“No fucking shit!” Satan squints at the man in the dark hoodie. “Death, I am a HUGE fan. HUGE! Can I get your autograph before I stuff you in my ass?”
“Yeah, all right.”
Satan squirms a little more, and a massive arm unearths itself. Once the ground stops shaking, Death moves in and lowers his scythe. There isn’t a lot of room, what with all the screaming faces bubbling on the surface of his skin, people and demons both that writhe beneath a layer of red. Death moves the blade up and down a few times, and the demonic flesh sizzles with a smell like burned chicken. He steps back and examines his work.
Death waz here!
“Thanks, man!” Satan smiles and a giant spider demon creeps out of his mouth and scuttles toward Death. Death may be drunk, but he has made this move countless times in the past. Not so much in the last few days, but plenty before that. He slices down and then rips the giant scythe sideways, which leaves the demon still moving, but in two pieces that pass him by. Flaming blood and demon guts splatter across the white sand and Death, but they leave no mark upon Death or his clothing.
“You just killed one of my spider demons! Dude, calm down. He was probably just coming out to high five you, and you swiped him. Bah. Look boys, I’d love to stay and chat, but I have a giant box to fuck the shit out of.”
“Wait!” Jesus commands.
“Oh, for your sake!”
“Look Satan, I know we are supposed to fight each other and all, but I think the rules have changed. I’m sick of being everyone’s whipping boy. I’m tired of running around helping people and listening to them whine and cry. I have problems. I have issues.” He mimics a little girl crying.
“Look dude, if you need relationship advice, just call Dr. Phil. I own him. Tell him I said to give you a freebie or I’ll collect early. Then again, he could be in my ass for all I know.” Satan chuckles, sending shivers through the ground. A fresh group of people falls into his butt, screaming all the way down.
“That’s not what I …” Jesus starts to back up, his hands in the air.
“Nah hold on; he’s probably right here.” Satan reaches back with his free hand. “Just kidding, buddy!”
Jesus crosses his arms and taps his foot.
“Ah hell, J-man, just fucking with you.”
“Seriously, Satan, what do we do now?”
“Well here is how I see it. Things have changed. The rules don’t apply. Seals are still intact, and the Horsemen are a mess.” He glances at Death.
Death gives him the finger.
“Go on,” Jesus says.
“Where is the big guy?”
“Meh, haven’t seen him in a while. Something about starting over in another galaxy with fewer humans. All he ever talks about is chicken pot pies anyway.”
“Oh yeah. Good call.”
“Yeah. Not a bad idea.” Death nods.
“So here’s my proposition. We just let things run their course. I make this part mine and you go grab another part. Like Europe. The chicks there like their underarms hairy just like the old days.”
“Nice.” Death nods again.
“Hmm,” Jesus says. He fingers the bruise around his eye.
“Seriously. Go build your flock, brainwash a bunch of new people, won’t take long. You know how dumb these idiots are.”
Death nods and chuckles. Why didn’t he think of this earlier?
“Tell them you were busy and didn’t have time to make the Apocalypse. Tell them you’ll reschedule it. They’ll understand.”
Jesus smiles at Satan then spits in his eye. It’s a beauty. He draws deep, nose snort and all, gets a big old mouthful and lets it rip. The green gob of goo flies in a graceful arc that splatters in the malevolent eye of the Prince of Lies himself. Satan blinks and shakes his head.
“That’s for the cock slap!” Jesus roars.
Satan does not look pleased.
“I’ll give you something to think about, buddy. I’ll show you and the world how badly I am going to fuck you.”
The ground shakes and moans as Satan heaves himself out of the earth. Death is pretty impressed that they escaped the crash somehow alive, but he does not want to be picked up and shoved up the red guy’s asshole. No thank you very much.
Jesus grabs him by the shoulder and tugs. They both race away from the scene, stumbling as they duck the falling debris. The earth shifts again, and there is a sucking noise as the Devil comes to his feet. Death risks a glance back and falls on his face. Jesus slows down and comes back for him, but he stops in his tracks as Satan reaches his full height.
