Nice things said about this blasphemous book
“A deranged and absurd balls-to-the-wall romp through a deliciously fractured universe. It reads like Douglas Adams on magic mushrooms. If this is how the world ends—sign me up.”
-- Jonathan Maberry, NY Times bestselling author of The King of Plagues and Patient Z
“Disgusting, offensive, irreverent, and profane, and all kinds of wrong. Jonathan Moon and Timothy W. Long are going to hell for sure.”
-- S.G. Browne, author of Breathers
“Bizarro with bite. Long and Moon are the Lennon and McCartney of apoc-horror.”
-- Wayne Simmons, author of DROP DEAD GORGEOUS and the UK bestselling FLU
"As imaginative and engrossing as it is just fucking weird. The Apocalypse and Satan’s Glory Hole violated my mind in the best way."
-- David Dunwoody, author of EMPIRE'S END and UNBOUND & OTHER TALES
“It's so off the wall, it's on the floor. And the floor is littered with all kinds of congealing viscera and humor so black it would make Mandingo burn you in the eye with a cigar out of jealousy.”
-- Jason Wuchenich, author of DINNER BELL FOR THE DREAM WORMS
“It's so much more than a good read, or a great read, or an excellent read! This is one over the top, hilarious, disturbing, poop filled, vomit inducing, bloodletting, sweat pouring, heart racing, psychologically damaging book.”
-- Tonia Brown, author of LUCKY STIFF
The Apocalypse
And
Satan’s Glory Hole!
By Timothy W. Long
And
Jonathan Moon
---A Barn Burner Books Book---
A “Barn Burner Books” Book
Published by arrangement with the authors.
“The Apocalypse and Satan’s Glory Hole”
By Timothy W. Long & Jonathan Moon
Copyright 2012 - All Rights Reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and “Library of the Living Dead Press,” except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the authors’ imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or historical events, is purely fucking coincidental.
Cover art by Matt Edginton
Foreword
THE NEW REBELS OF FICTION
An Introduction
by William Pauley III
My first encounter with bizarro fiction was nearly ten years ago. At the time I was a very jaded reader, everything I would pick up would bore me, so when I first found bizarro, It felt like I had found a hidden door in a room that I had spent my entire life inside of. But that feeling quickly left me.
Bizarro seemed to be a style of fiction that was written specifically for my tastes. I’ve always been drawn to weird fiction, strange plots, and unique characters, and bizarro promised to have it all and more. For at least a year, I tried to get into bizarro, but every book I read felt flat, rushed, and, to be perfectly honest, half-assed. I gave it up and returned swimming through that great big ocean of books out there. That is until about three years ago.
Over the years, bizarro changed, a lot… and for the better. New authors had hold of the reigns, and most of them had the same idea of what bizarro should be that I had had. I decided to dip my toes in the bizarro pool once again, this time trying out books by authors Andersen Prunty, Jordan Krall, and Gina Ranalli. Holy shit. There it was. Those were the types of books I was looking for nearly ten years ago – full, well-developed, and perfectly paced stories about interesting characters in wild situations. Bizarro quickly became a way of life for me. In the last three years, over half the books I’ve read have been bizarro books.
But I’m not going to sit here and lie to you, bizarro is still about 50/50 – for every good bizarro book, you have at least one bad one. But that’s how it is in any genre of fiction. There is something in bizarro fiction for everyone, so I encourage you, avid reader, to not give up if one or two books let you down. Bizarro is more than a genre, it’s all genres – horror, sci-fi, romance, comedy, et cetera. It’s cult fiction.
There is something beautiful about this genre, this literary movement, that I’m sure most other bizarro authors probably recognize as well – Bizarro will be big, and it will be big very soon. We are all standing hand-in-hand on the shoreline waiting for the wave to come crashing down on us all. Some of us will swim, some of us will sink, and a few of us will be eaten alive. It’s coming. There is no escaping it. I actually feel a little sad that this moment is soon to be our past. There is a brother/sisterhood in bizarro fiction that is unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed before. I’m sure success will tear a lot of us apart, some of us it already has. But right now, in this moment, we are rock stars. We are what Hunter Thompson was in the 70s, what the splatter and cyberpunks were in the 80s. We are the new rebels of fiction. Our day is coming soon.
