“Uh, General,” Arseblister says, still awed by the mile-wide thickness of vehicles.
“What in the drunk-enough-to-wear-a-dress fuck do you want now, Major?” O’Coddle asks, but he answers his own question as he turns to face his subordinate.
“Sweet meth lab explosion fuck!” General O’Coddle exclaims.
“Do we head through on foot, General?” Major Arseblister asks.
“Fuck no,” the general scoffs, “We move the mother fuckers!”
With that he grabs the radio and screams into it, “Tank Division: Alpha get your asses up here and clear us a path through!”
Four gargantuan tanks separate from the main line and rumble toward the parking lot, stopping alongside the general’s Hummer. General O’Coddle looks out his window with an ear-to-ear grin as he takes in the superior firepower of the four giant tanks; each with massive turret and .50 cal guns aimed at the vehicle-surrounded orgy.
“Well?” the general says into the mike, “fucking blow shit up!”
All four tanks fire missiles at the same spot at the same time. Smoke, ash, and sand fill the air, and everything is lost in gray for a minute. General O’Coddle leans forward, tapping his meaty fingers on the dashboard, and waits for the smoke to clear. Once it does, he sees the first several hundred feet of parking lot cleared of automobiles. All that remains is a huge crater blasted into the ever-shifting sand, now scorched black and shiny.
General O’Coddle grabs the mike with a groan and says, “Okay, assholes, one at a time. Firing order: Rectum, Damn Near Killed Them from the right. Go!”
The tank farthest to the right of the general lets loose a missile that sends two small foreign cars into the sky as fire and metal scraps. The next tank fires at the two vehicles next to the blackened remains. The explosion sends one skyward and one rolling over onto the car behind. The third and fourth tanks fire, and each destroys two or three automobiles. In seconds, the four tanks have cleared a fiery path almost all the way through the parking lot. The general’s Hummer rumbles forward, and the armada follows.
As the tanks near the orgy, the general orders, “Fan out and spread us a level firing line!”
The tanks group in pairs, blasting the cars and trucks closest to the orgy. A missile sends a VW Beetle flying over the squirming mass of humanity. The flaming chunk of metal skips across the top of the orgy like a rock across a pond, crushing people while they screw. It tears away a swollen section of arms, tits, and dicks in a shower of blood and gore. A tall, muscled man leaps screaming from the spot and climbs over the mass of moaning bodies beneath him. He hollers something at General O’Coddle and Major Arseblister as they step out of the Hummer, but neither can hear him over the sound of tank fire. When he reaches the very outer ring of the orgy, where people drag themselves to rest between wild, crazy fucking, he dives and lands at the general’s feet.
The man is Officer Johnson, still wearing his assless chaps (though they are now tattered and torn) and his feather boa (though it is now brown and slimy). All his fat has been worked away from a solid week of constant boning, and his ab muscles flex and twitch as he screams at the soldiers, “Stop! You don’t know what you’re doing!”
General O’Coddle turns to Major Arseblister, smiles at him, and moves his hands to the walrus tusk handles of his .357s. “This is why I’m in the middle of the desert, Arseblister.”
Officer Johnson stumbles forward, weakly rubbing his perma-chafed cock through paper-thin leather. “You can’t do this! The Cockbugs have started taking our love spunk to the Earth Mother to choke the Devil! If you kill people …”
General O’Coddle draws both his guns at once, and Officer Johnson’s head explodes in two separate blasts, sending flaps of skull and chunks of brains in opposite directions, before he can finish his thought, “… then the blood will mix with the love spunk, and it will poison the Earth Mother and set loose the Devil.” A statement that is common knowledge among the hippies who have spent the last three months with their heads in and out of the ever-widening Earth Asshole.
General O’Coddle blows the gun smoke away from the two barrels with a smirk. He takes aim with each pistol at different unsuspecting orgy members.
“Give the order, Major,” he says.
“Don’t we have to give them,” the major nods at the massive orgy, “a warning first, sir?”
