Wacktards of the Apocalypse

by Jon Moon; Timothy Long

  A groaning from under the building shakes the foundation, and then a great rolling earthquake sends her body tumbling over and over. Flames are everywhere, and when they reach her feet she is glad for the numbness. The last thing she hears as the world burns around her is a great booming voice that shatters her eardrums before the line can even finish.

  “Imbecile! Fucking do everything myself …”

  House of the Hardcore Holy

  The creaky pickup slams to a stop, and Leon turns to see the towering wood and stone building that is Our Lady of Eternal Melancholy. The walls twist and breathe when Leon looks at them, but his acid-soaked brain chalks that up to God’s presence in the old dark church. In truth, it has been several decades since the church saw normal services.

  “Well, Leon, I gotta go hit up the storage shed. The time has come, Brother,” Bud says.

  “Sluts, Bud.” Leon smiles as he climbs out.

  Leon slams the door, and the spaceship rattles and squeaks as it drives away. Leon walks into the shadow of the dilapidated old building, past the blank sign formerly used to announce current sermons, through the old wooden double doors in the rear. The stone floor seems to radiate coldness, and Leon’s teeth chatter as he walks down the candlelit entryway. To Leon’s left is the stairway to the priests’ quarters. To his right are two more sets of wooden doors. One leads to the large chapel and the other to the row of confession booths.

  Leon pauses and watches the old stone walls breathe for a second before Father Maniwhore sweeps by him with a gust of wind that rocks Leon into the wall. The near-seven-foot priest turns his long goatish face to Leon and snarls, “Be careful, Leon,” before disappearing up the stairs to the priests’ rooms. Leon watches the large man until the staircase turns. Father Maniwhore is the strangest of the three priests crowded in the old church. Father Michaels, the kind and shithouse-rat-crazy priest who hired Leon, has lived at Our Lady of Eternal Melancholy for the last forty years. As Father Maniwhore’s father built the church, the tall scowling priest has lived within the rotting wood and crumbling stone of the church nearly his entire life. Father Michaels, finally feeling the effects of age on his tired mind, recently took in a new priest, Father Don O’Coddle.

  Leon likes Father O’Coddle the most. The tall skinny priest has a shock of bright red hair that sticks up as if constantly charged with static energy. He smokes crystal meth in his room and plays the acoustic guitar. He once told Leon he couldn’t play any songs but he was writing a dirty Christmas ditty called “Santa Cums Tonight” and it was his ticket out of this hellhole. Leon still hasn’t heard a verse, but he believes in following one’s dreams, and he can’t wait to hear it.

  Leon walks into the seldom-used cathedral, letting the wooden doors fall shut with a bang that would normally echo in the cavernous room. Then again, the room is normally empty. Today, however, masses of people line the aisles and crowd the pews. They stare gap-mouthed at Leon, and he mirrors their faces with his own fish mouth. Father Michaels spots the wide-eyed Leon and he wiggles through the crowd to his side.

  “Leon, look at all the sheep the Lord has sent for us to shepherd!”

  He claps his arthritic hands and turns back to the cathedral full of humanity. To Leon, the people appear as half-sheep half-humans with gaping snout-mouths.

  “Jesus love juice,” Leon says as he takes a few small steps away from the sheep-people. He sees their indignation as their sheep-faces melt to bone and then build themselves back up with an odd bubbling effect.

  “Oh, Jesus’s love is right, Leon.” The kind old priest shuffles the few steps closer to Leon and asks in a whisper, “Could you go fetch Fathers Maniwhore and O’Coddle? Many in this throng wish to confess, while others seek the comfort of a service of the Lord.”

  Leon backs up quickly and darts up the stone stairs to knock on Father O’Coddle’s door, nervous and sweating from his encounter with the crowd of melting sheep-people downstairs. Shadows thrown by the candles on the wall dance and crawl at Leon as his trip takes an even darker turn. Long faces scowl and laugh at him from the shimmering shadows. Panic tingles in the air around him. He hears the murmur of the crowd downstairs and shouts louder than he means to.

  “Blowjob, Father!” Leon yells at the closed door.