If you picked up this book, The Apocalypse and Satan’s Glory Hole by Timothy W. Long and Jonathan Moon, and it is your first exposure to bizarro fiction, then you did well my friend. This book is not only highly entertaining and hilarious, but it also serves as a great introduction to the world of bizarro. If you enjoy this style of fiction, then I would suggest reading Cartlon Mellick’s SUNSET WITH A BEARD, Steve Lowe’s MUSCLE MEMORY, or even my books DOOM MAGNETIC! and THE BROTHERS CRUNK, as they all are very bizarre, but easily accessible works.
You’ll like this one a whole hell of a lot, that I am sure. And the best thing is, there are two more in the series coming out very soon. That ought to juice your brain for the time being.
Enjoy the ride.
William Pauley III
April 25th
Lexington, KY
Some time ago
Godish
HE is everything. He is Brilliance and Beauty. Glory and Power. White Hair and Chicken Pot Pies.
He is God. Billions of humans weep for him. Pray to him. Kill in his name.
Omnipresence is exhausting. And fattening.
He sighs. Somewhere a blind man sees.
He has watched the humans he created destroy the Earth he gave them. He has watched them destroy each other, then multiply like rabbits. He has watched them destroy every clever thing he ever guided. Like rabbit pot pies.
He frowns. Somewhere a crippled child trips and falls.
He feels the knock before it thunders around him. It ruffles the clouds that drift through the all-encompassing brightness. He feels his angel’s impatience. He hates impatience. So now he is irritable. So now he has to eat. A chicken pot pie sounds delicious. The smell of processed chicken chunks, rehydrated peas and carrots, and flakey golden crust overwhelms his godly senses. His worry is over humankind and their impending Apocalypse, but it washes away in a wave of chicken gravy.
He smiles. Somewhere thirty-seven coma patients simultaneously awake.
The end is upon the world, and his angels are impatient. He knows Gabriel is knocking. He knows his angels are thirsting for battle. He is thirsty for gravy. No one has to die for gravy. They have waited and waited while the dark one’s plans grew bolder. That bastard child. He could find him with a glance and burn him to a cinder with a thought.
Pie sounds much more appealing right now.
A knock at his heave
nly door sounds again. He knows chicken pot pies can’t satisfy the masses the way they calm his tumultuous spirit.
"Humans,” he scoffs to himself in a voice that radiates and thunders.
“GAWD,” Gabriel yells before knocking again, “It’s time to go!”
God shivers. Somewhere an island sinks underwater.
He created the universe, and now his creations annoy him. Pester him. Blame him.
Not all his creations, just humans.
“GAWD! We gotta go!”
Why did he model his angels after humans? Beelzebub modeled most of his demons from animals and nightmares. Angels were modeled solely from humans. Foolish mistakes. He’d do better next time.
He hiccups. A tidal wave erupts, killing all six thousand, four hundred and eighty-two villagers living in its path.
Wait. That’s it.
Next time. Now can be next time.
“Gabe,” he shouts a split second before the large angel pounds on the door again, “calm down, my child.”
His side of the door is clear; wisps of fog drift lazily across it. Gabriel’s side of the door is thick, tall, and wooden. Gabriel stares at it now as if it had called his mom a whore.
He smiles again; six judges burst into flames.
“GAWD?!? Can you hear me?”
He sighs. A deaf man hears.
“Yes, Gabe. Can you hear me?”
“Yeah, I hear you, Gawd.”
“Good, my child. Now go on without me.”
“Gawd, it is time for the Apocalypse. You’re kinda’ expected to make an appearance …”
“Yeah, I know. But, I got to honest with you, I’m over it.”
