Wacktards of the Apocalypse

by Jon Moon; Timothy Long

  “Pestilence …” one of them warns. Is that Death with his serious face? Her vision is blurry from tears or maybe because her eyes are covered in puke.

  “I’m ready to get this fucking show on the road.” She gets a glimpse of the thin man with his thin lips. He is smiling, but it is the scariest thing she has ever seen in her life. He can’t have a soul, not that one.

  Another wracking wave of pain strikes, and the rest of her cavities void themselves. Damn shame about the Vera Mutt skirt. Damn shame about the fancy shoes, the maker of which she cannot remember for the life of her.

  Kayla tries to roll over, but her body doesn’t listen. She manages to straighten her neck. All she gets is a glimpse of Fatmine’s large foot, which looks like a bunch of oversized hotdogs squished against the bands of her sandal.

  “It’s Famine, you stupid twat. Say it with me - FUCKING SAY IT!” The woman’s foot presses against Kayla’s head, compressing her skull against the stage. The wonderful buzz of wormwood has since departed, and she would just about kill for a few sips of absinth.

  “Famine,” she mutters between clenched teeth.

  “Yo, Death. Got one for you,” the woman screams.

  “Do your own dirty work.”

  “Never did have a sense of humor,” the large woman mutters. “Or a big enough dick to satisfy me.”

  “Please …” Kayla whispers.

  “Okay, princess.” Then the world goes dark as the big girl lifts her foot, takes a breath and jumps up and lands on Kayla’s head, which sounds oddly like a coconut cracking.

  Chaos - Sweet, Sexy, Chaos

  Deputy Sheriff Fenton Morks is watching the Burning Man festival from the sidelines when the first group of people breaks off into the barren wastelands behind the tents and booths. Then another. He leans his sheriff cowboy hat back and wipes the sweat from his face. Morks puts his hat back on and watches a skinny little man dressed as Pan, the goat-footed, flute-playing god, run from the groups back into the main body of chaos.

  “I got a bad feeling about this,” he tells no one in particular, as he is wearing his uniform. To his understanding, no one at Burning Man will talk to a cop.

  The little Pan Man runs from the camp with a dozen weirdoes in tow. Officer Morks’s cop instincts kick in when the groups start waving and greeting each other in an excited manner. The Pan Man and the strange dozen behind him skip and sing joyful-sounding tunes, and the distant group claps and cheers. Officer Morks sees smiles on every face–every face that isn’t obstructed by a mask or make up or ball gag—and his adrenaline kicks in, helping him run just a little faster. Dirt flies from his heels, and he reaches up and screams, “Backup requested, directly behind ‘Restroom Tickle Stick,’” into the walkie on his shoulder.

  “I got ya’,” squawks the sheriff over the walkie.

  The Pan Man reaches the first group seconds before a charging Officer Morks. The Pan Man jumps and stands with his arms bent and his hands in the air. He puffs proudly to his full height of five feet and one inch and announces to the group, “I bring friends!”

  As soon as the words escape his mouth, Officer Morks ducks his head and crashes into the diminutive man, striking under his upstretched arm. The Pan Man crumples to the ground with a thud. Officer Morks loosens his nightstick and pulls it free in one quick motion. He turns on the dozen crazies that were behind the already intercepted Pan Man and swings the nightstick at them. They all back up, tripping over each other in their haste.

  Morks swings back to the first group, who stare at him with wild vacant eyes. Two men, nude except for long black nun hoods, are crouched in the sand around what looks to be a giant sand asshole. Behind them is a circle of weirdoes of various sizes, colors, and kinks. Officer Morks reaches up and slides his sunglasses down so he can peer over the lenses at what look like small fleshy dicks crawling all over the freaks.

  “What in the …” Morks asks anyone who can finish his question.

  The Pan Man stands with a groan and tells him, “Cockbugs! Aren’t they fucking sweet!? We,” he points to his chest and to the two bearded naked nuns, “just discovered them! Just now, right here!”

  Officer Morks takes a step back and swings his club at the Pan Man’s head as hard as he can. The hard black plastic connects with a sick sloppy noise, and blood splatters the small crowd. The force of the blow knocks the Pan Man off his feet, and he lands in a heap with his hands covering his head. Morks smiles and bashes his club against the man’s tiny toga-clad ribs with a crack.

