“How about that gold Volvo?” Chuzz crouches behind a little convertible that is missing the roof and more than a few seats. In a large orange purse that was his mother’s, he carries the toys, his medications, and fifteen cans of sardines. There was nothing else to eat in the house. The soured milk. Some leftovers from a month ago. The burritos that should have been frozen but were only partially so, with their stale tortilla skins and squishy bean guts.
There was a half-empty bottle of old flat soda in the back. It was some generic brand, but it was loaded with sugar and it helped him pop his pills. He was still hard as a rock thanks to the damn Viagra, but his vision was a bit less blue. He still had a pounding headache. More than anything, he would love to go dig out his midget porn and rub one out, but not with Stretch hanging around.
He washed down a few extra pills and some vitamins as Stretch Bangstrom tittered in his ear about how the Apocalypse was here and they needed to get to Vegas. Chuzz ignored the idiot and went about his morning like it was any other day.
Until a neighbor’s house flew by. Literally. Then it was a mad rush to get out, lest his be the next house tossed.
They slide along the street like commandoes. Really bad commandoes. Chuzz is shit at sneaking. He stumbles into a gutter, falls over when he steps in a pothole. Bangs his knees on the side of the road and curses. They move from house to house, trying to stay out of the line of sight of the marauding monsters. Some of the demons have taken to wearing heads on their horns. Others play a game of kickball with them.
They slide from behind a fence and make it to an ice cream truck. Big son of a bitch with giant back doors. There is a sliding side window from which the ice cream is presumably dispensed. The vehicle sits at a slight angle thanks to one wheel being stuck in a giant pothole. When Chuzz reaches up to try the side door, he finds it locked.
And now there is the sound of demons going at some new game.
Chuzz peeks out around the truck’s bumper. He can see the corner of First and Jestler, but the street sign now reads First in Jizzler. On the corner, a pair of demons fuck the shit out of each other. Both have long tits that hang past their waists, but both also sport impressive cocks.
A vending machine clanks by, one of the Daily Gab boxes, but now it reads The Daily Cunt. Chuzz does a double take. He remembers imagining those words on the newspaper he picked up the other day. Did all this bullshit start happening back then? Stretch Bangstrom’s head peeks around the corner of Chuzzle’s neck, and the toy whistles under its breath at the coupling demons.
One of them lies on a pile of bodies that still leak blood. The other is on top and rocking back and forth. The one on top has a giant yellow cock, which the first one bats back and forth like a cat playing with a toy.
“Stop that shit! Just stroke it, Alice,” the one on top says in a voice that sounds like shards of glass grinding together. It bounces up and down on the other demon’s cock, which is a putrid green with warts all over it.
“The name is Malice, you fuck stick!” the one below bellows in a voice that sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard.
Chuzz considers asking them to bite his head off just so he can get the voices to stop.
“You’re shit at this, you know that, right?”
“Been locked up for over a hundred thousand years. Of course I am. What’s your excuse?”
“I know what I’m fucking doing!”
“You didn’t even get it in the right hole the first time.”
“You didn’t complain.”
“That’s because it’s your turn next.”
Chuzz shakes his head and considers his options. He can try to escape and stop the Apocalypse. Or he can go back to the house, swallow the barrel of his pistol and give the world the finger.
People are still being dragged into the streets and herded up or killed. Some protest, but they get smashed to a mush just the same. Some are beaten with their own severed limbs. Fire rages, and the ground is cracked and coughing up blood in places. Chuzzle had no idea the Apocalypse would be so damn … dirty. He always figured nukes would fall and he would see a bright flash and then nothing. Instead he has to see demons fucking in the street.
“Oh get off me, you stupid fuck stick!”
“You hurt me, Alice. Hurt me deep.”
The demon on top rolls off and grabs the bouncing Daily Cunt box. He rams his massive member, which looks like an elephant trunk with a mace head on the top, into the box and humps it like a giant leg.
“Oh yeah! Satan’s glory hole all the way, baby.”