  The door next to the one on which he is knocking opens, and the dark shape of Father Maniwhore peeks his long face out.

  “Are you talking to me, Leon?”

  “Uh, gangbang barnyard downstairs,” Leon says. “Confession and service cock hole dirty whore.”

  Father O’Coddle’s door opens, and a thin cloud of yellow smoke drifts out. His face is almost as long as Father Maniwhore’s, but it lacks the sharp features of the goatish priest. Father Maniwhore looks like a demon to Leon, while Father O’Coddle resembles Beaker the Muppet. O’Coddle fixes his wide eyes on Leon and asks, “Are you talking about a gangbang, Leon?”

  Father Maniwhore growls and exits his room. “No, you twat, he is telling us that there is a throng of people downstairs, and they want confession and service in these dark times.”

  He casts his dark eyes to Leon, who can only nod in reply.

  “OK,” Father O’Coddle says as he tries to force his bright red hair down, to little effect.

  “So you and I are doing confessions while Father Michaels preaches?” O’Coddle asks.

  Father Maniwhore rubs his crotch and stares at Leon. “No, I’ll do the service and you and Father Michaels will do the confessions. As the Dark Lord rises, the throngs will seek redemption. Let me wash it over them.”

  With that he turns and slams the old wooden door, and the candles rattle in their sconces from the force. Leon forces himself past Father O’Coddle into the dingy smoke-filled room, away from the shadow faces reinvigorated by the slamming door.

  “I tell ya’ Leon,” Father O’Coddle says with his jaw swinging back and forth, popping as it goes, “I see more than most, you know, being a man of the Lord and all. I see things most don’t. I’m more ‘aware,’ you know?”

  Leon looks at the spun priest and nods. “Tweek.”

  “No, Leon, I’m enlightened by the Lord. But that’s not my point.”

  He pulls his robe over his skinny pale form and slides his collar in. “I’m talking about the ogre of an angel Father Maniwhore. I may not be the straightest arrow in the quiver, but he takes it to a whole new level.”

  Father O’Coddle pulls his door open as Leon stands. O’Coddle pops his wild red head through the doorway, looks both ways down the candlelit hall, and pulls the door closed. He turns to Leon and whispers, “And I don’t know why he wants to lead the service. He likes to beat off during confession.”

  A sick feeling rolls Leon’s belly. He’s listened in at the confession booths, but he would never spank it there. Thinking of ugly Father Maniwhore beating his meat while relieving sinners of their faults as Leon listened, unknowingly, through the thin wood makes him queasy. He wants to go back home and hide. Maybe get on the computer to see if Chuzzle, his favorite paranoid blogger, has any words of wisdom about the chaos.

  Father O’Coddle sees the sickness in Leon’s eyes. “Yeah, Leon, I feel it because we sit back to back with only the thin wall in between. It’s distracting as fuck when I’m trying to absolve a mother fucker. You know what I mean?”

  Leon doesn’t want to think about it, so he nods and hopes he won’t have to hear any more about Father Maniwhore and his self-love. The two walk down the hallway without talking, Father O’Coddle whistling his Christmas song and Leon staring at his feet to avoid the laughing faces on the walls. The cathedral is even more crowded than before. The mob turns and looks at them, and Leon feels their eyes burrow into him.

  Father Maniwhore’s deep voice thunders through the church. “THE END HAS COME, ALL SINNERS!!!”

  The dick-shaped bruise darkening Leon’s cheek begins to burn, and Leon watches everyone melt and puddle on the stone floor as Father Maniwhore continues, “REJOICE, I SAY, FOR THE T
IME IS UPON US!!!”

  Whimpering, Leon pushes his way through the melting crowd, into the foyer, and out into the day. Smoke fills the sky, and flames pour from the buildings around him. Leon sets off at a dead run for home with his hands held up to shield his eyes from the chaos of people screaming, windows breaking, and cars crashing.

  “I just want to make it home and go to sleep,” he repeats in his head over and over. He tries it out loud, but “Snuggle fuck holy house monkey sack” just doesn’t have the same calming effect.

