On the other side of the fissure, Phil jumps up and down when he spots Chuzz. Ah Phil, you do love me after all. Phil is going crazy. He flips over and lands on his feet and then gestures for Chuzz to jump.
After a repeat performance, he realizes the monkey is telling him to toss the drug box.
“Fucking Phil!”
The room shakes, and there is a nasty second when Chuzz is convinced he will fall into the pit. He hangs there, looking at the rough earthen sides into which he will smash on his way down. The sides of the chasm are teeming with little things like the one that came out of the little red demon. What did it say? Cockbugs? If he falls, he will die, but the even greater insult will be when those little bastards follow him down and try to penetrate every orifice in his body. He likes his orifices un-penetrated, thank you very fucking much!
Phil is going crazy, but that’s just Phil. He wants his fix. Hell, Chuzz has sworn the shit off, but he could really use a hit right about now.
He tosses the box across the chasm, and Phil catches it. Now Chuzz is no Indiana Jones; there is no way he can make the leap, which is now at least six feet and growing. He doesn’t have the hat for it, anyway. Nor does he have a whip. Hell, he doesn’t even have a clue.
He runs at the door and stops short. Not much of a run. He makes two steps before realizing if he attempts to jump he might not make it. His fingers won’t even touch the other side.
The window above the toilet is tiny. Even if he could manage to get up there, ain’t no way he is wiggling through. Shit-balls!
He snaps his finger at the air and looks around. “Yes yes yes!” The little microphone is in hand before he knows it, and he studies the buttons. Which one was it? He hits the red one and the room shifts. It lifts up and slams down like a crane picked it up and dropped it. He staggers and tries not to fall. Doesn’t succeed and lands on his ass. Ow.
The room is farther away now, and the chasm is much wider. He hits the button again. He slams into the back wall and bounces onto the floor, flinging his hands out to stop his slide. They close over air, and he is almost tossed over the edge and into the chasm.
Back on his feet. Bruised. Aching. Dirt and dust in his mouth, clogging his nose. He leans to the side and evacuates both nostrils by blowing huge streamers of snot into the corner. Spits, dreams of water from his sink, not shit water but real water that is cool and refreshing. Maybe if he makes it upstairs, he can find something to drink.
He wraps his arms around the base of the sink and holds on for dear life. He holds the little microphone out and tilts the head forward. Triggers the button, and the room bounces up and over. Chasm closing. Space diminishing. This might work.
He hits the button again, and this time he flicks the head of the microphone like a flyswatter. The room shifts again, more violently, which tosses Chuzz free of the sink and across the room. If the chasm hadn’t closed, he would fly into it face first. Instead he goes face first into Phil’s ass as the creature dances around, banging the locked box against the walls and floor in an attempt to open it.
“Stupid monkey!” Chuzz grabs his best friend’s hand, and they flee up the stairs before any more crazy shit can happen.
Phil has the case in hand, and with each step he takes, the lock clangs against the metal wall. The monkey hoots and screams in primate, and Chuzz is pretty sure he’s just spewing gibberish. Hard to say; maybe the one-armed bastard is telling him the secret to life. Maybe he is just babbling. Chuzz won’t ever know, and he doesn’t really care.
The toys are piled where he left them. Chuzz picks up the stretchy doll and flops it around. The face comes to life. Mouth cracks into a grin and nose wrinkles up as if to indicate the thing’s disapproval of Chuzz’s personal odor.
“Put me down, fucker.”
The voice is tinny and sounds like it is coming from far away. It has a harsh edge to it like the toy is a heavy smoker. Hah. A cigarette-puffing toy, now ain’t that just the shit. He drops the stupid talking doll, lifts his foot and slams it down on the annoying little shit. His foot slips across the soft toy, and he slides forward, inadvertently triggering the microphone, which lifts the house in the air and slams him against the floor. He goes down screaming curses until he takes his finger off the button. The house falls and smashes him into the wall.
Everything in the room falls. Every fucking thing. The armoire. The pictures of the circus folks including Tweedledee and Dee-fucking-dum. As they fall, Chuzz realizes that they now sport demon faces. Oh well. They’re on the ground now; he won’t have to look at them.
