Timothy Long - The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

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Recipe for the apocalypse:
• Four parts Horsemen of the Apocalypse
• Three drops of bathtub LSD
• A handful of sexual perverts
• Garnish with a bunch of really hot pissed-off militant lesbians
• Add a splash of savior approved Red Bull
• Shake or stir, just don’t upset junk-monkey Phil in the process.
Serve to the demons that are currently invading the Earth. You think you know how the world ends? You don’t know shit!
Armageddon arrived on a weekday, which was really inconvenient for a lot of people, including The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. After their appearance on The Kayla Mangrabler talk show, they decided to go their separate ways and cause as much havoc as possible.
Jesus has been stuck at the craps table for three days, sipping vodka and Red Bull, completely missing the end of the world. But he is about to meet up with Death and go on a road trip that will test their resolve and their blood alcohol content.
Meanwhile, an unlikely band of heroes are headed to Las Vegas to fight the Apocalypse. Creepy Chuzz and his one-armed, addict monkey Phil are flying there in an ice cream truck. Chuzz’s best friend Leon plans to lend a hand, assuming he can escape the clutches of the insane Father Maniwhore not to mention Pestilence, who has designs on the janitor’s bathtub-LSD-addled brain.
Along the way they will encounter bouncing glory hole boxes, militant lesbians, an undead general, a flying demon named Princess Sally, hordes of zombies, and a trio of secret agents hellbent on delivering a Cease and Desist order to Lucifer himself.
They’d better hurry, because the Devil is rising in the desert, and he is hungry to start the Apocalypse that his son could not. But only if he can get it on with his giant floating glory hole. * * *

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THE APOCALYPSE

AND

SATAN’S GLORY HOLE

By Timothy W Long and Jonathan Moon Foreword THE NEW REBELS OF FICTION An - фото 1

By Timothy W. Long

and

Jonathan Moon

Foreword

THE NEW REBELS OF FICTION

An Introduction

by William Pauley III

My first encounter with bizarro fiction was nearly ten years ago. At the time I was a very jaded reader, everything I would pick up would bore me, so when I first found bizarro, It felt like I had found a hidden door in a room that I had spent my entire life inside of. But that feeling quickly left me.

Bizarro seemed to be a style of fiction that was written specifically for my tastes. I’ve always been drawn to weird fiction, strange plots, and unique characters, and bizarro promised to have it all and more. For at least a year, I tried to get into bizarro, but every book I read felt flat, rushed, and, to be perfectly honest, half-assed. I gave it up and returned swimming through that great big ocean of books out there. That is until about three years ago.

Over the years, bizarro changed, a lot… and for the better. New authors had hold of the reigns, and most of them had the same idea of what bizarro should be that I had had. I decided to dip my toes in the bizarro pool once again, this time trying out books by authors Andersen Prunty, Jordan Krall, and Gina Ranalli. Holy shit. There it was. Those were the types of books I was looking for nearly ten years ago — full, well-developed, and perfectly paced stories about interesting characters in wild situations. Bizarro quickly became a way of life for me. In the last three years, over half the books I’ve read have been bizarro books.

But I’m not going to sit here and lie to you, bizarro is still about 50/50 — for every good bizarro book, you have at least one bad one. But that’s how it is in any genre of fiction. There is something in bizarro fiction for everyone, so I encourage you, avid reader, to not give up if one or two books let you down. Bizarro is more than a genre, it’s all genres — horror, sci-fi, romance, comedy, et cetera. It’s cult fiction.

There is something beautiful about this genre, this literary movement, that I’m sure most other bizarro authors probably recognize as well — Bizarro will be big, and it will be big very soon. We are all standing hand-in-hand on the shoreline waiting for the wave to come crashing down on us all. Some of us will swim, some of us will sink, and a few of us will be eaten alive. It’s coming. There is no escaping it. I actually feel a little sad that this moment is soon to be our past. There is a brother/sisterhood in bizarro fiction that is unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed before. I’m sure success will tear a lot of us apart, some of us it already has. But right now, in this moment, we are rock stars. We are what Hunter Thompson was in the 70s, what the splatter and cyberpunks were in the 80s. We are the new rebels of fiction. Our day is coming soon.