“Fuck no! If they know it’s coming, they’ll run like there’s a war draft,” General O’Coddle says, drool leaking from the corner of his mouth in his pending kill frenzy.
“Right, sir,” Arseblister says. Then into his walkie talkie, he screams, “KILL THE MOTHER FUCKERS!”
Did You Hear the One about a Bunch of Guys Who Visited a Militant Lesbian Camp?
The camp is a nice orderly row of large tents with a barracks or two tossed in for good measure. One of these serves as a dining hall, and it is a sturdy old thing made of fiberglass. Darla heard it was a leftover from the Vietnam War that they got for a honey of a deal.
They also have orgies here from time to time, but Edwina doesn’t attend the fleshfests anymore. She and Darla may watch them every once in a while, but she would rather spend her nights with her girl. Not that there aren’t some fine pieces of ass in the mix, because there are.
There is one going on right now, and Edwina and Darla stop by to grab a bite to eat and a couple of beers. They drop the buck at the kitchen, which earns a strong word of approval from Marcel, leader of the camp and all around badass. She is helping out in the kitchen and has draped her shirt over a chair, ostensibly to keep the stains off it, but more likely because she knows she looks like a goddamn statue of perfect flesh.
Marcel parading around in a black leather bra that pushes her full ebony tits right up her chest is the first thing the girls see, and Edwina has to force her mouth closed. She has learned that one thing she really likes is a nice pair of boobs on a fine-looking woman. Who’da thunk it? That year with Charlie and she had no idea she was a closet lesbian. Well, live and learn.
They have a few beers and chat about this and that. About the traps, the guns. They compare shots with the hunting rifle, and when they get buzzed Edwina manages to lose her pants when Marcel makes a bet about her hygiene. More specifically whether she still shaves it bare down there. Marcel tugs the top of her panties down just a tad to get a glimpse, then leans over and plants a kiss on her smooth skin under Darla’s watchful eye.
They head over to the barracks and walk into an inferno. The woodstove is cranked up nice and hot so that the room feels like a sauna. The smell of burning oak fills the room as does the smell of hot sex. Three women are doing a triangle 69, each alternating hips down and shoulders up to take care of her recipient.
Darla watches for a few minutes then slaps Edwina’s butt and tells her it’s just about time to get her sweet ass to bed. Ed smiles at her lover and prepares to run for the door. Her heart is already beating faster as she thinks about multi-orgasm land. Her favorite place in the world right next to Darla’s hot snatch. The girls’ display must have stripped Darla of her patience, because she grabs tiny Edwina around her waist and hoists her on top of the table.
She leans back as Darla steps close and spreads her legs. When her hands go back to support her weight, they knock over a stack of Daily Gabs. The gossip rag is one of the only pieces allowed up here. Good stuff: celebrity news, world news and news of the weird. That’s Edwina’s favorite part, the stuff about aliens and psychics.
The two embrace and make out for a while to catcalls and cries of “Why don’t you two join us?” Darla steps away from her love, and Edwina can’t help but smile at her.
“Come on, lover. Let’s get back to our tent. I’m going to take you to heaven.”
The night is cool. A soft breeze licks at Edwina’s legs and gusts up her shirt since she wears nothing else but a pair of tennis shoes. Darla always comments on how sexy her legs are and, unlike some of the other women, prefers to have her keep them shaved like the r
est of her body.
Someone is behind them; Edwina is sure it is one of the girls from the barracks trying to join them. Probably Rose or the Tsu twins, two Asian women who don’t look anything alike but love to party together. She will have to ask Darla, of course, because she sort of calls the shots in the relationship. Darla is just wired that way. A no-nonsense girl who always has a plan. Unlike Charlie, who was a lazy ass and treated her like shit. His idea of planning was pre-recording a bunch of shows on TV so he could watch them over the weekend.
She spins around at the tent entrance to see which of the women is stalking them. A figure that can’t be female forms in the dusky twilight. Another is already waiting in the small tent, and the larger figures drive the two women to the ground. They fall with twin umphs. It probably sounds like pain to the attackers, like they have taken the women down. But it is not a grunt of pain. It is the sound of two experienced fighters exhaling as they strike so the force of air leaving their lungs is voluntary.
