The massive movement of horny, decadent people stirs the sand, creating a dry storm in their wake. The ground rumbles and shakes at their advance.
Morks yells at Officer Johnson, but the assless-chap-wearing cop doesn’t hear him. Frustrated, Morks seizes the bright green clip pinching Dick Johnson’s nipple. He tugs as hard as he can, and Officer Johnson turns to him, fluffing his bright orange feather boa and squealing in delight—much as the Cockbug did when its feet tickled his throbbing unit. Officer Morks slaps Officer Johnson hard across his bearded face. Then he points to the oncoming rush of nasty giggling naked hippies.
“SHERIFF,” Officer Morks screams into the walkie on his shoulder. Morks doesn’t wait for an answer; he just springs into action, clubbing the nearest nudie hard across his pimply forehead. At his side, Officer Johnson reaches to his bare ass, tucks his hands inside hidden thigh pockets sewn into his assless chaps, and pulls out a .45 pistol with each hand. He steps in a wide arc around his smaller, more conventionally dressed compatriot, firing rounds into the rushing crowd.
The Cockbugs have had time to spread around camp, and the hippies look as though they are feeling the full boner-inducing hallucinogenic effects. Even as the crowd surrounds the law officers, it begins the orgy of the century. The front row of the encroaching mob are all running on their hands while their legs are held by the second row (who happen to be pounding the shit out of them with the sexual position commonly referred to as “The Wheelbarrow”). Behind them are muscular guys carrying small men and women upside down in a running “69.”
Sheriff Smoochole throws the phone after one last inaudible screech and runs toward his men, shouldering a shotgun he pulls from somewhere. He hits the double trigger, and flames spit out both barrels propelling buckshot through dirty hippy flesh in bright gory splashes of crimson and gray. The screams and moans of ecstasy reverberating from the hundreds of people fucking and sucking in that nasty Nevada desert completely muffle the sound of the shotgun blast and the one immediately following it. The crowd of sex and grime takes on a life of its own; twisting and pulsing and rolling forward at the sheriff and his deputies.
Officer Morks clubs a potbellied man in the face, and the woman whose ankles the man was holding scampers off his still-hard prick and onto the first swinging dong she can find. As soon as she grabs the dick, which belongs to one of the bearded nuns, a bullet from one of Officer Johnson’s .45s rips through her face. The nun yells at Officer Johnson, but Officer Morks interrupts him with a nightstick to the teeth. Sheriff Smoochole is blasting the shotgun into the crowd and popping caps with the revolver he stole from Officer Morks while he reloads the shotgun one-handed.
Spurts of blood fly skyward along with drops of sweat and gobs of jizz as the crowd rolls and moans around them like a wave. Sheriff Smoochole dives forward in an effort to beat the wave of dirt-crusted flesh to his men’s position. His scrawny, mostly nude form silhouettes in front of the blazing Nevada sun as he twists in midair and fires both barrels of the shotgun into the smiling faces behind him. A rooster tail of gore flies over the crowd but doesn’t slow its advance. Sheriff Smoochole tucks into a tight little ball as he lands, but he springs to his feet firing rounds with the revolver in one hand and snapping the shotgun shut with his other.
Officer Morks doesn’t even get a chance to see the sheriff as the mad orgy swallows him, but he is still swinging his nightstick. Small hippies have climbed on Officer Johnson’s back and legs. A short dirty man pokes the much larger Officer Johnson in the eye and then starts dry fucking the side of his head.
Sheriff Smoochole yells in frustration as he lets loose both barrels of his shotgun on the small man vigorously screwing Officer Johnson’s head, turning him to a still-humping mound of pulp. Officer Johnson shrugs the corpse off his shoulders, but the motion tips him off balance and he falls to the ground. Instantly, bare feet stomp and kick the fallen deputy as the mob bucks and sways. He bellows, and a skinny Mexican fella stuffs his dong down the cop’s gullet, muffling him with a wet groan. Officer Johnson disappears behind brown butt cheeks.
