Wacktards of the Apocalypse

by Jon Moon; Timothy Long

  No not suck, never suck! He goes to investigate. To map out where the damn gangs hang out with their rock-hard cocks on display. Bastards; every one of them will burn in the fires of Hell.

  “Ain’t that right, Phil?” he calls over to his orangutan, who is lying on his side, head lolled back so he can stare at the ceiling. Drool runs down his hairy chin and coats his neck. One eye is closed, and the other is a slit. He keeps stroking himself even though he is limp.

  Stupid monkey, or should he say stupid ape? The semantics are frequently lost on his drug-addled brain.

  Probably feels like shit. Just like me. He gets a flash from last night. A drunken game of patty cake with Phil. They were making out. That can’t be right!

  Stands up, looks for pants. There they are, across the room over his computer chair. The space seems vast, but he will make the pilgrimage for his pants. One shambling step after another sees him at his destination and then with pants. Life is getting better.

  “Phil, wake the fuck up!” he calls to his pal in the corner. Phil holds up one hairy hand, his only hand, and gives Chuzz the finger. A hairy finger. Fuck you buddy and then some. His hand falls back lifeless. Snores filter across the room like a train leaving the station.

  He takes a Jenny Craig breakfast bar and tosses it to Phil. Fine, suck on that.

  “Fucking Phil,” he mutters.

  Tosses some clothes on the pile of vomit, and the place smells a hell of a lot better. Contemplates breakfast, but his stomach still feels like hell. Still feels like it is filled with acid. Like he is going to puke it all out at some point in the very near future. If there is even anything left in there.

  Need calm, center. He goes to his tiny refrigerator and extracts the carton of homemade buttermilk. A few quick swallows and he feels as right as rain. Funny how the texture is just like the stuff he puked up earlier. Well, goes out, goes right back in. Time to head to the store and then it will be time to get to work.

  When O’Coddle met Smoochole

  The dark green tarps that cover the troop transport trucks are tugged down in unison, and each truckload of soldiers opens fire at the orgy. Bullets tear flesh away from bone and blood away from body as they cut large gory swaths in front of the vehicles. The general whoops and takes headshots at members of the mass that refuses to stop fucking like crazy. Major Arseblister shoulders his semi-auto rifle and unloads into the fuckfest. He steps forward into the blood and semen left in the orgy’s wake, and he doesn’t notice the skinny man wearing a cowboy hat and a tiny leather g-string crawling out of the mass of corpses on his hands and knees, with a shotgun in one of those hands.

  Arseblister holds his trigger down until the rifle clicks empty. When he lowers it to reload, the blood- and jizz-covered Sheriff Smoochole looks up at him from the ground over the barrel of his shotgun.

  “Asshole,” Smoochole shrieks and pulls one of the two triggers.

  Major Arseblister’s neck and shoulders disappear in a smear of blood and bone. His eyes grow wide as his head rolls forward and he sees his body fall to the ground before his head hits the sand, where it rolls to General O’Coddle’s feet. The general turns on the balls of his feet, picks up Major Arseblister’s head by the hair, and stomps toward a slowly standing Sheriff Smoochole.

  “You are one slam-your-dick-in-a-drawer dumb fuck, son.” General O’Coddle says as he thrusts the dead major’s head at Smoochole.

  Sheriff Smoochole shakes with fury. “You stupid sono’ bitch! You’ve doomed the entire world!”

  “I doomed this tiny little corner of Babylon, and I’ll burn it to the sand and then burn the sand to glass,” the general says as the two men come nose to nose and hat brim to hat brim, “and since this is where you are, this must be where you want to die!”

  Tanks turn their turrets on the miles-wide orgy and fire heavy rounds into the crowd, sending fiery geysers of body parts and pulp into the sky. Soldiers scream as they empty clip after clip into the crowd, but no one makes an effort to flee. It is as though the hippies have resigned themselves to being massacred, and they want to go out fuckin’.

  General O’Coddle towers over Sheriff Smoochole, and his wide barrel chest keeps the skinny little sheriff back a few inches as the men lean into each other and scream, empty shells pinging all around them and tank fire filling the air with the smells of smoke and blood.

  “I don’t choose to be here, you slippery shit stain,” Sheriff Smoochole says, “I was here when the shit went wild! I lost two men to this fucking monster of a fuckfest. It kept growing every day, more cocks, more pussies, more mouths, and more assholes!”

  Sheriff Smoochole wants to yell more, but he recognizes Officer Johnson’s headless corpse on the ground behind the general. His heart breaks, and he spits through gritted teeth, “You … killed … my … deputy.”