It’s not the size, nor the fact that he is standing that freaks them out. Nor the fact that he is as tall as a skyscraper. It’s not the big red legs that shake dust free, and it’s not the globs of people falling, screaming, from his ass.
It’s the fact that Satan has three massive cocks and they are all rising to the occasion.
A blinding flash of light in the distance draws their attention away from the Devil. A silence descends as the entire valley goes from roaring to nothing in a few seconds.
“What the …” Death trails off as a giant mushroom cloud forms over the hills in the direction of Vegas.
To each other, General O’Coddle and Sheriff Smoochole are the only two things that exist in the world. Neither warrior sees the massive glory hole box shaking and cooing at the Lord of Darkness. Neither feels the chill that permeates the air when Death is near, although that could be because Death is shitfaced. And neither feels compelled by the power of Christ—or anyone else—to do anything other than kill each other.
Behind his aviators, Sheriff Smoochole’s eyes are focused on his approaching foe, but his bullets blow gray brains out of soldier skulls and blast yellow kneecaps from rotting legs. The horde tries to press forward, but only General O’Coddle is allowed to advance. The general smiles, and his handlebar mustache twitches as a foot-long millipede crawls from his grin and over his stout shoulders. His dead eyes bloat with rage and fury as his heavy footsteps pound forward. His men are being ripped to shreds with his own guns.
Smoochole clicks empty, and General O’Coddle grins wicked and wide as he dives face first at his stolen Hummer. The g-string-clad sheriff jumps into the air. He tucks his bony knees to his birdlike chest and flips off the Hummer just a pubic hair of an instant before the charging general rams his skull into the vehicle with all his might. The Hummer crumples in half like a melted model toy and rolls across the sand. Satan’s giant hooves step on the rolling Hummer as he moves to embrace the giant glory hole box. Flames erupt from between his hooves, and he screams with a million voices.
Smoochole flips twice more and lands with his pale pancake ass facing what’s left of the zombie horde. The dead soldiers stop as one and moan at the flabby ass cheeks before them.
General O’Coddle watches the explosion before turning back. His men are distracted by the sheriff’s hypnotic flabby ass cheeks. He screams a warning so loud and hard it comes out not as a word, but as black phlegm. It’s too late; Sheriff Smoochole has reloaded his guns. Now he turns on the remaining zombies and sends them back to Hell.
The two closest zombies’ heads explode in perfect gory unison.
The next two in line catch bullets, one in his right eye and the other in his left. They fall on top of the first two.
The last remaining zombie looks at his fallen comrades before he turns to stumble away. He only makes it a few staggered steps before a cursing Satan steps on him.
A massive gray fist smashes into Sheriff Smoochole‘s face. His aviators fly in two different directions, and blood gushes from his shattered nose. Smoochole staggers back and opens fire with the .357s. The slugs slam into the general’s chest. O’Coddle flexes his dead muscles, and the bullets turn to hot lead pellets when they hit, doing nothing worse than knocking him back a few inches across the sand.
The general charges the sheriff, and the sheriff uses the guns to move his foe backwards, frantically trying to come up wit
h a plan. General O’Coddle raises his arms and roars at Smoochole as the sheriff sinks six more slugs into his enemy’s chest. Each pushes the general back a bit more. Frustrated, Sheriff Smoochole aims instead at O’Coddle’s meaty gray hands. The pinky and ring finger on the general’s left hand disappear with a spurt of black goo and yellow bone. Half a second later, the pinky and ring finger on his right hand vanish in the same fashion.
General O’Coddle balls his stumps into fists and dives forward, swatting Sheriff Smoochole’s guns away as both his bleeding fists thud off the sheriff’s thin chest. Smoochole flies backwards and lands hard in the sand. General O’Coddle stomps across the sand toward his foe. Dark snot and drool fly off his face. Sheriff Smoochole kicks at O’Coddle’s legs as he gets close. The sharp tip of Smoochole’s cowboy boot tears through the General’s rotted calf and smashes yellow bone through gray skin. O’Coddle growls and grabs Smoochole’s boot with one three-fingered hand and tosses him like a rag doll across the desert. Smoochole lands in a pile, but he jumps back up, dazed but not beaten.