Sheriff Smoochole runs up the nearest hippy as though he were some greasy ramp and vaults to the top of the wild orgy. He scans the ground, but he can’t see either of his men in the brief glimpses of earth he can spot between the rolling flesh of hundreds of naked bodies. One strong hand reaches up and grabs one of the leather straps from his g-string, then another hand joins it. Sheriff Smoochole screeches and claws at the heads and asses on which he is standing, but more hands reach up from the sex and pull the skinny sheriff down and under.
The entire camp continues tripping off Cockbug acid while fucking their brains out. The ground moans along with the massive orgy. Smack in the middle of the bacchanal, the receiver to the solar phone is getting kicked and smacked, and it’s bouncing off of ass flesh and tits alike. An irritated voice is screaming on the other end, “I told you we will get there when we can! Now hang the fuck up!”
A pear-shaped man hears the crackling voice, and he reaches over and shoves the headset up his ass in one smooth motion. He groans as the voice from the phone screams more muffled words, which vibrate up his tailpipe, and he falls back in ecstasy and is swept away in the sea of sex.
Did You Hear the One about a Bunch of Guys Who Visited a Militant Lesbian Camp?
Summer. Hot as fuck. Woods everywhere like God shit big green arrows. Edwina, Ed to her new friend, perches behind one of the shit sticks and sights a buck with an arrowhead. The shaft is pulled back and tucked right up against her cheek. She exhales slowly as the point settles on his center, envisioning a big target there. The bastard is big, and he has a big old swinging dick, which pisses her right off. Charlie had a swinging dick too, and he put it in every hole he could find.
Thoughts of the asshole cause her to twitch and loose the arrow. It leaps away from the bow like a rocket-propelled grenade. Slams the buck high in one shoulder. The beast freezes for a half second and then takes off, not realizing it’s lost a leg, and collapses with a cry that should tear at Edwina’s heart.
If she had a heart.
“Jesus fuck!” She exhales and throws the bow on the ground.
“It was a good shot!” Darla calls. She steps out of the woods like an apparition. She is dressed in full camouflage except for a bright orange bandana around her bald head.
Chemo did that to her, but now the cancer is gone. So is one breast and part of her uterus. Not like she was ever going to use that. She tried a wig for all of a day and claimed it made her look like some piece of ass right out of the slam. So she started sporting blood-red lipstick to draw attention to her mouth and away from her shiny head. Worked too. When Edwina got a look at her, all she could think about was uses for those lips. All kinds of uses.
The camp is nestled between the rocks of Craggy National Forest and Juniper Hills or, as some called them, mountains. Some called them mounds, but really they were just rises that poked out of the ground and provided great vantage points for hunting. Probably pretty popular back when Native Americans lived here. Or later, when ranchers had to find stray sheep so they could butt fuck them into the next morning.
Now, by and large, Camp Luzon is the sort of place where the members can go and forget all about their troubles. Take Edwina for instance. She had a happy home with her man. Made him coffee every morning, vacuumed and even had aspirations of getting a job. Oh, the nerve!
Charlie, her useless husband, thought that was a terrible idea. Her job was to stay home and keep him happy. It worked too, for a while. He made good money and even gave her a credit card with a five hundred dollar limit. But she got tired of being what amounted to no more than a servant in her own home.
She should have taken the car for a test drive before they got married, but he was old fashioned. He was also shit in bed, and every time they had sex she came away hurt and unfulfilled. Then he would flip her over and do things that did not feel right at all.
But the real rub was when h
e brought home another woman and said they needed to try a threesome. She was shocked at first, shocked AND appalled. She demanded that the woman leave, but they plied her with alcohol and a big fat joint that would make Tommy fucking Chong himself weep with joy.
They all went to bed, and it turned out to be a pretty nice time. Hubby was pleased but not as pleased as Edwina. She was happy at last, fulfilled, multi-orgasmic, in fact, and decided that having a woman’s face buried between her thighs was just about the best feeling in the world.
Later, Charlie. Loser.
