“Well, O’Fondle,” Pestilence mumbles while turning to the front door, “WE are heading to Vegas. I want a taste of some fried Leon.”
He looks back to the general. O’Coddle’s dead eyes twitch and roll in their sockets, but he doesn’t feel the flames that engulf his head.
Pestilence blinks, and the flames are gone. “This is KILLER shit, O’Fondle.”
Pestilence mounts his steed and kicks it in the ribs. The general follows right behind, and the zombies stumble from around the building, most carrying pieces of Jerome for the road.
None of them notices the shit-filled pickup rocking back and forth in the parking lot. Wet moans sound from within the mountain of feces, and a long thick log of shit reaches up and out. It twists and twirls in the air. Splits and spreads until there are four wiggling fingers. A second shit arm shoots up and twists into a giant shit pincher. The two shit arms grip the hood of the pickup, and the shit demon roars as it forms from its own defecation with only thoughts of revenge. And shit.
Jesus and Death get Lit and Take a Road Trip
They try a couple of cars, but none seems appropriate for one of the four Horsemen and Jesus. Death is quite aware of the irony, of course, one of the Horsemen without a horse. It’s sort of like War without that big old sword of his. Always gallivanting around, stirring up the masses. When he can’t get a decent war going, he calls in Famine, that fat bitch. Those two were thick as thieves even in the early days.
“What’s the plan?” Death examines a little Volkswagen Beetle, but it is too small for his scythe.
“We’re going to go have a little chat with that son of a bitch out in the desert.”
“You serious?”
“Yep. Then I’m going to punch him right in the eye.”
“Uh, boss, I don’t mean to question you, but you know he is as big as a skyscraper, and they say you can’t even see his entire body yet. He is still coming out of the ground.”
“Yeah. I saw that firsthand.”
The ground is littered with debris. A bouncing box with a gaping hole in one side hops by. It looks like a newspaper dispenser, but it says The Daily Cunt on the side. Snapping teeth line the opening that used to dispense papers.
Death just stares.
“Now there’s something you don’t see every day.”
A green demon the size of a gorilla hurries after the thing. He is covered in snakelike hair that shakes and spits as he runs. He catches up with the box, grabs it, lifts it into the air and then slams a pair of giant cocks into the metal monstrosity. It jumps and bucks, but he screws it like it owes him money, humps it right across the road until he disappears around the rubble of a fallen hotel.
“Me.”
“You can say that again.”
They finally find something large and stately. A 1969 blazing red Plymouth Road Runner convertible. The front is higher than the back, and it boasts gigantic gleaming silver rims. The roof is off, torn off to be exact, and it is the perfect size for Death’s scythe.
“Really?” Jesus asks, his dark eyebrow arching up
“Fuck yeah!” Death replies.
Death hops in the driver’s seat, and Jesus sits next to him. The keys are on the floor, so he fires up the engine. He has never driven a car, but he drove a giant chariot a few thousand years ago, so this thing should be no trouble.
He rides over a curb, chases a pair of tiny demons from behind a condom machine lying in the street and then runs into a Kia, which pretty much destroys the piece of crap.
“Fuck!”
“Practice.”
He drives like an old woman for a while, just until he gets the hang of it. Then he plows into a man being chased by a gnarly demon dressed in drag. The man is screaming while covering his ass. The demon is screaming while brandishing a male sex doll.
The guy crumples across the hood of the car and flops onto the ground. His head hits like a melon and opens up with a splat.
“Shit!” Death yells and looks over the hood.
“It happens.” New Jesus sighs.
They raid a 7-11 and come out with Big Gulps filled with Slurpee mix that is mostly melted. Even so, Death gets a wicked case of brain freeze almost immediately. The flavor is Electric Blue, but it tasted tastes more like electric fuck you. His head hurts so much he almost asks the man himself to touch him and take away the pain.
Jesus gnaws at a piece of beef jerky while appearing to be deep in thought. He chases the jerky with a shot of Cheez Whiz straight from the can. Death saw him grab a few six packs as well, but he didn’t see what they were. Probably beer. Who could blame him?