If you picked up this book, The Apocalypse and Satan’s Glory Hole by Timothy W. Long and Jonathan Moon, and it is your first exposure to bizarro fiction, then you did well my friend. This book is not only highly entertaining and hilarious, but it also serves as a great introduction to the world of bizarro. If you enjoy this style of fiction, then I would suggest reading Cartlon Mellick’s SUNSET WITH A BEARD, Steve Lowe’s MUSCLE MEMORY, or even my books DOOM MAGNETIC! and THE BROTHERS CRUNK, as they all are very bizarre, but easily accessible works.

You’ll like this one a whole hell of a lot, that I am sure. And the best thing is, there are two more in the series coming out very soon. That ought to juice your brain for the time being.

Enjoy the ride.

William Pauley III April 25 th Lexington, KY

SOME TIME AGO

Godish HE is everything He is Brilliance and Beauty Glory and Power White - фото 2

Godish

HE is everything. He is Brilliance and Beauty. Glory and Power. White Hair and Chicken Pot Pies.

He is God. Billions of humans weep for him. Pray to him. Kill in his name.

Omnipresence is exhausting. And fattening.

He sighs. Somewhere a blind man sees.

He has watched the humans he created destroy the Earth he gave them. He has watched them destroy each other, then multiply like rabbits. He has watched them destroy every clever thing he ever guided. Like rabbit pot pies.

He frowns. Somewhere a crippled child trips and falls.

He feels the knock before it thunders around him. It ruffles the clouds that drift through the all-encompassing brightness. He feels his angel’s impatience. He hates impatience. So now he is irritable. So now he has to eat. A chicken pot pie sounds delicious. The smell of processed chicken chunks, rehydrated peas and carrots, and flakey golden crust overwhelms his godly senses. His worry is over humankind and their impending Apocalypse, but it washes away in a wave of chicken gravy.

He smiles. Somewhere thirty-seven coma patients simultaneously awake.

The end is upon the world, and his angels are impatient. He knows Gabriel is knocking. He knows his angels are thirsting for battle. He is thirsty for gravy. No one has to die for gravy. They have waited and waited while the dark one’s plans grew bolder. That bastard child. He could find him with a glance and burn him to a cinder with a thought.

Pie sounds much more appealing right now.

A knock at his heavenly door sounds again. He knows chicken pot pies can’t satisfy the masses the way they calm his tumultuous spirit.

“Humans,” he scoffs to himself in a voice that radiates and thunders.

“GAWD,” Gabriel yells before knocking again, “It’s time to go!”

God shivers. Somewhere an island sinks underwater.

He created the universe, and now his creations annoy him. Pester him. Blame him.

Not all his creations, just humans.

“GAWD! We gotta go!”

Why did he model his angels after humans? Beelzebub modeled most of his demons from animals and nightmares. Angels were modeled solely from humans. Foolish mistakes. He’d do better next time.

He hiccups. A tidal wave erupts, killing all six thousand, four hundred and eighty-two villagers living in its path.

Wait. That’s it.

Next time. Now can be next time.

“Gabe,” he shouts a split second before the large angel pounds on the door again, “calm down, my child.”

His side of the door is clear; wisps of fog drift lazily across it. Gabriel’s side of the door is thick, tall, and wooden. Gabriel stares at it now as if it had called his mom a whore.

He smiles again; six judges burst into flames.

“GAWD?!? Can you hear me?”

He sighs. A deaf man hears.

“Yes, Gabe. Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you, Gawd.”

“Good, my child. Now go on without me.”

“Gawd, it is time for the Apocalypse. You’re kinda’ expected to make an appearance…”

“Yeah, I know. But, I got to honest with you, I’m over it.”

“What?”

“I’m not really in the mood for it anymore.”

“Uh, Gawd, I don’t think you can do that.”

He growls under his chicken breath; somewhere a volcano explodes.

“I can do whatever I want, Gabe. It’s a perk of being The Creator.”

Gabriel stammers on the other side of the door, unable to form words for his dismay and confusion.

“But what about…”

“Over it.”

“But…”

“Over it.”

“Well…”

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