The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1)

by Moon, Jonathan

  “Please,” the man right in front of him begs, “I’ll suck your dick!”

  “Yeah?” the demon says. “All right!”

  The demon pulls aside its loincloth to reveal not a dick, but a swollen purple demon twat. The begging man’s eyes bulge, and a small pitchfork erupts from the demon’s pussy with a slurping sound and stabs the man in his face. He stumbles backwards and falls into Satan’s waiting ass. The small pitchfork slowly and noisily retreats back whence it came.

  Agent Gallstone steps to the edge, ready to complete his mission.

  He looks down into Satan’s asshole, and his mind snaps. The Devil’s cheeks spread wide open to reveal rows of teeth that make Gallstone think of the Sarlacc from Star Wars. Boils leak gray ooze on the cheeks, and angry-looking beetles skitter over and between the floppy bloody spikes that surround the hole. Agent Fred Gallstone grips the nuclear weapon to his chest, takes a deep breath, and dives headfirst into the seething beast that is Satan’s furious asshole.

  The instant before he sinks into the sharp and painful darkness, he realizes he left the bomb’s remote on the dash of the Humscalade.

  Chuzz paces to the front of the ice cream truck, leaving the crazies in the back. Idiots, morons, fucking double dipshits. He should pick up the microphone and toss them out the back. Especially the damn goat that stands up and talks like a spy in from a James Bond movie. Who the hell talks like that?

  Nathan Chuzzle kicks the seat with the back of his foot and sinks back into the chair.

  “Easy there, bub,” Stretch Bangstrom hisses in his ear. Chuzz leans back harder, which makes the toy squeak.

  “You gonna start on me too?”

  “No way, bud. No way. I wouldn’t dream of it. Are we supposed to be somewhere?”

  “Sick of this shit. Sick of it.” Chuzz stares out the window at the expanse of land. At the trees that cover the hills and stretch up into the mountains. At the horizon where massive creatures are sailing up into the air. Are they more angels? They look more like the anti-aircraft missiles that chased down Gabriel.

  He leans forward and sets his head on the wheel and then bangs it a few times until his brain rattles around. Then he reaches into his pants and massages his dick, which has been as hard as a rock for three days. If that stupid chick would just get him off, maybe a little thank you. He could stand behind one of the cabinet doors and pretend like she is on the other side of the wall. Yeah, just like Leon might do if they ever …

  NO! He ain’t no faggoty fag! NO!

  “Dammit I need a fucking glory hole,” he hisses.

  “Wossit?” the goat calls from the back and clomps forward on his cloven feet.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.” Chuzz stares at the sky again and wonders which way to Vegas.

  “Say boss, see all those metal boxes bouncing off into the distance?” The toy points over his shoulder.

  “Yeah.”

  “Follow them and you will get to Vegas.”

  “Fine, whatever.” He sneezes a big wad of snot onto the seat next to him. Stupid dirt and crap on the ground. He has a hundred drugs with him and not a single antihistamine in the lot.

  He pulls the microphone out of his pocket and pulls it back to his head. He should give his passengers some warning. Or take it easy and not go too fast. He glances back and gets a dirty look from the chick.

  “Fine,” he mutters under his breath. “You don’t want to be nice, I don’t have to be nice. That’s how the world works. Damn diddly damn, bitch. That’s how it works, and if you don’t know that then you are just a stupid cunt after all.” He jerks the microphone straight out in front of his face. A clash of people and animal screams erupts in the back followed by a few thumps as the truck is propelled forward at lightning speed.

  Chuzz grins, mainly because he has no choice. His body is pressed into the big seat, squishing the toy against his back. It gasps and then giggles in his ear. Chuzz’s lips peel back in a G-force-induced leer. He howls with glee.

  Sheriff Smoochole stops his stolen Hummer next to the abandoned Humscalade, which is parked in the space between Satan’s ass and his enormous face. Bud and Leon climb out after the sheriff.

  “That’s pretty fucking lucky,” Bud remarks as they slam their doors and arm the ground-to-air missiles.