“What?”
“I’m not really in the mood for it anymore.”
“Uh, Gawd, I don’t think you can do that.”
He growls under his chicken breath; somewhere a volcano explodes.
“I can do whatever I want, Gabe. It’s a perk of being The Creator.”
Gabriel stammers on the other side of the door, unable to form words for his dismay and confusion.
“But what about …”
“Over it.”
“But …”
“Over it.”
“Well …”
“Over it, too.”
Gabriel stomps his foot in frustration.
“GAWD!”
“Calm down, Gabe. Don’t look at it like I’m deserting this entire plane of existence for another with no humans or human-like things. Look at it like you are being freed of your celestial servitude.”
“What are WE supposed to do?” the big angel whines.
“I don’t know, Gabe, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. You know, with the new plane of reality and all.”
“Gawd, I don’t …”
“It is okay, Gabe, I know. Just go do whatever you want. If it is battle and Armageddon you seek, then bring your holy fury down upon your enemies. Just, eh, keep my name out of it, all right?”
“Gawd …”
“Okay, Gabe, I’m over this conversation. Have fun, buddy, and no hard feelings.”
Omnipresence is excited again. Creating again. Loving again.
“What is cooler than humans, other than chicken pot pies?” he wonders aloud.
He smiles. Somewhere a turtleman becomes chief of a new tribe on a new planet in the middle of a new universe.
Gabriel turns to face the legions. Shock drains the color from his face and loosens his jaw muscles so that his mouth hangs and drools.
They stare in wonder as Gabriel rubs his chin, trying to figure out what to tell them. They figure it out when they blink and Heaven is gone. Where a moment ago they were surrounded by clouds and brightness, now they stand in the middle of a vast barren desert.
They look ridiculous in their shining battle suits, wings folded behind them. Some bear arms while others carry horns or trumpets.
“Uh, what just happened?” A pair in front ask in unison.
“He’s over it,” Gabriel tells them with a winged shrug.
“He’s over it?” That would be Tony. He has been polishing his battleaxe for months while watching American Idol reruns.
“He can’t be over it!” A perfectly sculpted face frowns. That would be his sister Tonette. She has a spear in one hand and a net in the other. She is addicted to gladiator porn and talks about capturing a few humans for her personal pets, then raising them to fight in the pits once Armageddon is over.
Gabriel looks around the empty expanse of desert. Does it always have to start in the desert? Can’t the battle for Earth start somewhere like Barbados?
“Ah shit. This isn’t even the right desert.”
The collected mass of angels sigh like a departing storm and drop their weapons in disbelief.
The Nevada Black Rock Desert – Burning Man Fifty Feet behind the Shitter Wrapped in Bubble Wrap and Fruit Roll-Ups
Deputy Sheriff Fenton Morks is watching the Burning Man festival from the sidelines when the first group of people breaks off into the barren wastelands behind the tents and booths. Then another. He leans his sheriff cowboy hat back and wipes the sweat from his face. Morks puts his hat back on and watches a skinny little man dressed as Pan, the goat-footed, flute-playing god, run from the groups back into the main body of chaos.
“I got a bad feeling about this,” he tells no one in particular, as he is wearing his uniform. To his understanding, no one at Burning Man will talk to a cop.
The little Pan Man runs from the camp with a dozen weirdoes in tow. Officer Morks’s cop instincts kick in when the groups start waving and greeting each other in an excited manner. The Pan Man and the strange dozen behind him skip and sing joyful-sounding tunes, and the distant group claps and cheers. Officer Morks sees smiles on every face–every face that isn’t obstructed by a mask or make up or ball gag—and his adrenaline kicks in, helping him run just a little faster. Dirt flies from his heels, and he reaches up and screams, “Backup requested, directly behind ‘Restroom Tickle Stick,’” into the walkie on his shoulder.
“I got ya’,” squawks the sheriff over the walkie.