Charlie didn’t like being called names, and he didn’t like being left. He beat her to a pulp and then apologized the next day by bringing her flowers and a new pretty red BMW with leather seats and heated side mirrors.
She thanked him by kneeing him in the balls and driving over his legs while he lay withering in front of the convertible. She didn’t look back, didn’t even bother to give him the finger. She just left and that was that.
The camp was the perfect place for her. She didn’t have to be Katie Cleaning Lady, and she got to have chicks go down on her pretty much every night. They liked her because she was pretty. She had a short blond bob and green eyes that turned up at the corners as though a hint of Asian were mixed somewhere in her past. She liked them because most could take her straight to multi-orgasm land. Her favorite place in the whole damn world.
She played with a few of the other girls, and there was a little drama but only until Darla arrived. Came in like she owned the place just a week after Edwina’s arrival. Looked all the girls up and down with her dead stare. She was built too, broad shoulders and defined arms. She had small tits (tit now) behind a flannel shirt. Workman-like pants ended in heavy leather work boots to complete the outfit.
Her skin was darkly tanned, her left arm the darkest. She drove a truck for a living. A big eighteen-wheeled semi. She was soft. Smooth. When Edwina touched her for the first time, she marveled at the feel. Still does.
When Darla first arrived, she walked up to Edwina in the middle of introductions and reached out to push a piece of hair out of her eye. Edwina blinked once and thought she was going to faint right then and there. That night Edwina decided she was ready to go full-on lesbian, and she has been with Darla ever since.
Edwina studies the deer as it tries to limp off. A few months ago, this touching nature scene would have broken her heart. Now it makes her want to go over and lick the blood off the creature. She wants to sip it, cut a piece of the smarmy bastard and throw it on a fire for dinner.
Darla raises her assault rifle and shoots the deer in the side. It falls over; legs twitch as life fades away. Then they are by its side, and Edwina’s girlfriend reaches out to close the buck’s eyes. A minute later, the knives come out and they are at the corpse like it’s filled with treasure.
Then, blood-splattered and grinning at each other like a couple of loons, they hike back home.
Because the Military only Solves Problems
General Mac O’Coddle stares out the window of his Hummer, scowling at the expanse of alkali flats surrounding his enormous convoy. He looks to Major Arseblister behind the driver’s wheel, and he smirks at his longtime subordinate. Major Arseblister grins when he sees the general out of the corner of his eye.
“You’re in a great mood today, sir,” Major Arseblister says, taking his eyes off the dusty white road ahead.
General O’Coddle takes a deep breath and puffs his barrel chest. He smiles under his bushy white beard as he tells Major Arseblister, “It’s going to be a good day, Major.”
“You enjoy the desert, sir?” Major Arseblister asks, searching for clues to the general’s uncommon decent mood.
“Fuck no,” General O’Coddle says. “But I haven’t massacred hippies since ‘Nam, and if the godforsaken desert is where I gotta go to spill some hippy gore, then grab me a canteen and a camel with no nut sack.”
One small open-top Jeep leads the camouflage Hummer down the long, straight dirt road. Following the general’s Hummer is a long line of heavy armed combat vehicles grinding their way through the Nevada desert. Four dozen tanks of different sizes and speeds rumble alongside six dozen old covered trucks transporting entire platoons of soldiers. Smaller Jeeps with mounted heavy artillery buzz around the slower-moving rigs, their wheels sending up long billowy alkali-white clouds.
“As a statement of fact,” grumbles General O’Coddle, “my trigger finger is gettin’ itchy. How far away is the target?”
“Sir,” Major Arseblister smirks, “I was under the impression our objective was simply to deliver the Cease and Desist message to the offending parties.”
“Right,” General O’Coddle chuckles. “The Army brought four dozen tanks to the middle of the motherfucking desert just to ask them very nicely to please stop mopping the fucking desert floor with their crab-infested genitals. That doesn’t make any fucking sense, Major.”
The general puffs out his chest and straightens the bronze buttons on his dark green uniform, which he wears despite the desert camouflage khaki all the other soldiers have donned. He grunts and shines the obnoxiously large collage of medals pinned to his barrel chest with a fist the size of a Christmas ham.