  He pushes through the front door and past Jerome, who barks, “Where the shit is Bud?”

  He ignores the fat man, still thinking “I just want to make it home and go to sleep.” As Leon turns toward the stairway to his room, he grabs an unopened Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy. He amends his mantra as he trudges up the stairs. “I just want to go home, fuck a piece of pussy-shaped plastic, and go to sleep.”

  Jesus, he Sucks at Craps!

  Charlie’s boss sucks on a cigar. He is as wide as a refrigerator and bald as an apple. He puffs when he isn’t gasping great big breaths that rattle and wheeze when he moves.

  A waiter steers around the men and into the hubbub of the casino. Amidst rumors of the end of the world, people have flocked to Sin City like never before. Charlie has never seen so many luckless losers blowing their savings at such a rate. They are making so much cash that boss man hasn’t said shit about losses all day. Even the Chinese guy who left with two million house dollars was allowed to just go back home like he won two bits. Few weeks ago, Edgar Marcinni would have been all over the guy like a snake oil salesman until they won some of the money back. What the fuck was the world coming to?

  A slow army of graying hair and tropical shirts pours inside. Probably another bus of rich golden-year retirees who are sick of kneeling in church praying for their souls.

  The volume is increasing by the hour. People are flooding in like Tom Jones is performing tonight, but he isn’t. He’s rumored to be vacationing in Bali while the ‘excitement of possible coming events’ plays out.

  The ground picks that moment to heave and ho like a ship that just hit a wave. He reaches out and grabs the arm of the pit boss to keep his balance. The bigger guy smiles at the minor earthquake and rides it while clenching down on his cigar with yellowed teeth.

  “Another little one.” He shrugs off Charlie’s hand and turns to face the army of the old. “Come oh ye faithful. Spend yar fuckin’ money like it is going out of style.”

  “This can’t keep up. People are going to get wise to the fact that they are still alive in a few days. Take that guy there. How long has he been at it?”

  “The crazy in the robe? Three fucking days. He ain’t moved and ain’t that some shit?”

  “What?” Charlie says.

  “He ain’t moved in three days.”

  “That a record or something?”

  “Pretty close. That meth head made it for four, but he went out in an ambulance. This guy doesn’t look tired. He seems … I don’t know, elated. Go talk to him. See what he is all about. Offer the guy a nice room or something. The way he is spending money, we need to keep him happy.”

  “Sure, boss, no problem.” Charlie steps away and is almost plowed down by an electric wheelchair driven by a demonic-looking woman with black cat’s eye glasses and a disheveled bun of blue that trails behind her. “I fucking won ten grand. TEN GRAND!” she yells as she almost runs him over.

  He takes the long walk along losers’ row. How many times has he taken the steps and tried to reconcile what he does? How much money he helps bring in, how many dreams he has seen crushed. How many times has he stared into the eyes of someone who just lost a child’s college tuition? Offered comforting words, offered the devastated parent a free upgrade to a suite and a fresh line of credit?

  It pays to look like a nice guy. At work at least. He tried to be a nice guy at home, but that didn’t work out so well with his lovely bride Edwina. Bitch kicked him in the fucking balls and drove over his legs. They found the car a few days later but no sign of her. He wanted to press charges, but he was too damn embarrassed that she’d beaten the hell out of him and stolen his car.

  Stupid cunt. He gave her everything, and as payback he gets to walk with a limp everywhere he goes. Some days he wakes up and can’t feel his fucking legs. If he ever catches up with her, she isn’t going to feel her legs for a long time.

  He strolls past a pair of patrons. A short man with bright red hair and a stunning woman dressed in something that resembles clothing. She has gigantic fake boobs that are barely contained behind her string top. They are kissing while she takes his dice and tosses them across the table. He grabs a handful of her ass and peeks as the dice come to a stop. Then he jumps up and down as they win a cool five grand. Charlie can tell the winnings from a mile away. His eyes lock on the color of the chips, and he feels like the money is being taken out of his own account.

  They will probably lose it back to the house in a few minutes. Nothing else to see here; move along, folks.