  General O’Coddle glances at the headless man and turns back to Sheriff Smoochole with a laugh. “Yeah, I did. What in the clubbin’ baby seals fuck are you gonna do about …”

  Before O’Coddle can finish his tough talk, Sheriff Smoochole brings the butt of his shotgun up to the general’s chin with a crack. The general stumbles back, swinging wild haymakers. Smoochole dodges one, but a second knocks the sunglasses from his face and splits his cheek wide open like a menstruating vagina. General O’Coddle bellows in fury and stomps the ground, trying to crush Sheriff Smoochole as he rolls back and forth. Smoochole catches one of the general’s raised feet and kicks him in his balls hard enough to pick him up off the ground.

  O’Coddle falls in a heap, clutching his crushed testicles. Sheriff Smoochole pulls his knees to his chest and rolls onto his hands and shoulders. He thrusts his legs out, and the momentum springs his body upright as he shouts, “Hi-yah!”

  The sheriff kicks the general in the forehead, and it seems to jolt the big man from his daze of agony. O’Coddle stands and tackles Smoochole in one quick movement, driving the air from the small sheriff. O’Coddle climbs onto Sheriff Smoochole’s chest and pummels him with big meaty fists. The general slams fist after fist into Smoochole’s face while his men massacre every person they catch moving in the tangled mass of the orgy. Eventually Smoochole’s skinny arms fall to his sides and his body trembles.

  General O’Coddle’s eyes are wild and crazy. Scanning the chaos around him, he adjusts his fully erect prick and bends over to unclip the walkie from Major Arseblister’s belt. While he is doubled over, Sheriff Smoochole delivers a cowboy boot to the back of the general’s thigh. Surprised and hurt, O’Coddle turns, giving the sheriff the perfect opportunity to kick him in the face. The general spits out a mouthful of blood and teeth as he tries to recover.

  Sheriff Smoochole dives for his shotgun, and General O’Coddle dives for his walkie to order an airstrike to quicken the massacre.

  Smoochole reaches his shotgun first, and he turns it on O’Coddle just as the general snatches the walkie.

  “This is General O’Coddle,” he yells into the walkie as Smoochole brings the butt of his shotgun down hard across the general’s face. A fan of blood splatters the sand around the general’s head, and he moans.

  A distorted voice answers him through the static. “Yes, sir, awaiting orders.”

  “Don’t you … fucking … do it,” Smoochole warns the general down the barrel of his shotgun as O’Coddle brings the walkie to his lips.

  General O’Coddle looks at the shotgun-wielding sheriff and tells him, “Fuck you, flat ass.”

  He then grabs the gun by the barrel and screams, “Launch air strike! Now!” into the walkie. Sheriff Smoochole struggles to aim the shotgun at the squirming general’s forehead, but O’Coddle throws the walkie at Smoochole’s face. It hits the target hard, and the sheriff’s fingers fall away from the shotgun.

  Sheriff Smoochole rolls back and forth on the ground while General O’Coddle struggles to his feet. The general can’t walk straight or even see straight, but he still manages to kick Smoochole in the ribs as the first of many planes flies ov
er, raining bullets down on the orgy. Behind it is another and another and another and another.

  General O’Coddle laughs at the carnage, and he picks up Sheriff Smoochole with one hand and the shotgun with the other. He raises both in front of him so Sheriff Smoochole’s shotgun is pointed at his own chin.

  The ground below them rumbles and quakes, but the general just tightens his grip. Fire and brimstone spurt weakly through every open space in the mass of naked corpses. The ground howls and cracks, but as it opens, the bodies slip down and plug the hole. A mighty, evil scream thunders far beneath the flesh-clogged crevice. Small streams of fire melt through dead bodies, but more fall to replace them, snuffing the flames. More evil howls fill the air, and the soldiers panic and scream.

  “Your boys are losing it, General,” Smoochole mocks through chipped teeth. “Of course, that is the fucking Devil down there screaming. So they should be freaked out.”

  “Shut the fuck up, you hippy … fuck,” the general yells into Smoochole’s face.

  “Fuck you,” Sheriff Smoochole says with a broken smile. General O’Coddle growls, but before he can pull the trigger on the shotgun, the hard thick plastic of Officer Morks’s nightstick cracks across the back of his skull. The general’s eyes roll back in his head, and he falls to one side, dropping Smoochole and his shotgun.

  Sheriff Smoochole extends his hand to a wild-eyed Officer Morks, who still wears his uniform but has also acquired a bright red ball gag that looks fused to his face and skull.

  Sheriff Smoochole picks up his shotgun and forces the barrel into the semi-conscious general’s mouth.

  “I want you to know, you Apocalypse-stirring shitbag,” the sheriff says with a grin, “I’ll be taking them purty fucking guns.”