Edwina doesn’t even try hard. She drops to the ground and rolls with her assailant. Her knee comes up, and she uses the figure’s momentum to toss it over her head. She rolls with it and comes up with her shirt flapping to expose her lily-white ass, but at this moment she couldn’t give two shits about what she is displaying.
The attacker groans, and she lashes out a foot to land a perfect blow that flips the figure onto its back. Looking over her shoulder, she gets a glimpse of Darla, who is astride her own attacker’s chest, beating the hell out of whoever it is.
Darla looks up. Their eyes meet, and they both smile.
“You all right?” Edwina asks and feels stupid since the person under Darla is probably down and out for the count.
“Yep. Let’s truss these mother fuckers up and see what we caught.”
Screams erupt from outside as the camp becomes a chaos of running figures and shouts in the night. There are groans and smacks and even a low howl that could only come from … a man! Edwina hops onto the figure she subdued and whips the black cloth off its face. A scruffy fellow with half a beard stares into her eyes with fear oozing from his blood-splattered face. He is clearly terrified. His nose is smashed and bloody, and two of his front teeth are broken. His lips are split, and all he can do is raise his hands to his face in supplication.
“Please,” he gags on his own blood, but Edwina has a different idea of what the man is asking for and delivers a crushing open-hand blow to his throat. He chokes and gags, tries to roll over and even sticks his fingers in his throat in an attempt to get air down. It’s useless, and after a minute his legs stop twitching and he stares wide-eyed at the ceiling.
Darla is also having pretty good luck. She wraps her legs around her attacker-turned-victim. Edwina gets a look as she first lifts her leg high then smashes her ankle into the guy’s face. Then she wraps her thick thighs around the man and smothers him right into her cooch. Just as he stops thrashing, she lets a long and loud fart rip across the tent.
Edwina collapses in tears.
Darla chuckles as she extracts her legs from the dead guy. She pulls the hood of his black sweatshirt aside, and they both stare at him. This one is younger than the first but still scruffy and covered in blood.
“What is that on his forehead?”
“Smudged blood, I think. Wait, it’s a symbol.”
Darla leans close. Edwina is ready to strike if the guy so much as twitches. It’s like that in the movies; when you get close to the dead bad guy, he always pops his head up with an evil grin. If he does that now, he is going to get a fresh fist in the schnoz. Just one of the many skills taught at this ‘girls camp.’
“It’s a fucking pentagram.”
Screams from outside the tent interrupt their scrutiny. Edwina is on her feet as fast as a whip with Darla right behind her.
“Poor men.”
“Yep.”
No Direction but Fuck
Nathan P. Chuzzle wakes from a dream of drunken ballerinas performing fellatio on his sick monkey Phil, rolls over, and throws up. Violently. With a will. It splatters the wall, the floor, the bed. It’s on his face, on his fucking clothes, and when he finishes vomiting, he falls out of the old cot and does it again. He drifts off to dream land as the drugs chase his consciousness away.
Phil wanders over and leans in for a sniff. He looks at Chuzz, looks at the mess and decides it ain’t so bad. Takes a taste, just a little on the tip of his white monkey tongue. Then he laps at it. Chuzz opens his eyes and tries to shoo the little bastard away, but Phil couldn’t give two shits what his master thinks or does. He is a monkey, and he does whatever the fuck he wants, and he does it frequently.
After a nice breakfast of Chuzz afterbirth, he goes to his corner to shiver. Little monkey images flash through his head because the man hasn’t given him his medication today. He is sick of waiting until noon for his hit. If that jerk doesn’t get up soon and cook it up, he is going to have to go ape on this place and nobody fucking wants to see that. The last time he went ape, he killed a possum that got trapped in the house. Followed it upstairs and beat it against the floor until it was pulp!
Phil passes out from thinking too hard, just sets his head down and drifts into monkey dream land.