  “About fucking time we get some luck,” Sheriff Smoochole grumbles behind his shades. He misses his dedicated deputies. He adjusts the rearview mirror and focuses on a cloud of dust behind them. A skinny hooded man on a horse is leading what looks like a platoon of zombies. Then General O’Coddle comes into view, and the blood in Smoochole’s veins turns to fire.

  “Change of plans, boys,” Smoochole says, climbing back out of the Humscalade.

  Leon follows and asks, “Nipple bite demon suck face?”

  “Don’t worry about me, Leon,” Smoochole says as he turns back to the general’s Hummer. “I got some unfinished business with that barrel-chested dead guy behind us. Go on now, Leon, and take care of that Devil face sticking up out of the desert. I’ve been waiting for this.”

  “Devil cock sin shit shower, Bud,” Leon says as he slams on the gas leaving Smoochole alone to face the approaching zombie horde.

  “Huh, I would have wanted the missiles if I had that many zombies running me down,” Bud says, watching the horde grow in the rearview.

  “Corpse fucking demon day,” Leon tells him.

  Two eyes as dark as moonless nights turn and watch them approach. A smile spreads across lips that look thin even on such a giant face. Two long horns reach from the Devil’s forehead to the smoke-filled sky above, and a long goatee swings off his chin and snaps at the Humscalade as Leon turns it off.

  The Road Runner sails into the abyss with a roar from the eight-cylinder engine. The sound of AC/DC echoes across the canyon. The men in the car scream all the way to the bottom of the chasm. It’s a nice day; the sun glints off the red hood. Death is pretty sure he and Jesus can’t die. After all, what is he going to do, reap himself?

  But that ground is coming at them awfully fast.

  He clutches the scythe to his hand and prays, then he remembers who his traveling companion is.

  Jesus picks that moment to throw up hours’ worth of booze. Death dodges to the left, but some of it splatters across his face and shirt and gets in his nose and his mouth, which he doesn’t close in time. Death joins in the pukefest.

  Then the car hits the ground, and the world goes black for a while.

  Drool flies from Pestilence’s gaping mouth as he and his horde descend on the two Hummers. The fancy one heads toward Satan’s face, and atop the other stands a small man in a g-string and aviator sunglasses. The strange fellow pulls two .357 Magnums and starts firing into the zombie horde, dropping dead soldiers left and right.

  “It’s the hippy who killed me!” General O’Coddle growls when he sees Sheriff Smoochole taking shots at his now twice-killed men.

  “Well, kill him!” Pestilence roars back. “I’m going after the other.”

  General O’Coddle’s gray lips curl into a smile under his handlebar mustache. Half the dead soldiers follow Pestilence, and half follow General O’Coddle toward Smoochole. Not far behind them, the giant shit monster approaches.

  Death opens one eye to see a scorpion checking him out. He reaches out to flick the thing away, but pain races up his arm. Then up his shoulder, into his head, down his back and into his legs. It terminates at his feet and then starts in his arm again, like he is lying a in a giant pile of fuck you. He rolls onto his back and stares up at the sky, which starts the pain cycle all over again.

  A hand comes into view and touches his forehead, and suddenly he feels a hell of a lot better. He is still buzzed half out of his noggin, but at least he doesn’t feel like he was just in a car wreck. He remembers going over the cliff and plummeting to earth. He also remembers a river of puke flying into his mouth and throws up again.

  “That hurt more than I thought it would.” Jesus groans
and touches his own forehead for a few seconds before sighing in pleasure.

  “You can fix yourself?” Death asks. He groans as he sits up but wonders why, since he feels a hell of a lot better.

  “Being the J-man has its advantages.”

  “Why didn’t you heal yourself when you were on the cross?”

  “Wasn’t supposed to break the rules.”

  “Stupid fucking rules.”

  “Well said. Time to break a few today.”

  Death sits up and stares around at the giant stretch of nothing. What looks like a couple of birds flying far above turn out to be some sort of winged demons that swoop down to check out the two men. Damn vultures.

  “Piss off, you clowns!” Jesus yells and then blesses them. The demons are ripped apart from the ass first. Parts plummet to the ground, and Jesus and Death jump aside to avoid being splattered with demon goo.

  “Gross.” Death smiles.