“You get some good brew?” Death asks. The wind is whipping at his hoodie, but every time the hood falls, he tugs it back into place. Old habits die hard, and covering up all the mass murder is one of them.
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Really? I thought we might open a cold one while we cruise.”
“It’s not cold, but you are welcome to try some.” He retrieves a slim blue can from the brown paper bag and hands it over.
Death pops the top and takes a sip. It is sweet and tastes of chemicals. He grins and drains the can in one long swallow like he is shotgunning a beer. He suddenly feels happy, filled with energy. He hasn’t felt this way in a long while.
“Red Bull?” He reads the side of the can aloud.
“Tastes wonderful with vodka.” Jesus grins, his bruised eye giving a twitch.
Death smiles and guns the engine. The car leaps ahead with a roar. He reaches for another drink and pops it open. He slurps this one more slowly, savoring the chemicals as they fizz down his throat.
A whole herd of dancing news boxes runs alongside them. They twist and turn, clank and crash across the road. Some range ahead of the car while others stay with them. The boxes come in various sizes and colors, but all feature the same logo. ‘The Daily Cunt.’
“Must be a hundred of the things,” Death whispers to himself.
Death pulls up to the next store he sees, and Jesus dashes out of the car. He runs inside with his hands over his head screaming about the end of the world. No one runs out. He walks out a moment later with a box of bottles and sets it in the back seat.
The two men pour out the leftover blue sludge from their Slurpee cups and mix up a batch of Red Bull and vodkas. Then they are back on the road and headed for the desert. The smell of blood and death fades as they drive into the desert. It is replaced by dirt and a very dry sun.
The metal boxes clank purposefully off into the distance like they have a mission. Death is tempted to pick up his scythe and cut the things down, but Jesus ignored continues to ignore them, which isn’t really like him. He should be forgiving the things and blessing them, but he doesn’t seem to be in a blessing mood lately.
“We need some tunes!” the bearded son of God screams. He fiddles with the dials until he finds a station that is still broadcasting.
“Welcome back to Fuck You AD Radio, your source for the end of the world. I’m still here and I’m still rocking, so until the world crashes and burns around me, here is Motorhead with Ace of Spades! And don’t forget, folks, if you see a demon in the street, you better hide ‘cause he will eat you whole. I’m Louis Lamer, and here is your next half hour of nonstop butt rock! WAAAHOOOOOOO!”
Jesus leans over and cranks the stereo to head-pounding volume as the car blazes a trail through the sand. Massive subwoofers in the back of the car make it feel like it is going to break through the street surface before they arrive.
Death grins and breathes in the new world.
An hour later, they come to a massive parade of people. People of all sorts. Tall, thin, short, fat, walking, crawling, and being prodded. An army of demons walks behind them, whips in hand as the they herd them toward some destination. They cry as they shuffle-step, wail, and scream. There is terror written on every face that as they glance back and beg for help. Men, women, children, three-legged dogs. They are an army of misery.
<
br /> “What in the hell is this?” Death remembers to close his mouth after a few seconds.
“Hmmm.” Jesus squints around his busted eye.
A bulldozer rolls around the corner without a sound because it is being pushed by the biggest damn demon Death has ever seen. The barrel-chested monster is the same shade of purple as an engorged cock. Veins run up each arm and end at shoulders without a neck, just a tiny head that looks like someone dropped an afterbirth on a dickhead and gave it six eyes. It has squat legs that look like they would be at home on a T-rex. It’s dropping turds the size of subcompacts as it pushes the machine.
The demons herding the humans move aside so the massive machine can take their place. The demon groans as he rolls it against a column of people, goading them onto the freeway like cattle.
Death rolls to a stop and stares at the savior. Is he about going to start doing his savior thing?
The man in the dirty white robe opens the door and slams it shut behind him. He drains the entire Slurpee cup of vodka and Red Bull and tosses the cup in the car. He stands on unsteady feet, his body waving back and forth. A breeze blows over him and lifts his straggly hair up and around his head.
