The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole!

by Jonathan Moon

  A pair of fighters rockets past the helicopter. The little speakers in the television crackle as the sound in the onscreen helicopter goes up a few decibels. The reporter flinches back, and the camera tilts at a crazy angle to follow the jets.

  “As you can see, it is chaos outside today. We’ve seen the military on the move. Scores of fighters and even a few Cobra helicopters popping up here and there. Whatever the thing in the desert is, it is considered a danger to the … wait we are getting word from …” She pauses and pressed her headset tight around her head. She squints her eyes, and then they go wide. She leans over, almost falling on the floor of the chopper as she yells something at the pilots.

  A thunderous wave passes overhead, shaking the already vibrating craft. The camera falls over, and for a split second there is a perfect view up young reporter Kelly Pusboing’s skirt.

  “Someone forgot her big girl panties today,” Darla giggles.

  “She also forgot to tape her cock up.” Marcel stares on.

  The girls shift uncomfortably in their seats. Sue picks up the blow-up doll and looks between the thing’s legs. “This has girl parts.”

  Something smacks into the front windshield of the helicopter as it tries to come around in a circle. Then something else hits, but it is too fast to make out.

  “Was that a bird?”

  Then a giant red flying thing that looks like a dragon from Hell slams the helicopter from the side. The pilot tried to avoid it, but the creature moves too fast. The camera catches the pilot’s terrified hands scrabbling at the controls. The sky is suddenly straight ahead, and warning sounds buzz and click. The reporter tries to push herself back up into her seat, but the helicopter lurches again and she has the misfortune of being near the sliding side door. She catches the handlebar as she attempts to get her balance. The metal portal slides open, and she tumbles away with a scream.

  “Kelly!” a voice screams over the sound of the wind ripping into the tiny space.

  “Ah fuck meeeeeeeee!” her voice howls.

  The helicopter swings over, and the screen is filled with something that should not be. A giant horned face that looks like the bastard child that resulted when a nightmare fucked a giant lizard. Screams as the helicopter falls into it. Cries for help as the screen goes blank, then a tremendous crunching sound fills the room as the speakers overload in the tiny television.

  “Special effects get better and better every day,” Darla says, breaking the shocked silence.

  Edwina turns to her lover but closes her mouth. Having it open reminds her of the thing she just saw on the screen. The thing that cannot exist. Just like the angel. A thing that cannot exist. Just like the little flying cocks that flooded the semi earlier in the day.

  “This is truly the end,” she says into the silent room.

  “Well shit. I need to hurry up and get laid then.”

  “Now we’re talking!” Marcel grins.

  In This Town We Spell “Law” S-M-O-O-C-H-O-L-E

  After finally escaping the constant horrific soul-violating multi-partner fucking of the orgy in the desert, Sheriff Smoochole and his lone surviving deputy, Fenton Morks, stole General O’Coddle’s personal Hummer and fled back to Reno and the sheriff station. Only they were too exhausted to make the entire drive.

  Instead, and due only to his cop-subconscious, Sheriff Smoochole pulled the Hummer into a roadside rest area. He turned off the ignition and passed out for approximately seventy-two hours straight. Deputy Morks was fast asleep and sucking on the back of his red-balled gag like a toddler sucks its thumb before Smoochole pulled the massive vehicle to a stop.

  Now, as demons whoop and screech in the air above them, Sheriff Smoochole stirs in his sleep. Behind his eyelids, he sees Hell.

  Once the first drop of blood soaked down into the earth, Satan shook off his great shackles and began pushing against the mass of copulating dying hippies. Smoochole saw the bastard Devil; he made eye contact with the Father of Lies. The Devil’s eyes sparkled with malice, and he shook an unbelievably thick red prick at the struggling Sheriff Smoochole while two more flaccid peckers watched from either side and laughed in a thousand voices. Smoochole fought through the pile of human flesh to escape the cock-stroking Master of Evil and still, days later, it haunts his dreams.

  In his dream, Satan’s bright red cock throbs and grows with each obscene stroke until it is just inches from the sheriff’s face. Flames erupt from the foot-thick shaft of the Devil’s dick and dance up and down the length of it. Sweat beads and falls from the sheriff’s face. He turns back and forth, trying in vain to avoid the colossal cock that inches toward him. He realizes suddenly, and strangely, that he has the twin walrus tusk handled .357s he took from the meathead general.

