Feet shuffle on the ground back and forth as if he is shifting in his seat. Chuzz can’t wait anymore. He knows he has the right place!
He stands up and unbuttons his pants, which have confined a raging hard-on for the past half hour. He drops them. Puts his hands on the wall and then carefully inserts his member into the hole above the toilet paper.
A sigh from the other side but no words. Then a touch of rough hands. Chuzz sighs as well. Yep, this is the place.
The Dirt Road Leading to the Former Site of the Burning Man Festival
General Mac O’Coddle stares out the window of his Hummer, scowling at the expanse of alkali flats surrounding his enormous convoy. He looks to Major Arseblister behind the driver’s wheel, and he smirks at his longtime subordinate. Major Arseblister grins when he sees the general out of the corner of his eye.
“You’re in a great mood today, sir,” Major Arseblister says, taking his eyes off the dusty white road ahead.
General O’Coddle takes a deep breath and puffs his barrel chest. He smiles under his bushy white beard as he tells Major Arseblister, “It’s going to be a good day, Major.”
“You enjoy the desert, sir?” Major Arseblister asks, searching for clues to the general’s uncommon decent mood.
“Fuck no,” General O’Coddle says. “But I haven’t massacred hippies since ‘Nam, and if the godforsaken desert is where I gotta go to spill some hippy gore, then grab me a canteen and a camel with no nut sack.”
One small open-top Jeep leads the camouflage Hummer down the long, straight dirt road. Following the general’s Hummer is a long line of heavy armed combat vehicles grinding their way through the Nevada desert. Four dozen tanks of different sizes and speeds rumble alongside six dozen old covered trucks transporting entire platoons of soldiers. Smaller Jeeps with mounted heavy artillery buzz around the slower-moving rigs, their wheels sending up long billowy alkali-white clouds.
“As a statement of fact,” grumbles General O’Coddle, “my trigger finger is gettin’ itchy. How far away is the target?”
“Sir,” Major Arseblister smirks, “I was under the impression our objective was simply to deliver the Cease and Desist message to the offending parties.”
“Right,” General O’Coddle chuckles. “The Army brought four dozen tanks to the middle of the motherfucking desert just to ask them very nicely to please stop mopping the fucking desert floor with their crab-infested genitals. That doesn’t make any fucking sense, Major.”
The general puffs out his chest and straightens the bronze buttons on his dark green uniform, which he wears despite the desert camouflage khaki all the other soldiers have donned. He grunts and shines the obnoxiously large collage of medals pinned to his barrel chest with a fist the size of a Christmas ham.
He stares out the windshield in front of him and tells Major Arseblister, “Just answer my motherfucking question and then shut the fuck up.”
The smirk dissolves off of Major Arseblister’s face, and he shrinks slightly from General O’Coddle’s angry timbre. “Sorry, sir, we are within fifteen miles of the target, sir.”
“Good,” General O’Coddle barks. “Now get to work on shutting the fuck up, Major.”
The two soldiers ride in silence for only a minute before the taillights of the Jeep leading flash bright red in the blandness of the desert as its driver slams on the brakes.
Major Arseblister stands on his brake pedal, and the massive Hummer skids and slides in response, weaving the width of the dirt road. Behind the two officers, the drivers of the entire row of military vehicles hit their brakes, some with more luck than others.
General O’Coddle is flung forward toward the long, flat dashboard. His muscular arms fly up in the air. His forehead creases with anger. His gray mustache shakes with the force of his yelling. “What in the dead and bloated fuck is going on?”
“I ... I ... I don’t know … sir …” Major Arseblister replies.
General O’Coddle shakes his head. “Major, shut the fuck up. I was yelling at the fuckups in front of us. I say once more, shut the fuck up.”
“Mmmm,” Major Arseblister says through sealed lips with an enthusiastic nod.
The general grumbles and opens his door. He rocks forward, farts louder than common artillery fire, and steps from the Hummer. The major opens his mouth to say something, but General O’Coddle raises a finger and tells him, “Now, you may vacate the vehicle but you must shut the fuck up. Do you understand, Major?”
Major Arseblister nods and eyes the walrus tusk handles of the custom twin .357 magnums swinging at the general’s side. He even eyes the two bandoliers of reloads crisscrossing the general’s broad chest. The general notices the major’s glance at his guns and ammo, and he smiles.
General O’Coddle turns from the major, and the smile spreads even wider across his square face.
Up ahead, a miles-wide circle pulses and throbs in stark contrast to the otherwise barren landscape. Moans and sighs and screams of passion haunt the wide open space.
“Holy lung-punching fuck, this thing is big,” General O’Coddle says, the grin beneath his mustache never diminishing. He turns on his heel and climbs back into his seat in the Hummer. Major Arseblister scampers to climb in and behind the wheel quicker than teenage boys find Internet porn.
“That thing is fucking massive,” General O’Coddle says. Major Arseblister just nods.
The excited general looks to the silent major and says, “I said that’s a shit ton of tree-huggin’ solar-power-usin’ organic- food-eatin’ war-dodgin’ tie-dye-wearin’ free-love-motherfuckin’ hippies!”
Major Arseblister nods with a stupid look on his droopy face.
General O’Coddle squints one eye as he leans over in his seat and asks, “Are you not talking because I told you to shut the fuck up?”
The major nods excitedly and hums behind his close-lipped smile.
“Well,” O’Coddle says, “don’t be an arsehole, Major.”
“It’s Arseblister, sir,” the major corrects.
“Fine,” General O’Coddle chuckles. “I’ll call you that. It sounds even worse!”
Major Arseblister lowers his head and tells the smiling general, “No, sir, Arseblister is my name.”
The general’s dull gray eyes open wide with shock, and he spurts, “I thought you were Arsepounder. Major Kevin J. Arsepounder.”
“No, sir,” the major says, “I’m Major Robert B. Arseblister, of the Nantucket Arseblisters.”
“Well,” General O’Coddle says, “don’t be an arsehole, Arseblister.”
“Sir,” Major Arseblister nods.
“Major,” the general answers and stares back out at the barrenness of the alkali flats.
Major Arseblister notices the massive makeshift parking lot ahead of them first. His jaw drops at the sight of the thousands of randomly parked cars, trucks, motorcycles, Volkswagens, and converted school buses presenting an impossible obstacle to the snake of Army vehicles behind them.
“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 shi
t 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!”
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 b
ends 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 over, 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 Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1) Page 5