  Officer Morks faces the dick-covered group and in a more confident voice asks, “Are those dicks crawling all over you?”

  “YES!” the dick-coated group sings in unison. One of the nuns adds, “They are Cockbugs from the Mother Earth! And they are BEAUTIFUL!”

  “YES,” the group chants, “BEAUTIFUL COCKBUGS!”

  A man sits cross-legged near the pucker of earth. Cockbugs cover him from his hemp shoes to his dirty Rusted Root tee shirt. The fleshy little pricks crawl all over him, over skin and hair alike. As he speaks, the crowd around him begins humming ommmm. “They are a sign from our Earth Mother. She has given us these little bugs to remind us of the beauty of the penis! The beauty of this tool of love! She is asking for our love! These Cockbugs will take our love to her! Orgy on the mound!”

  The Pan Man struggles to his feet with a wide sedated grin. He wobbles back and forth as he raises his hand to Officer Morks. The officer peeks over his sunglasses again and sees a little prick, all veined shaft and head with two nasty little horns, crawling over the small man’s hand on many little black legs. The Pan Man smiles at Morks with a lopsided grin and tells him, “They tickle and get you HIGH!”

  Officer Morks frowns at the curly-haired man bleeding from his head wound and offering a dick-shaped bug. Morks slaps the man’s hand away, sending the Cockbug flying. The Pan Man’s eyes criss-cross as they follow the flying bug in slow motion. As soon as the Pan Man’s head turns, Officer Morks swings his nightstick again. It hits the man hard in the back of the head, and blood shoots out his nose, mouth, eyes, and ears. Morks swings the club every bit as hard into the man’s crotch. It cracks and smooshes, and Morks rears back for a final battery. He grasps a fistful of toga and gives the man a good shake before connecting the club with the man’s skull with a crack that echoes through the massive camp.

  “What’s the problem here, Officer Morks?” Sheriff Smoochole asks from behind.

  The deputy drops his beat bag onto the hot Nevada sand. He is breathing in short wild bursts and smiling like a maniac.

  “Nothing, sir,” he says before turning around to see the sheriff in a leather g-string. Thin leather straps rise from the revealingly little piece to meet on a metal circle in the middle of the sheriff’s old skinny chest. He still wears his cowboy hat and his aviator sunglasses. His badge is pinned to the leather strap going over his shoulder. Officer Morks stares at the sheriff with embarrassment reddening his cheeks.

  “Sir … what?” is all he manages before he has to turn away from the rail-thin, wrinkly, and nearly nude Sheriff Smoochole.

  “When in Rome, Officer Morks, when in Rome,” Sheriff Smoochole says as he walks past the man to get a closer look at the dirt asshole out of which the Cockbugs are climbing. Officer Morks turns back around just in time to see Sheriff Smoochole’s flat pale butt cheeks and the hand-shaped welts of various sizes rising on them. His cheeks snap and wiggle with each step, hypnotizing the young cop. He is still watching them, Sheriff Smoochole’s yells almost distantly lost in the odd rapture of the sheriff’s fabulously hideous ass cheeks, when Officer Dick Johnson bumps into him, stirring him from his trance.

  Morks looks from the overweight Officer Johnson, dressed in assless chaps, bright green nipple clamps, and an orange feather boa, to the leather g-stringed sheriff. The sheriff turns around and asks Officer Johnson, “What’s going on in camp?”

  Officer Johnson gives his nipple clamps a tweak, cringes with pleasure, and tells hi
m, “There are Cockbugs everywhere! They tickle and they get you HIGH! Oh, Mother Earth loves us all!”

  “Hmmmph,” Sheriff Smoochole says, and he turns back to the dreadlocked kid next to the hole. The kid has kicked off his hemp shoes and is tugging at his hemp rope belt. As he shakes, Cockbugs dangle from him before dropping to the sand and skittering to someone else.

  “What in the dirty third knuckle fuck are you doing, kid?” Sheriff Smoochole asks the dreadlock, anger rising in his voice.

  “I told you, man, these little Cockbugs are gonna take our spunk to Earth Mother. She is thirsty for our love, man. Come, let us fuck on her love-hole!” The dreadlock holds his fist up to his cheek and slides his hand back and forth, moving his tongue against the inside of cheek as he does so.