  In his dream, Sheriff Smoochole reaches for the pistols, unaware that his slumbering body is also reaching for them in real life. He fires. The thunder of close-range gunshots wakes both officers. Temporally disoriented, the two look around, confusion on their faces. They both turn to the demon standing next to Deputy Morks. Twin holes are blown through the bright purple skin of his chest, and Deputy Morks’s wallet falls from the demon’s claw into Morks’s lap as the monster collapses, dead. Deputy Morks reaches over and slams the door closed. He turns back and nods at the sheriff, who starts the Hummer and nods back.

  Sheriff Smoochole pulls back onto the freeway and slams the pedal to the floor. The massive Army vehicle groans and whines as it careens across the hot asphalt. As they round the last bend before Reno, they spot black pillars of smoke reaching for the sky from all over the cityscape. Winged creatures, great and small, soar around the tall fingers of smoke, whooping and screeching demon songs.

  Deputy Morks moans, “Smmmphh wmph FWPH!”

  “Yeah, I know, Deputy,” Smoochole tells him without taking his eyes off the smoldering city.

  Morks’s eyes glisten with tears. “Tmmmph kmmmph’d Dmmmphh Jmmmphh! Tmmmphh fmmmphh uph mmhph ammph! Tmmmphh smmmpph’d tmmph bmmph gmmph im mmp mmmphh! Fmmmphh tmmph!”

  Visions of Satan’s giant throbbing wang flash before Sheriff Smoochole’s eyes, and he tightens his grip on the steering wheel until his bony knuckles pop and go white. His muscles clench, and he grinds his teeth to force the phantom prick from his mind. Deputy Morks’s muffled tirade continues, but Sheriff Smoochole can hardly hear him over the pounding of his own heartbeat pulsing in his ears. The sheriff takes the exit to the station.

  Smoochole pulls the Hummer to a screeching halt in front of the building, and both officers stare in awe at their beloved station and the giant skinny demon in sheriff khakis scowling at them from atop the small stone staircase. The tall creature flaps leathery wings peppered with rips and holes. It takes a stiff step forward. The sun gleams off a dozen sheriff badges that are pinned up and down its thin chest.

  “Wmmph tmmph, Smmmmph?”

  “Don’t worry, Deputy. I’m the law in this motherfucking city,” Sheriff Smoochole tells Morks as he slides out of the Hummer and into the path of the lurching demon.

  The demon halts his advance and roars with high girlish laughter when the diminutive, leather-g-string-wearing Smoochole slams his door and points one bony finger at it.

  “Listen here, you cocksucker,” Smoochole shouts at him, “that khaki is sacred to me, and I’ll be mother fucked if I’ll see a son of a shit like you desecrate it!”

  “Yeah?” the demon snarls. “I’m the sheriff in this town. Sheriff Runnydrawers. If you choose to argue the fact,” he rolls his head to the side so Smoochole can see the skinned corpses hung around the top of the sheriff station, “I’ll hang you with the rest!”

  Sheriff Smoochole chokes back his building rage as it turns his vision bright white. His eyes scan the skinned men, and he blinks to hold back tears of fury.

  Deputy Morks spots the men, all hung by their feet so blood drips from their dangling hands. Morks leaps from the Hummer in a frenzy. He unsheathes his nightstick and shouts to Smoochole, “Lmmph kmmphh t
mmph gmmmph fmmph’r, Smmmphh!”

  Sheriff Runnydrawers snarls and leans over the Hummer’s hood to get in Deputy Morks’s ball-gagged face. “I’m the fucking sheriff in this town, boy!”