Smoke and dust settle, and a tribe of weird ant-beetles pours into the room. They have vicious little heads and nasty little legs. They take to the air and buzz around on sharp black wings. Chuzz bats one of the creatures that buzzes too close. Pain slams into his hand and races up his arm.
He stares at his palm, where the little beetle is dancing on the end of a stinger. It has an angry face like a miniature bulldog. Chuzz positions the thumb and forefinger of his other hand over the thing and rips its head off. Then he yanks the stinger out and stares at the wound. His hand puffs up around the sore. It looks angry and red, and he wonders if he is going to die.
“Not today, I don’t think. You ain’t dead yet, so they must have plans for you.” Stretch Bangstrom is walking around flexing his arms. He whips them into the air, catches a little beetle and slaps the squealing thing into his mouth. Chew, chew chew. Belches orange dust and repeats.
Before long, the toy is strutting around like he owns the place. Tiny little hooks protrude all over his rubbery skin. Little wasp stingers. Chuzz looks at his own hand, at the wound, and realizes it doesn’t even hurt. The sting is red, but when he touches it, the place feels numb. Not numb, it feels ... good. In fact, if he weren’t already packing a full cord of wood, he would be standing at attention just from poking the sore.
He drags himself out of the kitchen and collapses. It’s too much. The angel, the end of the world. The half bottle of Viagra he took. He needs to go bang one out, but he is too scared to drop his pants.
Stretch Bangstrom walks toward him on rubber legs, his hands going up and down like he is doing some weird Egyptian dance. Chuzz stands, and the toy stops before him. All manner of disturbing thoughts hop around in his noggin. Will his mother be okay? Where is he going to get dinner? How is he going to get to Vegas, and how is he going to stop the Apocalypse?
Phil wanders up beside him and punches him in the ass. He may have one arm, but it is a strong mother fucker. Chuzz goes down like a sack of potatoes, lands on his hands and knees. He wants to roll on his back and grab his bruised cheek, but the little plastic toy jumps on his back, landing soft as a butterfly fart.
“What the hell?” He tries to stand up, but the toy lives up to its name, stretching to its full length, diving under his sweatshirt and sinking the barbs into Chuzz’s skin. They jab into his back first, then cold barbs slither along his arms and sink in there too. He screams and jumps to his feet. He’s had shots aplenty, and that is exactly what this feels like. A bunch of needles entering his body from every angle.
He falls over again, this time on purpose, in an attempt to shake the toy. Phil jumps out of the way, but when Chuzz flops on his stomach, the monkey punches him in the ass again.
“Fucking Phil!”
The monkey leaps away and chatters at him. Picks up the lock box and shakes it over his head.
Chuzz flops back over and smashes his back into the floor. The barbs sink in deeper, and Chuzz screams. Stretch’s head is near his ear and it chatters at him, sounds like laughter. “You wanna laugh at me? You wanna laugh, asshole?”
Chuzz rises to his feet and backs up as fast as he can, smashing into the wall at full speed. Bangstrom holds on, doesn’t even scream. But Chuzzle does. He howls at the top of his lungs. Then he spins to look at the thing, first one way then the next. He jerks his head around, trying to see what is going on back there.
The toy laughs, hoots and chat
ters like a loon. Chuzzle feels like joining him.
Warmth seeps into his body. It starts where the cold barbs pierce his skin. The cold gets warmer and then grows hot. He feels flushed all over. He feels like he is about to leap out of his skin, it is so warm.
But it feels good. It feels so good, he blows a load right in his pants. Doesn’t help the hard-on, though. He bounces to the front door and throws it open. His euphoria is just about to bubble to the surface but the damn toy squelches it before it can really get going.
“Settle down, bub. I’m your new helper. Lucky you and gosh golly, lucky fuck me!” Stretch giggles in one ear.
“Get off me!”
“I can’t, bub, I can’t. I was chosen just like you, and now I have to get involved. I liked it better when I was in a donation box. It smelled like despair. I like that.” The toy sighs and titters in his ear.
