The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole!

by Jonathan Moon

  "Figure it out, Brother. We have to stop it! We can band together and attack the Apocalypse before it attacks us! Where are you, Chuzz? Are the Four Horsemen upon us already? I have to talk to Bud and the three priests at the church I clean; they can fill me in. It was insanely busy yesterday. I guess everyone else knew the world was ending."

  “Attack the Apocalypse! Are you insane?

  The old TV in the corner clicks on, and a beautiful woman stands on screen. She is dressed in a sharp business suit complete with a collar around her neck. Her eyes are darkened, surrounded by something so red it has to be blood. She holds a microphone shaped like a dildo.

  “Hang on. Something’s on the screen.”

  “Huh?”

  “Hang the fuck on!”

  Silence from the irritating device. Then it starts click click clicking. Twang twang, there goes his sanity again. No, hold on! Hold on! He shakes his head and turns his attention to the screen.

  The woman stands in front of a giant sign made out of body parts and flashing red and green lights. They spell out two words. SIN CITY.

  The landscape is changing. Shifting, altering. Sand is tossed in the air, and then the ground buckles. A giant hole opens up and everything around it turns red. A pair of hills rise out of the ground.

  “We’re standing live before the greatest spectacle the world has ever seen. He is back and he is pissed. So hold on to your butts, ladies and gentlemen. The end is here and so is he. I present to you. At last. The tower of power, the greatest gift to humanity ever. Even better than sex. Really. TRUST me on this one.” And she leans in to leer at the screen. She licks her blood-red lips and pants and huffs and puffs like she is having an orgasm.

  “Just kidding. It’s him! The Father of Lies. Oh my …” then the screen goes blank and Chuzz thinks about the sharpened stick in his bathroom again.

  “Let’s do it, Leon. Meet in Vegas. That’s where this is all going down! We can handle it. And Gabriel left me some stuff to use. Stuff we can fight back with. I'll bring everything!”

  "Sweet! We will beat the Apocalypse for every turned-up nose and every turned-down loan. We will decide our fates, Chuzz, instead of being tools for the Devil! We can meet somewhere between us. If we need a home base, Bud has a bomb shelter in the basement of Jerome's shop. We need to know where the Devil has risen. Washington DC? Hollywood? Or Las Vegas?"

  “Trust me, it’s Vegas. I just saw it on TV. I'd get on the net if I could, but my computer just took a shit. I want to beat the Devil. You want to beat the Devil and ... wait, who the fuck is Bud?”

  "Bud lives in a bomb shelter under the sex shop. Gray-haired fella, drives a spaceship. He knows more than me. He was telling me about the Devil rising and shit. We need guns! I'll go to the sheriff station and see if anybody’s left alive. Hopefully not, because then I can grab some of them sweet fucking shotguns!"

  “Okay, you bring guns and I’ll bring these crazy toys.”

  "And Chuzz, is Phil off the heroin yet? We may need him at the top of his one-armed monkey game."

  “Fucking Phil hasn't had a clean day in years. Maybe I should leave him. I'll think about that. I'm heading your way. Vegas, here I come. I’ll be the guy flying a house or something. See you on the other side mutha fuckaaaaa …”

  "Flying? Uh OK. We'll be in touch! Stay fucking safe out there, Chuzz!"

  Nathan Chuzzle is going out of his fucking mind.

  He holds the toy and contemplates the conversation he just had with Leon. The crazy shit he just said. The crazier shit his friend said. He wants to grab Phil and run away, find a nice underground shelter and wait for the world to end, but the flying dude told him he would save the world. He can’t save the world; he can’t even save his own monkey from the stuff that is happening.

  The house shakes, and Phil rouses his hairy body from his pillow in the corner. He looks around with big eyes and then focuses on Chuzz. He smacks his arm and looks at his owner, who should be breaking out the goods right about now.

  “Ah sorry, Phil! I forgot!” He dashes back to the bathroom, which is threatening to secede from the rest of the house. A deep fissure opens up as the bathroom slides away. Chuzz jumps and lands on the linoleum floor then falls to his knees as the impact of his bulk on his sore foot makes him holler. He tucks the little microphone into the back pocket of his pants so he doesn’t lose the crazy thing. The pink string obligingly disappears when he turns the microphone off.

  He goes for the lock box and realizes he’s left his keys in the other room, so he’ll have to carry the damn thing. With a groan, he tears it off the wall and hobbles to the door. The fissure is deeper than he thought possible. It stretches away, and deep deep down in the hole he sees flamelike flashes of orange and red. Could that be the center of the Earth?