  From the other side of the Hummer, in a voice as calm and dry as the desert before a sandstorm, Smoochole warns Runnydrawers, “Say that bullshit again and I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

  Sheriff Runnydrawers scoffs and leans back over the Hummer toward Smoochole. His snarling face is as long as Sheriff Smoochole’s torso. Smoochole stares at his stoic reflection in the demon’s sunglasses as Runnydrawers opens his mouth and says, “I’m … the … fucking … sher …”

  Sheriff Smoochole draws both pistols and shatters his reflection with two well-placed shots. Thick yellow gunk explodes out of the back of the demon’s head, and it howls in pain. It recoils, and Smoochole fires four more shots at its neck as it tries blindly to retreat. Each bullet tears away thick chunks of red flesh until the demon’s head hangs by a strand of green sinew. Deputy Morks yells a muffled battle cry and swings his trusty nightstick at the flopping head like a kid assailing the world’s ugliest piñata. It connects with a wet thud, and the sinew snaps, sending the head rolling across the parking lot. The slender demon body sways and then falls at Smoochole’s feet.

  “I’m the law in this fucking city,” Smoochole smirks to the headless body.

  He turns to Deputy Morks and orders, “Pull the Hummer around back, then cut our brothers down and hang that son of a shit up there.”

  “Ymph smmph, Smmmphh,” Morks nods in response. He walks around to the driver’s side, stops once to beat the decapitated demon head a few times, then hops in and fires the Hummer to life.

  Sheriff Smoochole watches Morks disappear around the corner before he starts for the front doors.

  “I’m the fucking law,” he mumbles over and over as he walks into his station.

  Every Which Direction but Fuck

  Chuzz sits at the dinner table for a few minutes. He puts his head on his crossed arms and closes his eyes. Stuff rains down from the shattered roof, but he tunes it out for a few minutes. Save the world? That is just ri-goddamn-diculous.

  After dozing for a quarter of an hour, he lifts his head and takes a deep breath.

  “Should at least see what the crazy guy left,” he mutters to the room.

  The angel’s gifts turn out to be children’s toys and gadgets. There’s a Stretch Bangstrom that he pulls at for a while. The world may be burning around him, but he hasn’t seen one of these in over twenty years, and he intends to enjoy it. Stretch here, stretch there. Stretch Bangstrom stretches Evvvverywhere.

  The old commercial is fresh in his mind. He always wanted one, but Mom said men don’t play with dolls. They don’t play with their cocks either, but Chuzz had spent an awful lot of time sticking his into various things about the house.

  There is a toy with demonic images on it. A lever on the side resembles a big red dick. He pulls it, and an arrow in the center spins around and around until it stops over a pair of demons engaged in anal sex. A high-pitched voice comes out the back. “Fuck you too!”

  He almost drops the thing.

  He pulls it again and it rumbles. Then the earth shakes, and a bright red beam shoots out and rips another hole in the ceiling. Then the next floor, and at last the roof. He moves it, and the beam obliges by incinerating whatever it touches. And not quietly. The sound is immense, like a million bees all chattering with their buzzing wings.

  He hits the lever again, and this time it clunks. Emits a smell like ammonia and goes silent. He carefully sets it down.

  He picks up a short microphone that looks like it came from an American Idiot game. There are little red and green buttons all over the side, and when he pushes them, crazy things happens, things that freak him out. One makes the house shift sideways. He can feel the foundation pick itself up and just move. He hits the button and the house moves again.

  He shakes his head and hits another button. A pink string appears under his feet and snaps from the ground to the bottom of the mike. He almost drops the thing again. Instead he hurries back downstairs, and kicks Phil on his way to the bathroom. The pink string follows, and even when he puts it in his pocket, the stupid thing loops out the side of his pants and into the ground.

  A whole day of weird, and this is the freakiest yet.

  He chugs back a pair of Ativan and washes them down with water. Old faucet creaks and groans when he turns the handle. He leans over and takes a big old swallow, then another. Clean and cold. Just right. He opens his mouth wide and chugs more before a lump gets stuck in his throat.

  He backpedals and falls on his ass. Phil jumps up and down and does his monkey screech, which is the equivalent of a big fuck you laugh.

  The hell? He spits and belches and spits again. Tasted like piss and shit. Sure did, and when he stands up and looks at the faucet, he is horrified to see sewage running out of it. Guess the shifting house caused that. The shifting house? The shitting house!

  Nathan P. Chuzzle wants to go back to bed. He wants to hide under the covers and wait for all of this to pass as surely it must. It’s probably all the pills catching up with him. He tried to warn Mom that it was too much, but she insisted. He isn’t bipolar, doesn’t even know what the word means. He also doesn’t have posttraumatic stress disorder from the clown days, no matter what she says. He can look a clown in the eye just as well as anyone else.