Chuzz has seen enough. The gold Volvo looks inviting, but if they go after it they will have to contend with the pair of demons, and he isn’t sure he can get his shit together long enough to unleash the weapons. Not that he has a clear idea how to use them. He doesn’t even know what the hell he is going to do if he gets into one of the vehicles. Drive away across the broken road with demons and glory hole boxes in pursuit?
“Fuck that” is his opinion, thank you very much. God, he feels like he is filled with fail today. Where is the good stuff? Is the Apocalypse supposed to be all bad?
“Buddy. Hey buddy, hate to be a pest, but we got problems, bub,” the little head whispers in his ear.
Tear you to shreds and toss you in the fire, you fucking useless piece of shit, is all Chuzz can think.
“Shh.” Chuzzle hisses.
“Buddy. Uh … you need to turn around and look.”
Chuzz wants to punch the thing in the goddamn face is what he wants to do. Maybe put a hole in the back so Phil can practice with his shriveled little monkey dick. Won’t that just make ol’ Phil’s day? He can get stoned on H and then twiddle the toy until he passes out.
Fucking Phil.
Chuzz glances over his shoulder and almost bites his tongue in half.
“Fucking shit!”
There is a nauseating army on the move, and it is headed right at Chuzz’s hiding spot. Skyscraper-sized demons lead a horde of shambling creatures that look dead. Or close to dead. Some are missing pieces. Others are pieces.
“I hate zombies,” the toy whispers and then jabs Chuzz in the back of the neck with his nose over and over again, a silent plea for them to get the hell out of there. Stuck between a pair of demons screwing walking boxes and an army of dead.
“Should have stayed in bed.”
Chuzz pants so hard he starts to hyperventilate. He is scared to death, shit-his-pants terrified. He does not like direct confrontation, not one little bit, and this is the mother fucker of all confrontations. Demons ahead, demons behind. He doesn’t want to end up as top ramen for one of those things.
“Get it together!” Stretch Bangstrom hisses.
A Daily Gab box flies past the ice cream truck and smashes into a white Toyota truck, which sets off the alarm. It’s like a beacon has been lit and now the lights are shining bright on Chuzz. The box rights itself and drops to the ground with a heavy clank. Then it bobs and hustles down the street toward the zombies.
“Ah fuck!” Chuzz starts to crawl under the truck.
Phil stares at the sky and then reaches his little monkey hand up to test the back door. It pops open with a groan that sounds to Chuzz like a man screaming at the top of his lungs. He is sure the noise will attract every demon on the street.
“What the fuck was that noise?” one of the demons rumbles.
“A dead man I am going to wear as a cock ring is my guess.”
“Malice, you are supposed to be the girl!”
Scrambling as the things move toward them.
“In the truck!” Stretch Bangstrom howls.
Who is Chuzz fooling? He is about as heroic as a used tampon. One of the giant demons passes overhead, and Chuzz makes the mistake of looking up. He finds himself gazing at a great big pair of balls that look like a couple of hairy elephants. He gags and tries not to throw up.
Gunfire from across the street adds to the chaos. One of Chuzz’s neighbors has thrown open his door an
d pounded onto the porch with a giant machine gun slung around his waist. Looks like someone ripped one off a helicopter and mounted it on the guy. It’s strapped to his neck with a couple of belts. He is dressed in a Hello Pussy tee shirt and a pair of dirty underwear. His hair is wild, unbrushed and as greasy as a bag of French fries.
The guy leans forward and fires. Bullets rip into the street, tearing a path of asphalt before smacking into the demon that tossed the Daily Cunt box. It flies back like it was slapped hard, then comes up pissed, streaming brown and yellow pus that looks like a sewage leak.
“Goddamn demon sons-a-bitches! Git off my motherfucking lawn!” the guy screams, his voice slurred. The giant gun opens up again, spraying both demons.
They don’t take too kindly to it.
The one that was on the bottom bounds to its feet, picks up the hood of a car and uses it as a shield. The other walks toward the guy.
“I’m gonna take that gun and fuck you with it!” the demon growls and gets a face full of lead for the effort.
“What you say to me, you freak of fucking nature?”