He stares out the windshield in front of him and tells Major Arseblister, “Just answer my motherfucking question and then shut the fuck up.”
The smirk dissolves off of Major Arseblister’s face, and he shrinks slightly from General O’Coddle’s angry timbre. “Sorry, sir, we are within fifteen miles of the target, sir.”
“Good,” General O’Coddle barks. “Now get to work on shutting the fuck up, Major.”
The two soldiers ride in silence for only a minute before the taillights of the Jeep leading flash bright red in the blandness of the desert as its driver slams on the brakes.
Major Arseblister stands on his brake pedal, and the massive Hummer skids and slides in response, weaving the width of the dirt road. Behind the two officers, the drivers of the entire row of military vehicles hit their brakes, some with more luck than others.
General O’Coddle is flung forward toward the long, flat dashboard. His muscular arms fly up in the air. His forehead creases with anger. His gray mustache shakes with the force of his yelling. “What in the dead and bloated fuck is going on?”
“I ... I ... I don’t know … sir …” Major Arseblister replies.
General O’Coddle shakes his head. “Major, shut the fuck up. I was yelling at the fuckups in front of us. I say once more, shut the fuck up.”
“Mmmm,” Major Arseblister says through sealed lips with an enthusiastic nod.
The general grumbles and opens his door. He rocks forward, farts louder than common artillery fire, and steps from the Hummer. The major opens his mouth to say something, but General O’Coddle raises a finger and tells him, “Now, you may vacate the vehicle but you must shut the fuck up. Do you understand, Major?”
Major Arseblister nods and eyes the walrus tusk handles of the custom twin .357 magnums swinging at the general’s side. He even eyes the two bandoliers of reloads crisscrossing the general’s broad chest. The general notices the major’s glance at his guns and ammo, and he smiles.
General O’Coddle turns from the major, and the smile spreads even wider across his square face.
Up ahead, a miles-wide circle pulses and throbs in stark contrast to the otherwise barren landscape. Moans and sighs and screams of passion haunt the wide open space.
“Holy lung-punching fuck, this thing is big,” General O’Coddle says, the grin beneath his mustache never diminishing. He turns on his heel and climbs back into his seat in the Hummer. Major Arseblister scampers to climb in and behind the wheel quicker than teenage boys find Internet porn.
“That thing is fucking massive,” General O’Coddle says. Major Arseblister just nods.
The excited general looks to the silent major and says, “I said that’s a shit ton of tree-huggin’ solar-power-usin’ organic- food-eatin’ war-dodgin’ tie-dy
e-wearin’ free-love-motherfuckin’ hippies!”
Major Arseblister nods with a stupid look on his droopy face.
General O’Coddle squints one eye as he leans over in his seat and asks, “Are you not talking because I told you to shut the fuck up?”
The major nods excitedly and hums behind his close-lipped smile.
“Well,” O’Coddle says, “don’t be an arsehole, Major.”
“It’s Arseblister, sir,” the major corrects.
“Fine,” General O’Coddle chuckles. “I’ll call you that. It sounds even worse!”
Major Arseblister lowers his head and tells the smiling general, “No, sir, Arseblister is my name.”
The general’s dull gray eyes open wide with shock, and he spurts, “I thought you were Arsepounder. Major Kevin J. Arsepounder.”
“No, sir,” the major says, “I’m Major Robert B. Arseblister, of the Nantucket Arseblisters.”
“Well,” General O’Coddle says, “don’t be an arsehole, Arseblister.”
“Sir,” Major Arseblister nods.
“Major,” the general answers and stares back out at the barrenness of the alkali flats.
Major Arseblister notices the massive makeshift parking lot ahead of them first. His jaw drops at the sight of the thousands of randomly parked cars, trucks, motorcycles, Volkswagens, and converted school buses presenting an impossible obstacle to the snake of Army vehicles behind them.
Wacktards of the Apocalypse Page 4