General O’Coddle swings a right, but Smoochole ducks it and answers by whipping the general’s own gun against the side of his skull. O’Coddle’s head sinks in, and the dead officer stumbles backwards as Smoochole slams the butt of his pistols hard into the general’s head again and again. The zombie falls, but rolls onto his back then springs forward, catching Smoochole with a thunderous uppercut that sends the small sheriff flying. O’Coddle stomps his foot down on Sheriff Smoochole and leans forward. First Smoochole groans as the general’s weight makes it hard to breathe, then he screams in agony as his ribs break under the government-issued work boot.
General O’Coddle reaches into his scorched and torn uniform while Smoochole squirms beneath him. He pulls out an ultra-napalm plasma grenade, a very hot and dangerous explosive used by desert soldiers to turn small patches of sand to glass.
General O’Coddle holds the grenade and reaches for Smoochole. The sheriff kicks the general in the face until his boots come away dangling strips of flesh and patches of mustache. O’Coddle lets go, and in that instant, the sheriff climbs the stout general like a tree, knocking the grenade from his hand. The grenade hits the sand at the general’s feet and erupts into a glowing disk of bright blue flame around the two men. They pummel each other in the face as flames dance around them. The flash burn of the explosion turns a perfect circle of sand into glass. Stuck dead center in the glass up to his knees is a furious General O’Coddle. Sheriff Smoochole guffaws, but the general leans forward and wraps his three-fingered hands around Smoochole’s skinny throat, and he lifts his foe to face him.
“Fuck you,” Smoochole tells him and rams the barrels of the .357s all the way into the general’s eye sockets. He hits something hard, but he pushes harder until with slurping noises, the guns sink deeper into the general’s face. When the guns are in as far as he can push them, Sheriff Smoochole squeezes both triggers, and black and pink brain matter scatters across the sand as the general’s head explodes. As General O’Coddle’s black twice-murdered soul fades, his fingers clench closed around Smoochole’s windpipe.
“Worth it, you fucker,” Smoochole gasps as he watches sluggish gray Cockbugs crawl from the crater that is O’Coddle’s head. Behind him, Leon and Bud scream. Smoochole misses his deputies. Then bright light envelops everything as he asphyxiates, hanging six inches off the ground in the General’s death grip.
The ice cream truck creaks and groans, shakes and shivers. It bumps and grinds as it rips across the sky. Chuzz’s passengers are screaming in the back, but he can’t make out what they are saying because he is too busy screaming himself. Stretch Bangstrom yells directions in his ear, and he tries to pay attention. He zips left, right, no left again. After a couple of moments of being plastered to the seat like a wet diaper, he pulls the toy back a little, and the truck slows.
They hover over a long stretch of desert with a shattered city off to the left. There is so much destruction here that it looks like one of those giant demons walked around and ground the place to kindling.
“Son of a bitch!” Edwina yells from the back.
Chuzz hears shuffling and the goat getting in some good cursing. Phil farts, then screams in monkey. More bottles and utensils crash to the floor. Someone slips and goes down amidst another round of cursing.
“We are close, boss. Real damn close now.”
“What in the two Mary fuck are you?” Chuzz doesn’t look at Stretch. He just asks the air as though it will answer and everything in the world will suddenly make sense.
“Me or the sky? The sky doesn’t have answers, which is funny. I don’t either. See, a couple of those bugs got in me, then that big angel showed up. I think I was born spontaneously. I think I may be some sort of savior!” The toy yells the last few words.
“What does that make me?”
“My ride.”
“Fuck you!” Chuzz says and flops back in the seat.
“Ohhh hurts so good, buddy.” The toy cackles.
“If you do that again, so help me …” Edwina has managed to crawl toward the front of the truck. Chuzz looks down at her and grins.
“Left a little,” Stretch cackles in his ear.