  The sun is nice and high, but it still has that red tint to it. It is also still hot as fuck! Death would kill for a beer right about now or a glass of water. He cranes his head around to look over his shoulder and sees the head of Satan himself. He turns back to Jesus, who somehow managed to save the vodka and a bag of Red Bull. He cleans puke off his face and then reaches for an energy drink.

  “Let me ask you a question. So you died once.”

  “Yep.”

  “On a cross, surrounded by assholes who could only sit around and weep.”

  “Yep.”

  “While you did all the hard work by dying for everyone’s sins.”

  “That about sums it up. So what is your question?”

  Death stares at him for a moment.

  “Are you a fucking zombie?”

  “Yep.”

  “I knew it!”

  Leon jumps out of the Humscalade with his battleaxe held high. Bud opens his door, dives across the sand, and then rolls to his feet, M-16 trained on Satan’s forehead. Satan scoffs at the pair.

  “You guys are at the wrong end,” the Lord of Darkness informs them coldly. “You might as well just go jump in my ass.”

  “No,” Leon says shaking his head. “Titty fuck bang hole demon done.”

  “Fuck you, then,” Satan says, and his giant black orbs roll in their sockets as he looks for his spider demon. He can’t see Stan anywhere, but out of the corner of his giant eye he sees a glory hole demon, a pet project of his, and he whistles to it as one would a dog. In a flash, the demon is standing between Satan and Leon and Bud.

  “So I guess I’m a goner,” Satan says in a quaky voice. “Might as well get your dicks wet before you kill me.”

  Leon scoffs and raises his axe to charge, but Bud hears soft cooing from the holes on the box in front of him, and it calls to him like a horny siren song. He leans his M-16 against the side of the demon and begins unbuttoning his jeans.

  “Bud,” Leon says, nodding to the long red Devil face regarding them with no emotion, “cock suck slutty demon hole.”

  “Leon, that little angel fella fixed my plumbing back there. I haven’t been able to bust a nut in months; I NEED this!”

  Bud pats the box-shaped demon, and it hums in response. “See? Besides, Chuzz ain’t here yet. Your axe will split the mother fucker’s face open anyway, so just let me bust a nut! All right, man?”

  Leon’s cheek burns, and he remembers the cock slap from a few days ago.

  “No,” he answers firmly.

  From behind the demon, Satan’s voice booms, “C’mon now, let your friend get his dick sucked. Then we can have an epic battle if you’d like.”

  Bud crams his limp noodle into the hole. Leon raises his axe to charge Satan, but Bud screams and Leon swings instead at the box-shaped demon biting Bud’s prick.

  Satan laughs loud and heartily. Leon grunts and mumbles about “demon dicks” as his blade slices through the thick painted shell like Mexican food through a fat kid. Dark cracks form, spidering bloody veins across the shell as though it were a huge square egg. Leon hefts the axe, screams, “Die, pussy fart, DIE,” and hacks into the other side of the glory hole demon.

  Behind him, Satan bellows, “NOOOOOOOOOO!”

  To his left, Bud screams, “Gawd damn it, Leon, it was gonna blow me!”

  Leon hacks on. Each swipe of the axe cleaves deeper than the last. The glory hole demon shudders, and its shell falls away in four thick chunks, revealing the hideous fleshy demon within. Mouths of all sizes suck and squeal, making sounds like children burning as big floppy dongs of various colors and sizes slap and wave obscenely at Leon. Bud steps back, picks up his M-16 and aims it at the mass of lips and dicks. The creature howls in a thousand voices, and the air is suddenly filled with the sound of buzzing.

  Called to their dying brother glory hole demons, an army of metal boxes spins through time and space to converge at his side. As each arrives, it jumps atop the last one, and their shells go soft and rubbery long enough to join together. Soon the dying demon is completely absorbed into the growing monster as hundreds of glory hole demons join into one massive box-shaped fiend.

  Satan strains against the tons of earth holding him down and yells, “That is the single sexiest thing I have ever seen!”