Death grabs his scythe and joins him. If this is to be the end, so be it. He knows about War, about how he died with a ball of lead to the face. Not a great way to go out, not a great way at all. He knows the other Horsemen are vulnerable now that the rules are messed up. He doesn’t understand it, but he is pretty sure he is immune to whatever malarkey is going on. He is Death, after all, and he gets a free pass.
“Run!” One of the men in the back of the ranks yells in their direction. Death looks around. That is a pretty good fucking idea. He could call his horse and be out of here in a second, or he could just grab Jesus and they could make a U-turn. Head toward the coast, maybe see if Reno is a hellhole as well.
But Jesus seems to have other plans.
He marches, Death in tow, toward one of the whip-wielding demons. He tries to walk with purpose, but he isn’t fooling Death. The savior is snockered.
“‘Smeaning all this?!” he yells at the demon when they are a few feet apart.
The red thing is about nine feet tall and has hooks for hands and pulsating slits that look like hairy vaginas all over his chest. When he takes a breath, they open and air rushes in and out.
“Just who the fuck knuckle are you?” the demon asks in a voice that sounds like his mouth is full of marbles.
“The fuck I am is fucking Jesus, the son of fucking God. And you are the fuck knuckle.” He stands unwavering before the massive creature.
Death takes the scythe from his shoulder and holds it in two hands. He’s ready to back Jesus’s move.
“Er. You’re kidding, right?”
“Do I fuck like I’m looking kidding?”
The demon lowers one of the whips and lets it unfold to the ground. It is covered in cruel barbs, spurs of metal and more than a few fingers. Most look human, although there appear to be a few demonoid ones as well.
“And who are you?” The demon points the handle at Death. “His daddy?”
“I’m Death.” The screams and sobs of misery go silent for a moment as every eye turns to regard him. “So, you know. You better fucking listen up to what I am bringing down.”
Jesus shoots a questioning look over his shoulder.
“I really suck at this. If War were here, he would be doing all the talking. I’m better at doing the reaping.” Death shrugs.
“You two petunias just became my new bitches. I’m gonna wear your asses out tonight and then tomorrow I’m still gonna toss you in the pit.”
“What pit?” Jesus stands on his tiptoes.
“The one over there. The one we’re shoving every one into. The pit of Satan. Where have you two fuck sticks been?”
“Busy. Now unleash aside before I move some holiness on you.” Jesus hiccups.
He looks over at Death. Death shrugs.
“I ain’t moving for either of you fuck sticks!”
“Say fuck stick one more time,” Jesus says so quietly Death isn’t even sure he heard the words.
The demon sure heard them. He takes two massive steps forward to leer over the man in the robe. He leans over and smiles a nightmare grin.
“FUCK STICK!” he roars so loud the hair on Jesus’s head ruffles as if in a strong breeze.
“I bless you,” Jesus says just loud enough to be heard. But his words are hurled like a spear at high speed.
The demon spontaneously turns inside out. His viscera spill out of his ass before he is torn limb from limb and then smeared at high speed across the pavement. What is left isn’t fit to piss on. It’s just green ooze and a couple of eyeballs.
“Any of you other fuck sticks want to play?” Jesus yells. He is met with silence.
He glares around from face to face. Demon and man alike. Some fall to their knees; others rise up on tiptoes to see what all the commotion is about.
“Save us. Please save us!” the cries come in earnest as the crowd begs for mercy.
A couple of the demons drop their whips and back away. The giant demon with a tiny dick for a head stops pushing the bulldozer and turns to face the man in dirty white. He takes one massive step toward him, and then another. With each stride, the highway feels like it is going to fall apart around them.
“I bless you.” Jesus smiles, and the demon is treated to the same exit. He is much larger than the first demon, and the mess he leaves behind will take a week to clean up. His little dick head flies across the crowd, bouncing off the heads of the herded humans before falling into the pit.