Chuzz yanks the toy to the left and pushes it forward. The truck rips around in a short curve and then shoots forward for a half a minute while the others scream in the back. He smiles at their calls for him to slow down and instead massages his member, which still rages against his pants. Why didn’t he bring his map along? He should have found a place to stop and rub one out. Now he is going to stop the Apocalypse in this condition? Oh shit, what is Leon going to say?
The view changes from rapidly advancing sand and desert to a massive red shape stretching into the sky. Chuzz pulls the microphone back so hard the truck slams to a stop, which throws him forward. He gets one hand up just before he smacks into the wheel and instead mashes his face into his meaty forearm.
“Gotta stop doing that, mate!” Goatboy howls from the back.
Chuzz gives the truck a short hop that brings him closer. People are being herded along the road in a more or less orderly line that stretches for miles. Demons stand on either side poking and prodding them with what appear to be pitchforks.
Two things hold Chuzzle’s attention like a two-bit whore with two fingers up his ass.
One is the huge red column he saw a minute ago. It is a giant demon standing in the desert. He has a pair of horns the size of semi trucks. He is naked, and giant metal bands run through his nipples. His chest is a ripple of muscles that make him look like a body builder. Arms are ripped the same way. His waist is thin and legs equally cut. He also has three massive dangling cocks, the concealment of which would require a loincloth the size of a circus tent.
The truck drifts forward as he gets a glimpse at the second object. It is a giant box that floats in front of the Devil. It looks like one of the boxes he saw earlier. The glory hole demon box into which one of the bastards on his street jammed its dick.
Chuzz’s mouth hangs open as he practically drools at the thing. He nudges the truck forward again until they hang close enough for him to see that it is formed of many smaller boxes that all have some rendition of The Daily Cunt written on them.
“Oh my God!” he exclaims as he stands up in the front of the truck. A blast of light in the distance makes him shade his eyes. Something so bright it is like someone just lit a new sun.
His stupid monkey picks that moment to tell him he needs a hit by punching him in the ass. Chuzz falls forward, and the truck shoots straight at the giant glory hole like it is on fire. Screams about stringing him up by his dick come from the back of the truck as they plummet toward the floating object.
From the Mouths of Babes, Really Badass Babes
“Say hello to my many friends!” Satan yells so loud that it shakes the entire valley. Another flash of light in the distance punctuates his words. The big red guy shakes his dongs in the general direction of Jes
us and Death. From the giant holes in the earth, an army of demons pours forth. Slobbering, slathering, moving with purpose and anger. Red eyes intent, dog shapes, human shapes and downright fucked-up shapes, take to the desert from the holes in the sand.
“Too bad War isn’t here. Well I guess we can what, turn and run?”
“I’m done running.” Jesus squints. “Fuck the Devil, fuck his army and fuck this desert.”
“Right. Fuck ‘em.”
They stare at each other for a moment then break into laughter. Jesus leans forward and puts his hand on Death’s shoulder to steady himself. They stare into each other’s eyes for a few seconds, an unspoken bond of friendship between the two men cemented with copious amounts of alcohol.
“Watch this.” Jesus smiles and steps away.
Death turns and watches hundreds, and then thousands of creatures emerging from the three holes in the desert. Most fan out in other directions, but some make a beeline for the two men. Death lowers his scythe and swings it in a massive arc just before the things reach them.
The air ripples where the blade passes, and it moves away from him in a wave that tears the demons apart. They flop into pieces, body parts flying in every direction. A head tumbles from one, a massive thing with two faces set opposite one another other, one smiling and one frowning. They continue to argue as they hit the sand.
“WAR!” Jesus yells behind him. “Get the hell UP! I call you!”
Nothing happens.
“Come on, you Lazarus fuck, you got some death to deal!”
Death shakes his head. Why does everyone think that War causes all the death? Death IS death. End of story.
A silence settles over the valley for a split second. It is like the sound after a lightning strike. It is preternatural, and it makes Death pause in his slaughter. He has never felt such power before; it slashes at his reality and makes him stagger. He is Death, and he decides who falls and when. He reaps souls and sends them along the way to wherever they are bound. But this is something he knows nothing about.
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