  General O’Coddle mumbles something around the gun barrel, but Sheriff Smoochole pulls the trigger, sending small gray chunks of brain splattering across the bloodstained sand.

  Did You Hear the One about a Bunch of Guys Who Visited a Militant Lesbian Camp?

  “So what the fuck do we have here?” Marcel wears a skintight black leather dress and a no-shit-taking frown. She carries a whip in one hand and a knife in the other. Edwina feels a tightening in her stomach every time the statuesque woman looks at her. She has heard the stories of the big tent where women go to serve.

  Marcel is pacing up and down a row of chairs. Her high heels put her over six feet tall, and she is pretty much the spitting image of a dominatrix. Her prisoners are far from the spitting image of willing slaves. They are crying and moaning, and one of the little fucks has even pissed himself.

  “You mean to tell me that you came here to kill us?”

  “Yes,” one of the men sobs. He, like the dead men, has a pentagram on his forehead, but now it is smeared, and snot is running down his face and he almost looks pathetic. He cries when she stops in front of him and slowly brings the knife up to his face, to the place between his eyes and then drags it ever so slowly down his nose, lips, chin and chest until she stops at his groin. She uses the knife lightly, but it leaves a thin slit where it passes.

  The man is tied to a high-back chair, and someone had the good sense to strap a two-by-four behind his head so that he can’t move his neck. When Marcel moves out of his line of vision, his eyes flick back and forth at the ocean of angry women before him, but his pleas fall on deaf ears.

  “Why?”

  “We came to unleash he who will obliterate the sun. The spawn, Satan himself.”

  “Satan?” she asks lightly.

  “Yes, the light destroyer.”

  “Know something, champ? You are a fucking idiot.” And she jams the knife home in his groin. Blood sprays out, and he screams with such violence that his voice goes hoarse, and when he drags in a breath to do it again he can’t. He can only whimper with his mouth wide open while his life drains onto the wood floor. After a while, he stops twitching.

  There are only a few left, and their interrogations follow much the same pattern. Ask a question, get pissed and kill the bastard. When she is done, there are nine bodies in chairs and not a one has breath left. The man who held out the longest begged and begged. Even when Marcel slit his throat, he forced his head down against the strain of the ropes and managed to keep the blood from gushing out. But his breathing became troubled as the plan backfired and blood pooled in his lungs.

  The women have no survivors, but they do have an awful lot of info. They know where the dumbasses came from. And they know where to find the rest of the fuckers in the cult. The Sons of Satan’s Reedeming Cock are about to get a wakeup call.

  Later, Marcel gets the ladies together and gets them all worked up. This is something she is good at and the reason she is the leader.

  “Ladies, they thought they could come up here and kill us in our sleep. They planned to rape and strangle us. How does that make you feel?”

  Edwina gets a chill when the cries of outrage come back. Fists pump in the air and hurled shoes and flung rocks batter the corpses.

  “I say we pay a visit to these wackos and teach them a lesson they won’t forget because we are going to shorten their lives!” She cracks the whip, and the girls come to their feet, ready to rain unholy terror on the cretins who brought this on themselves.

  The quake is so small it could almost be mistaken for the thudding of the women’s enthusiastic feet, but Edwina knows better, having lived in earthquake country her entire life. It is the barest of shimmers at first, but it builds and rumbles. It feels like it is right beneath them. She stares at the floor and watches the blood draining between the slats of wood, dripping onto the solid ground underneath.

  The shimmer goes on for a long time.

  Like Crack Smoke through a Glory-Hole

  He takes his mother’s beat-up Camaro to the grocery market. Chuzz ignores his neighbors, who are packing up. Trucks backed into garages like the whole neighborhood just sold to some land developer. Maybe it did, but Mom played hardball and refused to sell. Now they will have to build condos around her house.

  The store’s parking lot is a madhouse. The line stretches a half-mile, but he knows a short cut. Chuzz cuts around the back of the parking lot and noses between a pair of large hedges that scrape the car. Someone catches sight of him and honks their horn from the line, but fuck them. He hits the gas and fishtails through the gravel, shoots past the back of the store and zips around to the front. He parks in a tiny space marked with a handicap sign. He takes an old towel from the back seat and covers the sign. He’ll only be a few minutes.

  Inside, more lunacy waits. People run all over the damn place buying up cartfuls of canned goods and bottled water. The shelves are almost bare, but he finds what he needs after a few minutes of looking.

  Chuzz can’t stand waiting. He’ll do anything to avoid a line, including feigning injury. He scores a place at the front of this one with a limp and a downturned mouth like every step is pure pain.

  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 imme
diate 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. Oh 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.