  He makes it to the craps table and gets an up-close look at the man who is perched over the back of it. One foot cocked up on the support of the leg rest. His other hand crooked, elbow on the table, hand cupping chin with fingers tapping pearly white teeth. He has a full beard, which reminds him of one of those Al-Qaeda mother fuckers on TV. The ones who want to kill Charlie and take away his freedom.

  The man’s eyes are wide open and bloodshot. Sweat drips down his brow and onto the collar of his robe or toga or whatever the hell that sheet hanging to the ground is supposed to be. Probably works on one of the shows; he looks like one of those Broadway wannabes who run around in costumes. Looks like he could play someone’s dad with all that hair and those dark circles under his eyes.

  “You … uh … you okay, sir?”

  “Yep.” He doesn’t even look at Charlie. He just grabs the dice and tosses them with a flourish of his hand, white robe whipping out with a snap.

  “Sir, if you would like to take a break, we can hold your chips for you. No one will let anything happen to them. Or you can take them with you, and the table will hold your spot.”

  He tosses the dice again, and they come up a three and a two. He stares at them like they are his worst enemy, like he is going to reach across the table, sweep them up and toss them across the room.

  “Me!” he exclaims.

  “Pardon?”

  The man turns his full gaze on Charlie, and the man who has seen it all recoils. There is something there. Something old beyond measure. Something that makes him want to find a hole and hide in it. He feels like he is under the gaze of his angry father, just like the old days when the drunk used to chase him out of the house.

  He thinks of the first time he hit Edwina, and he feels a flash of pity, of shame. He feels like a child who has done something wrong but was never punished for it.

  “I’m sorry,” he says to no one in particular.

  “I said me, you half-tard. Now fetch me another of those wondrous drinks that make my head buzzy and dizzy at the same time.”

  Charlie really can’t do anything. The man is in full possession of his faculties, that much is certain. He may be a bit crazed, but otherwise he is harmless. If he were causing a scene, it would be a different matter. He stands on unfamiliar ground here as he contemplates what to do with the man. Three days of gambling. That can’t be good.

  He affects a tight little smile meant to look dismissive even though he is the one being summarily sent away like a kid without his supper. He meanders back to the boss, narrowly avoiding a pair of midget Elvis impersonators who are belching fire from their mouths and asses.

  The boss gives him the arched eyebrow. He doesn’t really know what to say, how to respond to the fact that he was told to go away. He shrugs his shoulders. A sound from the table he just left grabs his attention. The guy is stomping his foot. Is that a fucking sandal? “Me Me ME!” he yells.

  “How m
uch is he down?”

  “They say three point four mill, but I find that hard to believe.”

  “Jesus.” The room goes completely silent for a split second, and all eyes glance at the man in the robe.

  “What the fuck?” the boss whispers, then it is chaos again as machines spit out money, take in money, lose money and clang clang clang like there is no tomorrow. Which there isn’t, according to most of the people in the building.

  Charlie is not so sure. He still has customers to draw in, and he plans to wring every dime from them so he can keep the real bosses happy.

  “Weird,” Charlie says to himself. Boss nods and goes back to work.

  The building shakes again, and someone wails as chips fall to the floor and roll everywhere. Scrambling, fingers reaching then fists pummeling. Kicks, groans, bodies go down. Security descends on the scene and sorts things out with elbows and clubs.

  Death Gets Some Ass

  The horse is a massive stallion that gallops through the rent in reality. His name is Chester, and he breathes fire when he is in a bad mood. He and Death have been together for a long time, but the stallion is sick and tired of carrying the bald man all over the damn place. He was due for retirement a long time ago. He was promised an endless field of young fillies, but that never happened. Yeah he is resentful, but he has a great job. He gets to lead the charge, and when the two-legged people fall, he gets to mush his hooves through their skin and blood.

  Sometimes it’s the little things in life that make it worth getting up for one more mass slaughter.

  He lands on the ground going a solid twenty miles an hour and leaps over an oncoming car. The driver freaks out and hits the brakes, sending the car screeching to a sideways halt before the front end, now at an angle to the road, is sheared off by a Dodge Ram truck loaded with slot machines.