Jesus strides to the car with a swagger. He puts one hand on the side of the door and leaps over it to land with a soft whomp in the passenger seat. Death stows his scythe and jumps in beside him.
“That was fun!” Jesus smiles like a kid with a new toy.
“Are we just going to leave them?”
“Should I help and stop , *hiccup* every single crybaby? Did they ever do me for that?” He squints at Death.
“Good point, dude.”
“Let’s find a way down to the desert. I still want to have a little chat with that fother mucker down there.”
The car starts with a roar and the sound of Guns and Roses blares out. As they peel away from the herd of people, Death gets a look over the cliff at an enormous red shape half stuck in the sand. The highway might have been a long strip of road over flat ground, but now it drops off a few hundred feet. There are other things dropping as well. Columns of people fall as the pushing resumes. Hundreds of them drop like flailing rocks, arms and legs flapping as they cartwheel straight into the asshole of Satan himself.
“I wish I had a video camera,” Death whispers.
“We got any more Red Bull?”
Cease and Desist, You Evil Bastard
“We are nearing the target, Control,” Agent Fred Gallstone tells the microphone in his cuff sleeve as the Humscalade speeds through the desert toward the Lord of Darkness himself. Beelzebub.
Agent Clarence Lickspittle says nothing. He knows there is no one at Control. They passed the white van Gary used to drive, smeared with crimson and brown, as they pulled the Humscalade out of the warehouse. Fred stared in the opposite direction, but Agent M and Lickspittle both saw the thick pink chunks of Gary the demon left behind. Control is dead, Lickspittle thinks to himself and cracks a smile. Control is dead and I’m in charge. Mrs. Lickspittle’s baby boy is going to save the world, and as fucked up as the world is, that still has to count for something.
Agent Lickspittle looks at his longtime friend and partner Agent Gallstone and shakes his head softly. He knows his man is hurting, but he needs him to be at one hundred percent for the mission ahead. It’s not every day that you and your team of crack secret agents serve Lucifer a Cease and Desist notice in the middle of the Las Vegas desert. Especially while surrounded by seething hordes of howling demons and ravenous dead.
Agent M is si
tting in the backseat, reloading all of his weapons and re-zipping all of his zippers when the Devil’s giant half-buried red ass comes into view. The earth around the massive ass cheeks has heaved and split, leaving the ground and highway uneven and broken. Hundreds of the undead stumble around the desert looking for any living flesh they can find. A stretch of highway has been twisted into the air where it hangs above the Devil’s asshole. A line of humans is moving slowly up the twisted path of asphalt and over the edge, prodded on by misshapen demons with pitchforks and swords.
Agent M screams, “Not again!”
The muscle-bound agent crawls up to the .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the top of the Humscalade. Agent M grabs the gun and opens fire on the hordes of the dead. Rotted body parts fly as the fifty cal rips the decaying bodies to shreds. Agent Gallstone stares out the opposite window and whispers into his cuff, “Visual confirmation of target, Control, well the ass end of the target.” He chokes a little. “The desert is dead and beautiful in its own way, Control, like you.”
“Fred …” Agent Lickspittle wants to console his partner, but he gets distracted when Agent M lets loose a small missile into the throng of undead.
“I vill make you vish you stayed deed!” the man screams.
Agent Gallstone turns and faces Agent Lickspittle with panic etched on his unshaven face. Lickspittle thinks for a split second that the explosion of sand and dead human parts has shocked Fred back to reality.
Agent Gallstone yells excitedly into his cuff, “Visual confirmation of target’s giant ugly fucking face, Control!”
Agent Lickspittle doesn’t care if Fred has gone shithouse-rat-crazy. As long as he can shoot his gun at any demons that attempt to intercept them, the man is okay in his book. Lickspittle turns and looks the Lord of Hades, Satan, right in his giant obsidian eyes. The Devil’s head protrudes from a gargantuan crevice in the side of a mountain, and it is fucking huge. Bigger than the Humscalade. Bigger than most houses. It regards the approaching vehicle with cool disinterest.
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