The demon stumbles to the side and gets a glimpse of Chuzz as he tries to wiggle into the back of the truck. Another blast of gunfire sends the demon reeling. It hits the side of the truck, falls to the side and rolls over Chuzz.
Chuzzle tries to duck out of the way, but he gets a big cheekful of cock for his effort. Big red dildo-looking thing slaps him silly. He sees stars, his face rings and he wonders for a minute if he is going to pass out.
“Shit balls!” the demon screams. Chuzz gets up on unsteady legs to find his hand holding the microphone toy. He didn’t tell his arm to reach into his pants for it. Must have been the stupid damn toy. Stupid Stretch Bangstrom!
But the toy probably saved his life. He lowers the thing, points it at the demon, then hits the red button and lifts his hand into the air. The demon looks terrified as it flies straight up. Chuzz slaps his hand forward, which sends the demon flying with a scream.
“Good show, bub!” Stretch hollers. “Now let’s get in the goddamn truck and blow this town.”
“Howdy neighbor!” the man with the machine gun calls out just before the first demon leaps onto his roof, smashes through part of it and then falls on the guy.
“Come on, Phil!” Chuzz calls over his shoulder.
Phil bounds into the truck and settles near the door, big monkey eyes glued to the army, which is less than a hundred feet away. A thousand leering faces groan for their blood. They stagger like a bunch of drunks, spewing vomit and blood. They are the dead, and they have come for Chuzz.
Which is why Chuzz is getting the fuck out of Dodge with his one-armed monkey, a toy stuck to his back and few cheesy shreds of his sanity intact.
A couple of creatures detach from the army and slither rapidly across the ground. Their torsos are vaguely human-shaped, but they have many human legs and arms that shift and relocate. They have demonoid heads, squat fat things with many green eyes that swivel on long stalks.
Chuzz picks one up with the microphone and tosses it away, but others are close behind.
“Fuck fighting them, pick up the truck and get us out of here!”
Just like the house! He triggers the silver button and lifts the toy up in the air. The ice cream truck flies up, sending Chuzz and Phil sprawling across the floor. A large freezer spills out a rainbow of colorful melted goo that splatters all over the truck.
Chuzz picks himself up and stares straight into the eyes of one of the towering demons. Its face is a nightmare landscape, a bizarre pincushion jabbed full with human bodies. Some of the appendages—legs, arms, heads--move as it walks. The heads scream in pain, and it freaks Chuzz right the hell out. He triggers the microphone toy again and thrusts it in the direction opposite the army from Hell.
The truck shoots forward. Chuzz and Phil hang on for dear life as it moves like a jet. Chuzz backs off the stick and glances behind. The army is far in the distance. He stands up and closes the door. Stretch Bangstrom’s head leers around his neck with a razor-sharp grin.
“I knew you had it in you!” the toy leers.
Nathan P. Chuzzle stares at the remains of his town. He sucks in air, then leans over and plants his hands on his knees. He feels like he is going to puke.
Phil picks that moment to punch Chuzz in the ass.
“Fucking Phil!”
The Daily Gab Gets Refuckulated
Myron Bottomfeeder wakes to distant screams that sound as if they are clawing at the concrete walls around him. He’s been dozing on a cot in the basement boiler room of the Marvin J. Fartseinheimer Building, which happens to house the bustling offices of “America’s Number One Gossip Magazine,” The Daily Gab. Myron doesn’t always sleep on his the cot in the boiler room. After all, he is the editor of The Daily Gab, and he has as much money as one sleazy grease bag can handle, but he worked late last night.
Myron had spent hours and hours trying to unearth some printable dirt on any celeb he could find, but the only thing on the Internet, before it crashed permanently, was news about the end of the world. Myron couldn’t give two shakes of his dick about the end of the world. All he cares about are Hollywood starlets who flash their beavers on the red carpet or supposedly straight Hollywood heartthrobs who blow producers backstage at award shows. Myron doesn’t want to hear about demons and the walking dead. He wants to hear who is fucking whom and who is getting fat. He is a sad little man who only wakes up every morning because each day is a fresh day to fuck someone over.
Nothing makes Myron feel better than ruining someone else’s day.