  They’ve been walking toward the big red guy for a while. What looked like a close landing site turned out to be pretty far away once they were on sanda firma. This close up, Satan’s ass looks enormous on a geographical scale, like they are walking toward a pair of mountains with people spewing in instead of lava spewing out.

  All the dust is playing havoc with Death’s allergies. The stuff has infiltrated Death’s hoodie, and he isn’t too happy about it. It itches, makes him want to strip and find a nice pool of water to jump into. Or maybe a pile of bodies he can roll around in. The smell of desiccated ground fills his nose over the stink of puke.

  Jesus doesn’t seem to mind too much. He’s probably used to it after spending all that time hanging out in the desert.

  The earth rolls and shakes again. Death and Jesus hold onto each other and then dive for the ground. A fresh clump of people and demons fall down the long chasm. The humans scream all the way down; the demons try to snatch people out of the air and devour them before they hit.

  A cloud of dust rises so high into the air that Death is reminded of a sand storm. It passes as they walk, but he gets a fresh coat of the stuff on every itching inch of his body. It’s irritating, but the walk is doing him some good, as is the ground tossing and turning. It is sobering him up. He is Death, but he is going to meet the man. Well, the other man.

  Jesus appears unperturbed and marches on like a crusader minus the shiny armor.

  Another quake shakes them to their knees, and Death realizes that Satan is struggling to get up. He shakes sand off his massive body and turns his head to glare at the approaching men. One of the bastard’s rotting eyeballs is the size of the car they drove off the cliff.

  “Fucker is huge!” Death mutters and looks at the blade of his scythe and then back at the big red guy.

  “Just hold the fuck up!” Jesus roars. He has a bottle of vodka in one hand and a can of Red Bull in the other. He chugs one, then the other and shakes his head. Death is still buzzed, but he is beginning to think that now might be a good time to hit that vodka bottle again.

  “Goddamn this stuff is good!” Jesus says to himself. His words are slurred and come out slowly.

  Death has his eye on the giant box that is coming together before their eyes. It is huge and getting bigger by the second. He grins at it, can’t help himself. Now that is some old-school shit. Just the kind of thing to temp the Ddevil into hauling his ass out of the sand. There are more boxes arriving every second. They fall off the cliff and hit the ground, bounce into the air and then stack themselves up.

  Satan breaks his gaze away from the box for a second to consider the men walking toward him. “Not another pair of losers,” he sighs in a voice that rumbles and shakes the ground.

  “’Who the fuc
k are you calling loser, you red asshole?”

  “Red asshole’s back there, where you should be heading. I don’t have time for any more visits from secret agents, so just fuck off.”

  “Look at me!” Jesus’s voice comes out loud and clear, and it seems that every eye in the world turns to look in his direction. Even the people falling into Satan’s ass spin to stare at the man as they scream.

  “Well if it isn’t the mad hatter himself. Sup, J-man?” The Devil smiles. “Wanna blowjob? I can get some of the chicks from up on the road to come take care of you. How does that sound? Maybe a boy, since I couldn’t tempt you the last time. Remember that Syrian broad with the legs that went all the damn way up?”

  “I remember the desert, and I remember the longing. I remember being scared, and I also remember being pretty pissed off when your guys staked me to a cross and left me to rot.”

  “That was daddy. I didn’t have anything to do with it. I may have whispered a few things to that Judas guy, just to unbalance him, but it didn’t take much. He fell for a few coins and the chance to have his name live alongside yours. Neat trick, that, giving people what they want.”

  The massive box continues taking on a life of its own above the desert. It rises out of the sand and floats a few feet off the ground. Death can’t take his eyes off the thing. It is massive, perpetually shifting and changing, and it has three gigantic pulsing holes in it.

  “That was the old me. This is the new. So what are you going to do?” Satan challenges. “The Apocalypse didn’t go as planned, and we seem to be the two biggest deities around. So how do we handle it?”

  “Yeah. Ain’t that some shit? I’m sure you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Nah. It all went to hell when an old lady killed my son. Do you have any idea how hard I worked to bring him into the world? Then he gets a knitting needle in his eye before he can come into his full power. Shame.”

  Jesus nods.

  “Say, who is tall dark and handsome next to you?”

  “Oh Death. He came along to help out.”