“Get the fuck off me!” Chuzz yells and slams himself into the wall. The toy exhales a deep breath as they make contact and then giggles.
“You got that itch that’s been driving me nuts all day. Thanks, bud!”
Chuzz falls on his back and rolls around a few times. He bounces up and down, but the toy chuckles and rides him out. Chuzz reaches behind himself and grabs the thing’s neck, prepared to rip it off. The toy does something that makes every barb in his body feel like it is connected to an electrical outlet. ZAP!
“Get off me!”
“No way, bub. Just settle down and listen to me. Just listen! You need me and I need you. We are like two peas in an apocalyptic pod. You wanna fight back? You stick with me, and I will keep my eyes open. I got your back. Get it? I GOT YOUR BACK!”
Chuzz shakes his head. He goes to the cupboard and takes out a bottle of Jym Beaner and a really big glass. Milk is next. He has to dig the warm carton out of the back of the fridge.
He doesn’t speak, just mixes up a double dose of memory eraser and tosses it back in one long swallow.
Phil is passed out. His monkey ass sticking up in the air, his one good arm under his body. Chuzz grabs a ratty blanket from what’s left of the hallway closet and covers his companion. Phil doesn’t move except for one eye that opens slowly. It fixes on Chuzz, then his lips pull back from his teeth in a satisfied grin.
“Swear to God, Phil, I’m going to take you to rehab one of these days. Stupid monkey.”
“Better hurry. The days are all growing to a close.” The toy on his back snickers. “You know your buddy is from the genus Pongo, right? He’s a great ape, not a monkey.”
“I know that, you idiot! Don’t you think I know my best friend is an ape?” Chuzz takes a seat at the remains of the dinner table. He hunches forward so Bangstrom doesn’t get squished. When he turns his head to the side, he can see those sharp grinning teeth. Like a bunch of tiny razor blades. His head is buzzing from the drink, but he still feels on edge. “So. Which way is Vegas?”
“Fuckaroni, I don’t know! If I gotta explain everything to you, our partnership is going to be a long and trying one.”
“So why are you here then?”
“I don’t know. I was fine until one of those flying fuckers gave me life. Breathed it right into me like I was a CPR doll.”
“Oh.” Chuzz slumps forward onto the dinner table, which reminds him that he should be eating now. He is hungry enough. He takes a half-thawed bean burrito out of the freezer and munches on it. Thing is stringy and tough. Tastes terrible cold. Despite the shards of tortilla stuck in his teeth, the food goes a long way toward making him feel more human. He lets a big juicy fart rip across the silence of the room.
“I’m not sure what is worse. The smell of that burrito or your ass.” Stretch Bangstrom mumbles.
Nathan P. Chuzzle ignores the thing. His mind is spent. There is literally nothing going on up there. For the first time in his life, not a single thought intrudes on the nothingness. Twang twang? Nope, the guitar string must have broken. Nothing. Just a haze of nothing.
He sits for some time and stares at the wall. The ceiling. The fading light of day. He listens to the screams in the night, howls and cries of pain. Cries of ecstasy. He should get up and check out the excitement, but he can’t muster up the energy.
“Fuck this. I’m going to bed. In the morning everything will be fine. I know it.”
“No it won’t.”
“Yes it will.”
“How are you going to sleep with me back here?”
Chuzz is already heading downstairs. The roof hangs over the dimly lit passageway and threatens to give in at every step.
“Easy. I’m gonna pop a couple of Ambien, and when I wake up, everything will be fine and dandy.”
Chuzz dry-swallows the pills like they are going out of style. He tries to slip his jeans off but doesn’t quite manage the feat before collapsing on his sweat-stained sheets, pants around his ankles, raging hard-on standing at attention. The toy groans and shifts under Chuzz as he passes gas like a locomotive chugging up a hill.
“Fucking asshole,” he sighs and then closes his eyes. Chuzz farts again.
The Ladies Hate the Cock
Back in the truck. Loaded and ready for war. Guns sprout out of every window and door like the big rig is a giant moving porcupine. The graveyard they leave behind looks like an army rolled over it. Corpses everywhere like a lost battlefield. Nothing moves when they move on.
