I like you a lot, but maybe I can help out your friend Leon.”

Chuzz tilts his head and stares into the toy’s beady eyes. Stretch nods back. Chuzz looks to Goatboy. Goatboy nods. Chuzz looks to Leon, and Leon nods sadly. Chuzz looks to Phil, gets punched in the nuts, and has his drink stolen back.

“Fine,” Chuzz grumbles to Leon as he tugs on Stretch’s arms, “YOU take the sassy shit stain!”

“Happy to oblige, buddies! Happy to oblige!” The toy cackles and then peels himself off Chuzzle’s back. Nathan doesn’t say a word for a few seconds, then the pain of hundreds of tiny holes all over his back and arms rips into him. He leans back to howl in pain just as the band starts playing.

The singer grabs his microphone and rips into the crowd, which responds by banging their heads and pumping devil horns in the air.

“Tonight we RIIIIDDDDDEEEEEEE!” the singer howls.

The toy slithers under Leon’s shirt and lies flat across his back. Leon looks worried, but covers it by tossing back a shot. Then his eyes go wide as the toy sinks his barbs into him.

“OW! FUCK KITTY FUCK NUT!”

“Sick of this shit!” Chuzz cries over the music. He drinks one more shot and then glances at his watch. “Ah shit! I have to go to the bathroom now. I’ll be back in a half hour.”

He crawls over the table, knocking over drinks as he goes. If his map is right, he will get some relief in a few minutes. As he passes the crowd of people and demons dancing to the heavy metal cacophony, a pig demon leaves the crowd and follows him.

Chuzz walks to the last stall in the bathroom and quickly dashes inside, locking the door behind him. He stares at the wall right over the toilet paper dispenser and is greeted by the greatest sight in the world. A glory hole.

Chuzz almost falls over getting his pants off.

In the stall next to him, four little red feet jump on the toilet seat and lean over to stare in the hole. A pink creature comes at him.

The pig screams.

“Jesus!” Death jerks upright at the bar. He thought he heard a little kid screaming.

“What?” Jesus lifts his head, and beer drips from his hair.

The ground shakes, and the building shifts. Dust and debris fall from the ceiling and make a mess of the already crap-littered floor. A couple of bottles fall over and smash to the ground.

The band plays on. The singer must think the crowd isn’t rowdy enough, because he leaps off the stage and jumps around while howling into his microphone.

“I like these guys.” Jesus grins and drops his head back onto his arm, which is the only thing that stops him from smashing his nose into the bar top.

The building shifts again, and a hole opens up in the center of the room. Red light pours through, and the smell of sulfur fills the space. Death doesn’t like this one little bit. He puts his arm around Jesus and helps him to his feet. Together, the two men stagger out into the parking lot.

A couple of cars are here, but nothing flashy. He picks a minivan and pushes Jesus into the front seat. There are no keys in the ignition, but he finds a set in a purse that is tossed across the back seat.

The van starts with a soft roar. He backs out of the driveway as part of the roof collapses on the bar. Another hole opens up behind them, and more gaseous fumes leak out.

“Looks like Hell is coming to Earth after all,” Death mutters and then laughs out loud. Hell on Earth. Just what he and the other Horsemen have always wanted.

The minivan doesn’t quite leap forward like the Road Runner did, but it does have a peppy little engine. He gets on the empty freeway and heads away from Vegas.

Death looks in the rearview mirror just in time to see another hole open up behind them. Furious red jets of flame shoot into the air.

“J-man. You gotta see this…” he trails off as his eyes return to the road in front of the minivan. He tries to slam on the brakes, but it is too late.

Rising out of the middle of the street is an enormous evil red face a little smaller than Satan’s. It opens its mouth wide and accepts the minivan like an offering.

“Jesus! We could use a blessing right about now!” Death yells as the car is swallowed by darkness.

The son of God rolls over and farts in his sleep.

Strobe lights in strip clubs, arm sized sex toys, D.A.R.E. programs, peppermint, candles that smell like peppermint, trees, trees that smell like peppermint sex, candles that smell like trees, guinea pigs, Samurais, Porta-Potties, Simon, but not Garfunkel, people that cover Moon’s shifts at work…suckas, thumb wrestling, high riding thongs in-conjunction with low riding jeans, cell phone nudie pics, werewolves, but not vampires, tentacles, strip clubs that serve hard liquor, foreign accents, facebook trolls, anything on fire, sour diesel, whiskey sours, junkies and revolutionaries, all professional wrestlers from the 1980’s, sex swings, revolutionary junkies, broad sides of barns, polar bears, ninjas, clowns, but not mimes — fuck those guys. Our family and friends, any rant by Mel Gibson, Dr. Douchingham, asparagus pee, tax returns, Fuckin’ Phil, commas and periods, rapture survivors everywhere, radish breath, The zomBcon Crew, Everyone at Permuted Press for being cool as fuck, Mr. Hand’s video, Richard Pryor, whoever fists Harold Camping to death, the makers of Viagra, everything that comes out of Sarah Palin’s mouth including my di.., Fringe, tequila and all the bad decisions it leads to, the lizards that run the government, Junk Monkey Marshall, chicks in short skirts, nose hair trimmers, Doc, alien death rays, Edward Lee, America — FUCK YEAH! Mark, George, Stewie, Stevie, Amy Pond, Lee, Carey, Carrie, Crystal, Ellie, Joe, Moe, Shmoe, Arnie, Maberry, Brown, Brown, Brown, Brown, and Brown, Derek, Patrick, Jacob, Michael, Stephanie, Louise, Zee Zak, Matt, Clyde, Chip, Chuck, Chloe, Netflix, blackjacks, camel toe, moose knuckles, zip ties, napkins, recorders, Amish kittens, strobe lights, Sony’s shitty security, Rob’s bigass head, Laura’s killer pimpage, EZ Glide, Michael Baysplosions, Charlie Sheen, the numbers 6, 6 and 6, smug douche-waffles dressed in red robes at conventions, Jack Bauer, Karl Malden and Yul Brenner’s love child, Joe Pesci, chicken lips, G-strings, El Fuckaroonie Airlines, King Leonidas and the other 299 idiots, anyone we may have missed.