The Pan Man reaches the first group seconds before a charging Officer Morks. The Pan Man jumps and stands with his arms bent and his hands in the air. He puffs proudly to his full height of five feet and one inch and announces to the group, “I bring friends!”
As soon as the words escape his mouth, Officer Morks ducks his head and crashes into the diminutive man, striking under his upstretched arm. The Pan Man crumples to the ground with a thud. Officer Morks loosens his nightstick and pulls it free in one quick motion. He turns on the dozen crazies that were behind the already intercepted Pan Man and swings the nightstick at them. They all back up, tripping over each other in their haste.
Morks swings back to the first group, who stare at him with wild vacant eyes. Two men, nude except for long black nun hoods, are crouched in the sand around what looks to be a giant sand asshole. Behind them is a circle of weirdoes of various sizes, colors, and kinks. Officer Morks reaches up and slides his sunglasses down so he can peer over the lenses at what look like small fleshy dicks crawling all over the freaks.
“What in the …” Morks asks anyone who can finish his question.
The Pan Man stands with a groan and tells him, “Cockbugs! Aren’t they fucking sweet!? We,” he points to his chest and to the two bearded naked nuns, “just discovered them! Just now, right here!”
Officer Morks takes a step back and swings his club at the Pan Man’s head as hard as he can. The hard black plastic connects with a sick sloppy noise, and blood splatters the small crowd. The force of the blow knocks the Pan Man off his feet, and he lands in a heap with his hands covering his head. Morks smiles and bashes his club against the man’s tiny toga-clad ribs with a crack.
Officer Morks faces the dick-covered group and in a more confident voice asks, “Are those dicks crawling all over you?”
“YES!” the dick-coated group sings in unison. One
of the nuns adds, “They are Cockbugs from the Mother Earth! And they are BEAUTIFUL!”
“YES,” the group chants, “BEAUTIFUL COCKBUGS!”
A man sits cross-legged near the pucker of earth. Cockbugs cover him from his hemp shoes to his dirty Rusted Root tee shirt. The fleshy little pricks crawl all over him, over skin and hair alike. As he speaks, the crowd around him begins humming ommmm. “They are a sign from our Earth Mother. She has given us these little bugs to remind us of the beauty of the penis! The beauty of this tool of love! She is asking for our love! These Cockbugs will take our love to her! Orgy on the mound!”
The Pan Man struggles to his feet with a wide sedated grin. He wobbles back and forth as he raises his hand to Officer Morks. The officer peeks over his sunglasses again and sees a little prick, all veined shaft and head with two nasty little horns, crawling over the small man’s hand on many little black legs. The Pan Man smiles at Morks with a lopsided grin and tells him, “They tickle and get you HIGH!”
Officer Morks frowns at the curly-haired man bleeding from his head wound and offering a dick-shaped bug. Morks slaps the man’s hand away, sending the Cockbug flying. The Pan Man’s eyes criss-cross as they follow the flying bug in slow motion. As soon as the Pan Man’s head turns, Officer Morks swings his nightstick again. It hits the man hard in the back of the head, and blood shoots out his nose, mouth, eyes, and ears. Morks swings the club every bit as hard into the man’s crotch. It cracks and smooshes, and Morks rears back for a final battery. He grasps a fistful of toga and gives the man a good shake before connecting the club with the man’s skull with a crack that echoes through the massive camp.
“What’s the problem here, Officer Morks?” Sheriff Smoochole asks from behind.
The deputy drops his beat bag onto the hot Nevada sand. He is breathing in short wild bursts and smiling like a maniac.
“Nothing, sir,” he says before turning around to see the sheriff in a leather g-string. Thin leather straps rise from the revealingly little piece to meet on a metal circle in the middle of the sheriff’s old skinny chest. He still wears his cowboy hat and his aviator sunglasses. His badge is pinned to the leather strap going over his shoulder. Officer Morks stares at the sheriff with embarrassment reddening his cheeks.
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