Nothing.
They shoot every godforsaken thing they see on their way down the winding hillside, and there are some very fucking godforsaken things out there. It started to get dark a half hour ago, and then the moon made an appearance. A moon that was drenched in blood. The air took on a sultry feel, like they stepped into a sauna that smelled of piss. The reek is everywhere, and even the open windows blowing air in at over seventy miles per hour can’t suck the smell out.
Conversation is impossible. They tried to yell back and forth, but it was just irritating, and Darla told them to shut the fuck up. Music blares through the cab. It’s almost as loud as the wind, and it does help to cheer everyone up. Missus ManHole is one of the angriest femme bands on the planet, and they play them constantly. The current hit, I Smacked up a Tranny Bitch is rooting around in their brains, making them think happy thoughts.
Another hour goes by, and the sky is lit by fire as more red streaks flare across it. Dark at first, then bright red, now orange as the things rip at the atmosphere. Concussions rock the truck, and every once in a while Edwina wonders if they are in another earthquake.
“How much longer?” Marcel shouts.
Edwina has the map plastered to her legs, and she is pretty sure they are on the right road. The Sons of Satan’s Redeeming Cock are about to get a wakeup call. Apocalypse or not, there is going to be blood spilled. Screw the end of the world. No one breaks into their camp and tries to kill them like some kind of bad slasher flick. Leave that shit for the big screen.
“Soon. If we’re on the road I think we’re on, then you are going to take a left in about five minutes.”
“I’m on the lookout for it.” Darla hits a button, and lights on top of the big rig illuminate the night like it is midday.
“How are we on gas?”
“Fine. As long as we keep it steady. We won’t be able to run the engines when we rest, but I’m sure we can all cuddle up in the back.”
Edwina smiles and leans over to pats Darla on the leg. When she pulls her hand back, Marcel slips a leg toward the console, and she ends up brushing the tall woman’s thigh. Edwina looks at her, an apology on her face, but Marcel smiles at her. Eyes teasing. She leans back in her seat and swallows, thankful for the noise in the cabin, which covers her nervous actions.
“So what’s the plan?” Darla looks in the rearview mirror. Eyes on Marcel, who is cleaning her automatic. Edwina glances back. Marcel has the gun stripped and is checking the barrel. She peers down it, and when she seems satisfied, she snaps it back onto the stock of the gun.
“Shoot first.”
“Because th
at worked out so well with the angel.”
“It did. Didn’t it?” Marcel smiles a tight little grin that makes Edwina want to punch her in the face.
“No it did not! I can’t believe you shot before it could even say a word.”
“You know how I know it’s not an angel, Ed? Because I was able to shoot it. I don’t know if you are up on the Bible, but angels are these nasty things that show up when there is trouble. Big trouble. They kill firstborn by the boatload. Forget all that angelic shit. You see these guys and you run. It’s that simple. Don’t ask questions; don’t ask for help or directions to an orgy. You turn the fuck around and run!”
“You don’t know.”
“Marcel. Edwina’s right. We should have asked questions at the very least,” Darla interjects.
Edwina frowns at the memory of the beautiful bird that came to visit them. The woman with the wide white wings who fell to Earth. Darla, who was raised a devout Christian for the first fifteen years of her life, knew it was an angel. She had seen hundreds of pictures; there was no mistaking them. None at all.
Christianity hadn’t really worked out for Edwina. Too often she found herself looking for ways to skirt the rules. To bend one or two in her pursuit of feelings. She also had a problem with the whole waiting until marriage crap. She got laid at seventeen and then again the next day. Marcus Walker had been crap in and out of bed, so she dumped him for a big dumb guy who did what she asked. Did it the way she liked, and if he was good she would reward him with something special like a nice long visit inside her.
She had always been extreme, never really exploring the softer side of her femininity. When she drank at eighteen, she drank a lot. She drank until she couldn’t see straight, and she did it fast. She and her friends would sneak tequila and wine whenever they could. She would hold her nose and drink from the bottle of hard liquor until she thought she was going to gag. The others laughed, but she got buzzed faster than those crows.
Wacktards of the Apocalypse Page 15