  “I’d be all with ya’ if this here Earth Asshole was fifty feet that way,” Sheriff Smoochole tells the still-stripping hippy. “But as it is, there are rules, and you can’t just run around naked, eat drugs, and fuck anywhere in the desert! There is a camp right … there!”

  Sheriff Smoochole’s frame shudders as he wheezes from getting so upset.

  “Sorry then, Pops,” the dreadlock tells him with a wink as he drops his patchwork pants down around his ankles, “but we all gotta fuck on the hole so the Cockbugs can take our love spunk to Mother Earth. Ain’t no Earth hole over there; I’d just be blowing an old guy and I ain’t in college anymore and I ain’t blowing any old guys unless it helps MOTHER EARTH!”

  The small surrounding crowd cheers and whoops, attracting the attention of more people in the camp. The nuns are yelling, “Cockbugs for Earth!” and “Dump love-spunk here!”

  The dreadlock pumps his fist and gets an “Orgy on the Earth Asshole!” chant going.

  Officer Morks leans close to whisper into the sheriff’s ear and accidentally rubs his crotch against Sheriff Smoochole’s paddled fanny. “There are too many to shoot, Sheriff,” Morks tells him, panic resonating in his voice.

  Smoochole cracks a grin and says, “Yeah.”

  The sheriff reaches one hand back and gives his deputy’s ball sack a good firm tug. He reaches from the other side and pulls his deputy’s pistol from the holster. He points the .45 at the buck-naked hippy whose pubic hair is as tangled and dreadlocked as his head. The hippy throws his fists in the air along with the “Orgy on the Earth Asshole!” chant. He leans close to Sheriff Smoochole and tells him, “You can’t shoot us all, Kojack.”

  “Right you are,” Sheriff Smoochole replies. Then he cocks back the hammer and pulls the trigger. The bullet slams into the dreadlock’s forehead, forcing his eyes to cross. A tangle of blood and hair flies skyward behind the hippy, and gray brain matter spatters the two bearded nuns. The dead hippy falls face first onto the puckered asshole in the sand. His tongue rolls out of his mouth and dips tenderly at the rim of the Earth Asshole. All the other weirdoes scatter, some running back to camp and a few less fortunate running wild and free into the wide open desolate desert most likely never to be seen again.

  The two brain-splattered dick-swinging nuns are still yelling, “Cockbugs for EARTH,” “Dump love spunk in the Earth Asshole,” and now “Fuck in the memory of Dreadnuts Roberts!”

  Sheriff Smoochole tucks the still-smoking pistol into the front of his g-string. It sizzles and he smiles. He turns to Officers Morks and Johnson and screams, “Stay here and keep the dirty lawless fuckers from fucking each other like sweaty feces-covered monkeys!”

  “Where are you going, sir?” the two oppositely dressed cops ask at the exact same time.

  “To call the goddamned Army. They can kill more hippies than we can,” he tells them as he turns and walks back toward camp. He says more, but both Johnson and Morks are hypnotized by his pale flabby ass flaps, and his voice is muffled. So is the rushing crowd of stripping hippies headed for the Earth Asshole behind them.

  So is the strange high-pitched giggling rising from the slowly expanding Earth Asshole. It puckers more and more, growing so wide that the dead dreadlock’s head drops in. Blood runs like a crimson stream from the man’s massive exit wound, and the laughter rises up into the dry Nevada day.

  Officer Morks feels something slithering across his crotch, and it draws his attention from Sheriff Smoochole’s horribly hypnotizing ass. A small Cockbug is tugging at his zipper and kicking its dozens of tiny legs against the thin khaki fabric of his uniform pants. The bulge in Morks’s crotch grows involuntarily, and the little Cockbug squeals in delight. Panic forces Officer Morks’s shaky hand, and he drives his nightstick into his own swollen package in an effort to kill the happy little Cockbug.

  It stabs Morks in his balls with its tiny barbed horns before it falls to the sand. Officer Morks’s nuts throb painfully in response to the two deep pinprick stab wounds, making his stomach twist and knot. He squints behind his sunglasses and watches the death twitches of the nasty little bug.

  “Cocksucker,” he spits.

  “No, Fenton,” Officer Johnson answers, still distracted by Sheriff Smoochole’s leathery ass cheeks, “they are called Cockbugs.” He sighs and continues, “they get you sooooo high.”