When his Internet connection finally went the way of the Duke, he glanced out his window and looked down the fourteen stories to the streets of Reno. People ran screaming back and forth across the streets. Parked cars and trucks clogged every intersection. He sighed to himself, deciding against fighting the ridiculous traffic to make it home. If he doesn’t make it home by one in the morning, Mildred will call her boyfriend and he’ll come bang her out. Myron didn’t feel like walking in on that again. Catching them in sweaty embraces with their stupid fuck-faces never got any less awkward.
So, Myron turned from the window, flicked off his office lights, and took the elevator to the basement where his semi-comfortable cot awaited him.
He pulls the heavy metal door to the boiler room closed nice and quiet behind him so no one will hear him. As much as he loves casting the bright light of social shame on people, he despises anyone knowing anything about him. The thought of a lowly janitor seeing him leaving a boiler room instead of walking in the front door nearly gives him a panic attack. He slinks through the heavy double doors that lead to the stairwell and climbs the stairs two at a time all the way to the fourteenth floor of the Marvin J. Fartseinheimer Building. He ignores the screams and sounds of chaos on the other floors.
Myron listens at the crack between the doors and hears only the normal sounds of the busy Daily Gab offices. Keyboards clacking, the buzz of many voices speaking at once, and the near constant ringing of the Gab Lines. He smiles wide at the thought of how wonderful it is that he works with people who care more about The Daily Gab and all that they accomplish. It is clearly more important than some stupid little end of the world.
He pushes the doors open and walks through, whistling his favorite Journey song, oblivious to the winged demons flapping around the lobby screaming into cell phones. One of them spots him and flaps down right in front of him. Myron steps back as the green imp lands softly in his path. It closes its cell phone and stares at Myron with burning purple eyes. “Who the fuck are you?”
Myron huffs and shakes his head at the little demon. “I’m Myron Bottomfeeder, editor of The Daily Gab, and who the fuck are you?”
As Myron finishes his sentence, a series of bright lights and popping sounds fills the lobby around him. He holds up his hands in a vain attempt to shield his eyes. Between the floating purple blobs of his degenerating vision, he sees what looks like a
bouquet of eyeballs balanced on one foot hopping around him. When the demon speaks again, Myron is completely blinded. “Well, Myron Bottomfeeder, the boss wants to meet ya!”
The small green demon grabs Myron by the hand and leads his stumbling blind ass toward his office. Once inside the glass doors of The Daily Gab offices, Myron can tell something is wrong. The voices are all strange and gravelly, and they are screaming and cursing into the phones as they answer them. “Whoa,” the little green demon says, jerking Myron back a step. Something huge passes in front of Myron’s sightless face with enough force to make his hair break dance on his forehead before shattering through the window.
Myron’s vision clears up seconds before the demon drags him into his office. A corpse is splayed on the break room table. The body has been ripped wide open, and its intestines dangle in floppy strands to the floor. A red demon and two green demons stand around the corpse drinking coffee out of his co-workers’ mugs and reaching into the body cavity in front of them for snacks. He turns from the sight, fighting back vomit. Myron glances to his office door and instead of ‘Myron T. Bottomfeeder, Editor’ it reads, ‘Azzehemadheadzqueerz, Editor.’ He can hold back the vomit no longer, and he pukes down the front of his favorite suit as he is rushed into his former office.
A giant bull-faced demon towers over his desk, tendrils extending from between two massive horns on the back of his head. Thick stringy snot dangles from his snout to the cluttered desk below him. The demon huffs and covers Myron’s small green escort in thick yellow snot before turning to Myron and saying, “Now that is the rowdy kinda’ attitude we like around here at The Daily Cunt! Who the fuck are you?”
Myron opens his mouth to answer, but the small snot-covered demon at his side reaches over and smacks him in the nuts. Myron gags and bends over with both hands on his aching balls. The little green demon flaps his wings, flinging snot all over Myron and the office. “This is Myron. The ex-editor. He slept in the basement. He also puked when he saw Zahgerdazfer, Bertyurtesta, and Elliot enjoying Zahgerdazfer’s birthday stripper.”
The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1) Page 19