Chuzz groans and rolls over. He stares at the ceiling and burps up a mouthful of fresh vomit. He should lean over and spit on the floor, but just thinking about moving makes his head pound, so he just swallows it back down.
Chuzz wants to die. He wants to die now.
He has a gun and it is beautiful. He stares at it all the time. Well, the time that he isn’t staring at his monochrome screen or whacking off to Asian anime fetish porn. He stares at it, and he thinks about how cool it would be to see the barrel for the last time. Just look down it, study the tip of the lead ball and contemplate it accelerating up said tube and into his head. His biggest question is, ‘Will I hear the explosion as all those little grains of gunpowder ignite?’
After groaning for a half hour, he finally rolls to his feet and tugs some dirty white underwear on. They were on the floor, but the puke missed them. He is pretty sure they were washed last week, so he has a day or two to go. He squishes through his own filth as he rips his puke-covered shirt off and tosses it in the corner. Steady now, on his feet, or not so steady since the floor insists upon swaying under his blurry eyes.
Little bursts of light *pop pop pop* around the corners of his eyes. The headache just gets worse as he gets farther off the ground until it is a full-bore sum-bitch that grips the back of his skull and throbs all the way to his forehead. Like something is holding him in a vice. Something is squeezing the life out. Someone is turning his brain to mashed potatoes.
One stumbling step goes squish in his vomit. Looks down, gross. Fights the urge to puke again but can’t help it, and the only thing nearby is his fish tank. Chuzz throws the lid back and unleashes another stream, which will keep those little meat eaters happy for a while ‘cause he is pretty sure chunks of his gut came up. Have to check the pH balance later, he chides himself and laughs. Ha ha; pH balance. Those little leeches won’t last a day in that stuff.
Then again, weirder stuff has happened to Chuzz. Even weirder stuff is about to happen.
Splashes some water under his pits. He sniffs them and decides he should probably get in the shower. He tries to dig a towel out of the basket, but there isn’t one. When the hell is his mother going to get his laundry done?
Glances in the mirror. He’s already got three days’ worth of dark growth; it can wait another day, so fuck the shave. Little toothpaste swished around with some pure potato vodka that he makes himself.
Right as rain, and he is ready to get to work. Had to pop the lid of the bottles of pills, though, didn’t like that one little bit. The government can track him that way, and he likes that even less.
Always trying to catch the Chuzz up to no good. He is way too smart for that, which is why his pills come to a PO box and are delivered to a woman named April P. Um
brella. His Internet doctor makes sure everything is on the up and up.
Pills, not the blue one ‘cause it isn’t Wednesday. Or is it? Some regular painkillers with a side order of Depakote for the bipolar. Lithium for the voices and Zoloft for the depression. A pair of methadone for Phil. He goes to his companion and shows him the pills. A handful of heaven. Phil stops masturbating for a few seconds and opens his mouth wide, then it is all adoring grins while he beats his meat like it IS Wednesday night. Chuzz shakes his head and goes back to the tiny bathroom.
The thirty-watt bulb doesn’t illuminate much in this chunk of nirvana. It makes the yellow yellower and the shit stains on the toilet seat darker. Makes the layer of scum in the bathtub a little more tolerable, and it makes his skin seem almost normal.
He frowns at the thought of stripping off his clothes and standing under a white sheet of searing agony as water that is barely above freezing does its best to tear his skin off. He could pay his heating bill and get some warm water, but he only has enough extra cash to pay for his Internet usage this month.
Can’t lose his website. If that goes down, the gays will take over and then it will be the end of the world. The damn end!
He douses his hair with cold water, and his hands come away oily. He uses a roll of Bounty to dry off his long hair then runs the old silver hair dryer for a few precious minutes. It almost depletes his entire reserve on one battery—one of hundreds of potatoes sitting in lemon water, rotting and creating electricity. He walks naked back to his pile of clothes and digs through them. At least one shirt doesn’t smell like shit, so he puts it on. Maybe he should just drag his clothes upstairs and wash them today.
Not today, please not today. He has things to do, places to go and cocks to suck.
Wacktards of the Apocalypse Page 5