  He took too much and is over the edge. That must be it. He looks at the wreckage of the room, at the smashed furniture and at the ripped-open walls and ceiling. He looks down at his pants where his hard cock sticks out like a tent.

  He closes his eyes and takes the microphone out of his pocket. He holds it up and opens his eyes, sure that when he does the string will be gone and it will be a toy again.

  But it’s not.

  “SHIT AND COCKBUGS!” he screams. Phil bounces around behind him again, shrieking at the ceiling.

  The microphone starts talking about Cockbugs. Starts singing about them all bouncy and peppy like it’s a kids song. It drives Chuzz right up against his last shred of sanity and twangs it like a loose guitar string. Twang twang. Twang! Shine your ebony guitar neck for a dollar Twang twang TWANG! Chuzz shakes his head and resists the urge to impale himself on a sharpened kitchen broom jammed in the bathroom drain. Tried to dig out a turd after Phil thought he could take a bath in the tub. Filled it all the way to the top and forgot to turn off the water. Stuff went everywhere like a mini flood. Took Chuzz days to clean up, but the turds stayed deep in the drain. He pretty much gave up on showers after that. Fucking Phil.

  He checks his computer, but it is dead. Won’t boot up. Won’t even flicker. Weird, because the lights in the house are on. He hits the power button again, and the vacuum flies out of the closet. It smashes against the wall, and a little red creature falls off and rolls over a couple of times. It comes to a rest, and a fire starts around it. Chuzz looks around for something with which to put out the flames.

  He snatches the glass off the bathroom counter and fills it with shit water, trying—unsuccessfully—not to get any on his hand, and then runs at the fire and tosses the stuff on it. The sludge splatters against the wall, the floor. It goes everywhere and smells like shit. Just like shit.

  “‘Cause it is shit,” he says.

  “Cockbugs!” the little demon screams and spits out a finger, no, a little penis that wriggles around. “Had to be water! Two thousand years old and I get taken out by shit water. What a fucking waste.” And the little thing shakes, compresses like a balloon out of air, and bursts into hunks of meat that smell worse than the shit water.

  Nathan P. Chuzzle has had some weird stuff happen in his life, and maybe he goes about the glory hole thing a little oddly, maybe a lot oddly. But he is not used to angels and demons popping up around him.

  Nor is he used to teleporting microphones that speak to him in a weird, stilted computer voice.

/>   “Chuzz … that you?”

  “What?”

  “Chuzz? You on a microphone or something?”

  Chuzz looks at the thing and hits the little green knob on the side. A blast of reverb nearly deafens him and rearranges his hair. His ears ring, and the microphone dances in his grip. He speaks into it.

  “Leon?”

  "Chuzz? That you?"

  "Leon?"

  "Chuzz, what in the blue vision fuck is going on? Are you trapped inside the pussy?"

  "Am I trapped inside the what? Are you out of your mind? How did you know about the blue shit?"

  "Blue fucking what? Never mind! I don't want to alarm you, Chuzz, but your voice is booming from something I fucked last night. The strange thing is, it doesn't really shock me. I think the world is ending, Chuzz."

  "It’s not ending. It’s over. The craziest shit is going on.”

  “You’re telling me, Brother.”

  “I just had an angel visit me. He came inside and drank a beer, gave me a bunch of weird weapons and then flew off and was shot down by a missile. Oh man, Leon, it is good to hear your voice after the morning I'm having."

  "No shit. What the hell is happening, Chuzz? Is this really the end, or does the government just want us to think it is the end?"

  “The end. It's the end! I just killed a demon with shit water, Leon, and this gadget makes the place move, and if this is the government fucking with us, it’s a damn good trick. Everything is blue right now. BLUE! But that might be from the half bottle of Viagra I took on accident. BLUE! FUCKING BLUE!”

  "Okay, Chuzz, you have to calm down. If shit water kills them, then we can fight back! As someone constantly pushed around and fucked with, I refuse to die at the hands of some damn demon!"

  "You're right. Calm down. Phew. But what the hell do we do now? What do we DO? I can’t take shit water with me. It’s, like, this stuff that comes out of my faucet.”