Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

It doesn’t hurt that he is feeling a little foggy today as though he were walking in a dream. Not one of those stupid nightmares he has every night, but a dream where everyone around him is a character and he the lead. He smiles when he has to, looks sad when it is appropriate, and tries to make as much eye contact as possible. This serves to control those around him like he is their puppet master. He reckons that’s why he gets his way. Always. And if those tricks don’t work, he resorts to his favorite weapon in his arsenal.

He is about to unleash that baby right now. A ballistic missile designed to obliterate the enemy. In this case, the enemy is the cashier who has already scanned his meager collection of items. A bag of marshmallows, some kerosene and a package of stew beef meat that was marked down because it is turning brown and no one wants to see that shit on the meat aisle. Not that there was a lot else to see.

Chuzz knows that the red color everyone demands is a byproduct of the food coloring and other unmentionables they add to stuff these days. He knows this because he reads The Daily Gab. Which brings up his immediate problem. His newspaper has not been put out yet, and the woman manning the cash register is staring at him like he is speaking another fucking language.

“I said madam—and when I say madam, I say it to be polite not because I think you are some member of royalty, which you clearly are not unless dreadlocks are a mark of the upper class, and let’s be honest here dear, oh my dear, you ain’t got the chops for that. NO chops at all for that matter.”

His eyes take their time sweeping over her body, which is round and reminds him a bit of his mother’s. But this woman is young, younger than he is, and she looks like she is more concerned with her nails than with his needs and that is not cool, man. Not cool at all. But she also looks worried and keeps glancing toward the exit as if she were preparing to bolt.

“I don’t know where the new one is. Just pay for it and pick one up on your way out. I’m sure you can find one at another register,” she says, her voice a deep baritone and husky like a smoker’s. Now she may as well be the one speaking a different language. “Can’t you see all the people waiting? They are freaking out. All they want to do is pay for their stuff and get home to their families.”

The woman behind him sighs loudly and shifts her items around on the conveyor belt like it will signal him to give it up and move on. He doesn’t bother glancing at her. Their entire interaction came down to him asking in his forlorn voice if he could just step in front of her. After all, he only had a few items, and his ankle was acting up from when he was hit by a drunk driver. O h that would be so nice, ma’am, if you could just let me slip ahead of you. I don’t know how much longer I can stand on this stupid leg.

“Get someone here and get me the item I have requested!” He shouts the last word just loud enough for people in other lines to turn and look his way. Now the cashier and her dreads look around. The ends of her hair whip around like snakes, and he wants to grab the kerosene, spray the ends and set the little bastards on fire before they come alive and turn him into a statue. He has already been in line long enough to die of old age.

What happened to customer service? What happened to the customer is always right? It went the same way as all the big stores. All the supermarkets with their slick signs and cheap prices. It went away when mom and pop stores became a thing of the past.

Goddammit! He is just sick to death of the poor service, the poor selection. The poor attitude of kids barely out of high school rolling their eyes at him when he asks for help. He is going to go straight home and blog about this. Oh, he is going to unleash a world of hurt on this particular situation. Once he makes a stop of course; gotta check out a little hole. Gotta check it out and mark it off his map.

When thoughts of the map come to mind, he calms down a little.

The cashier rolls her eyes now as she speaks into her fancy cash register phone. She doesn’t even get her fat ass out of the seat; she just sits there and blah blah blahs about how he needs his newspaper.

She hangs up and smiles a tight little smile.

“They‘re bringing some over right now.” She stabs at the keys with her long nails. “Do you mind if some of the other customers pay while you wait?”

“Yes, I mind! I’ll stand over there like an idiot for five minutes before you remember me.”

The woman sighs, staring at him. He stands resolute. Screw this woman and her oh-so-important job. Probably has half a dozen kids at home and all by different men. Probably smokes crack around them. Passes the pipe around. Well he won’t be intimidated by her.

Customers shift, and a couple stomp off with heavy sighs to show their contempt. Yeah you sigh like I give a shit. Go on. Write about your ass too, see if I don’t.

After what seems like forever, a man finally shows up and hands over the stack of papers. He takes the old one out and sets it aside while Chuzz takes his and hands it to the woman. He smiles at the headline, which assures him the world is coming to an end.

“Will this be all?” The woman rolls her eyes, and Nathan Chuzzle wants to go Phil on her ass! Fucking Phil! He wants to jump up on the little conveyor belt and bash in her head with the cash register. Pick it up and smash her to the ground then jump up and down on her corpse. He wants to revel in her blood and splash it all over the damn place.

“That will be all, thank you very much,” he practically shouts then counts out the four dollars and eighty-two cents. He has two one-dollar bills, but it only takes a few minutes to stack up the nickels, dimes and pennies for the rest.

Goodies packed, he performs a mock bow for the woman and storms off while muttering about the disrespect some people show. The couple that made such a fuss is walking out of the self-pay section with bags in each hand. Chuzz hurries to pass them and then slows his walk when he reaches the door, forcing them to wait on him. The man fumes, but he won’t do anything, because no one messes with the Chuzz. No goddamn one!

Then the earth starts to shake. Chuzz looks around as the ground moves under him and decides that being in his mom’s car is preferable to staying here. The building might collapse and crush him. He breaks into a run, jumps into the beat-up automobile and screeches out of the parking lot the way he came in, this time taking part of the hedge with him.

The park is quiet. A few leaves fall here and there. Rain is pittering and thinking about doing a proper pattering. There were a few people here when he arrived, but they decided to move on when he sat with the windows rolled down for a good while. He stared at them. Just stared. At them and their grubby little kids. Sure way to clear out the park ladies and gents, make them think there is a crazy man interested in their children.

The river is unusually high, and when summer hits it will be filled with kids on inner tubes. Dogs will run around and shit on everything while their dopy masters follow them with plastic bags. Chuzz feels nothing but contempt for them. Go to a park with all the other dirty dirties. Yuck.

But he has a mission today. He checks his map and then the old wind-up watch on his arm. He checks them again and again, and when it draws close to two in the afternoon he gets out of the car, looks around as if he’s lost someone and then casually strolls to the bathroom.

The place reeks of years of piss and shit. There is an undercurrent of cleaning supplies, but they do little to alleviate the stench. Past the sinks with their grimy push-down hot and cold water dispensers. Past the urinals with their little white hockey pucks that are supposed to cover up the smell and clean the pisser but really just make good targets.