  “What? That’s not what I’m talking about, you asshole,” Morks snaps while tenderly rubbing his bloody ball sack.

  “Yeah,” Officer Johnson says, “I can see Sheriff Smoochole. He is on the solar phone. I’m guessing he’s talking to them, because he’s waving his hands a lot. He has skinny little arms, but they make great tracers. His ass is like a car crash of fucking ugly, but I can’t take my eyes off it. I’ve worked with Sheriff Smoochole for going on fifteen years, and I never knew that pale atrocity followed him everywhere he went. You think you know a son of a bitch after fifteen years …”

  “What the fuck ever,” Officer Morks says as his fat co-worker mumbles off into silence.

  More Shit You Won’t See on Oprah

  The set is dead quiet owing to the bodies that litter the studio. The cameras still roll, which means Pestilence has to ham it up. Death shakes his head at the thin-lipped man who is preening into the nearest lens like he is the messiah himself.

  “Hide your food, for when I come your stomachs will know pain as they have never felt before,” he instructs the viewers. “Hide it well. Got some tomatoes in the backyard? You better can those fuckers in the next few minutes, because I am going to shrivel them up like prunes.”

  “Ah, can it, you douche,” Famine shouts over him.

  She mashes her sandal into the head of the pretty blonde. One of the girl’s eyes has popped out and is staring at Death. He stares back for a moment and reaches for her soul, but there is nothing there.

  “Famine. Back away.”

  “Fuck you, you nightmare-faced bastard. I’ll come over there and make you motorboat my tits!” she screams and shakes her chest.

  Death shudders.

  “Look at the girl.” He gestures toward the body.

  The skinny blonde twitches. Her arms and legs move in slow motion. One moves and then the other as she tries to get her limbs under her. Famine steps back and stands with Pestilence. They both watch with interest.

  Death approaches and touches the girl. She doesn’t stop moving.

  “Oh Christ!” War bellows and grabs his sword.

  “What’s wrong, War? You little bitch. Afraid you are going to get your fancy robe wet?” Famine studies the man as he approaches.

  “She is dead,” Death pronounces.

  “Well aren’t you the fucking psychic to the stars. Of course she’s dead. I crushed her head like it was an eggshell,” Famine yells in his face.

  “But she has no soul. It’s gone. I didn’t take it.”

  “Crap.” Pestilence sighs.

  “Where the hell is Jesus?” Famine looks around at the other Horsemen.

  “Supposed to be in Vegas. Isn’t that where all the shit is going down? Those crazies out in the desert stirring up the horned one and all. I thought we were all meeting up there tomorrow.” War studies his sword as he speaks. He
runs one finger along it and then raises it high and chops off the head of the blond host.

  Then the rest of the dead audience starts to rise.

  “I’ll go look for him. Meet you guys at the end. Whenever the hell that is.” Death snaps and a ghostly horse appears. The thing is nearly six feet, but he bounds up into the saddle like he was born in it.

  The horse rears back and leaps into the sky, leaving a massive hole in its wake. Rubble falls, and the other Horsemen dodge it.

  “Show off!” Famine calls out in her screeching voice.

  All around them, bodies stagger to their feet and make for the survivors, but they are having none of it.

  War loops his sword around in a killing stroke that lops off a few heads. The others get a whiff of the blood and go to town in their own way. In a few minutes, there is enough crimson and puke to sink a ship.

  Chaos - Sweet, Sexy, Chaos

  Officer Morks looks back to the ground where a live Cockbug is poking its horns at its fallen brethren. It whistles and then rubs its shaft body against the Cockbug corpse until the dead bug is covered in sticky white goo. Officer Morks’s jaw drops when the once-smashed Cockbug twitches back to life. It rolls over onto its dozens of black legs and stares at Officer Morks. The little zombie Cockbug howls, a thin whispery sound, and charges Officer Morks’s foot. His eyes wide with terror and amazement behind his shades, Morks brings his foot down with a satisfying crunch. He smiles wide and maniacally at the smeared Cockbug with one horn still thrashing softly from the small pink puddle in his boot print. He looks up from the Cockbug stain, and the smile slips from his face like a limp dick in silk boxers. The rushing crowd of naked hippies is nearly upon them.