  On the other side of the fissure, Phil jumps up and down when he spots Chuzz. Ah Phil, you do love me after all. Phil is going crazy. He flips over and lands on his feet and then gestures for Chuzz to jump.

  After a repeat performance, he realizes the monkey is telling him to toss the drug box.

  “Fucking Phil!”

  The room shakes, and there is a nasty second when Chuzz is convinced he will fall into the pit. He hangs there, looking at the rough earthen sides into which he will smash on his way down. The sides of the chasm are teeming with little things like the one that came out of the little red demon. What did it say? Cockbugs? If he falls, he will die, but the even greater insult will be when those little bastards follow him down and try to penetrate every orifice in his body. He likes his orifices un-penetrated, thank you very fucking much!

  Phil is going crazy, but that’s just Phil. He wants his fix. Hell, Chuzz has sworn the shit off, but he could really use a hit right about now.

  He tosses the box across the chasm, and Phil catches it. Now Chuzz is no Indiana Jones; there is no way he can make the leap, which is now at least six feet and growing. He doesn’t have the hat for it, anyway. Nor does he have a whip. Hell, he doesn’t even have a clue.

  He runs at the door and stops short. Not much of a run. He makes two steps before realizing if he attempts to jump he might not make it. His fingers won’t even touch the other side.

  The window above the toilet is tiny. Even if he could manage to get up there, ain’t no way he is wiggling through. Shit-balls!

  He snaps his finger at the air and looks around. “Yes yes yes!” The little microphone is in hand before he knows it, and he studies the buttons. Which one was it? He hits the red one and the room shifts. It lifts up and slams down like a crane picked it up and dropped it. He staggers and tries not to fall. Doesn’t succeed and lands on his ass. Ow.

  The room is farther away now, and the chasm is much wider. He hits the button again. He slams into the back wall and bounces onto the floor, flinging his hands out to stop his slide. They close over air, and he is almost tossed over the edge and into the chasm.

  Back on his feet. Bruised. Aching. Dirt and dust in his mouth, clogging his nose. He leans to the side and evacuates both nostrils by blowing huge streamers of snot into the corner. Spits, dreams of water from his sink, not shit water but real water that is cool and refreshing. Maybe if he makes it upstairs, he can find something to drink.

  He wraps his arms around the base of the sink and holds on for dear life. He holds the little microphone out and tilts the head forward. Triggers the button, and the room bounces up and over. Chasm closing. Space diminishing. This might work.

  He hits the button again, and this time he flicks the head of the microphone like a flyswatter. The room shifts again, more violently, which tosses Chuzz free of the sink and across the room. If the chasm hadn’t closed, he would fly into it face first. Instead he goes face first into Phil’s ass as the creature dances around, banging the locked box against the walls and floor in an attempt to open it.

  “Stupid monkey!” Chuzz grabs his best friend’s hand, and they flee up the stairs before any more crazy shit can happen.

&nb
sp; Phil has the case in hand, and with each step he takes, the lock clangs against the metal wall. The monkey hoots and screams in primate, and Chuzz is pretty sure he’s just spewing gibberish. Hard to say; maybe the one-armed bastard is telling him the secret to life. Maybe he is just babbling. Chuzz won’t ever know, and he doesn’t really care.

  The toys are piled where he left them. Chuzz picks up the stretchy doll and flops it around. The face comes to life. Mouth cracks into a grin and nose wrinkles up as if to indicate the thing’s disapproval of Chuzz’s personal odor.

  “Put me down, fucker.”

  The voice is tinny and sounds like it is coming from far away. It has a harsh edge to it like the toy is a heavy smoker. Hah. A cigarette-puffing toy, now ain’t that just the shit. He drops the stupid talking doll, lifts his foot and slams it down on the annoying little shit. His foot slips across the soft toy, and he slides forward, inadvertently triggering the microphone, which lifts the house in the air and slams him against the floor. He goes down screaming curses until he takes his finger off the button. The house falls and smashes him into the wall.

  Everything in the room falls. Every fucking thing. The armoire. The pictures of the circus folks including Tweedledee and Dee-fucking-dum. As they fall, Chuzz realizes that they now sport demon faces. Oh well. They’re on the ground now; he won’t have to look at them.

  Smoke and dust settle, and a tribe of weird ant-beetles pours into the room. They have vicious little heads and nasty little legs. They take to the air and buzz around on sharp black wings. Chuzz bats one of the creatures that buzzes too close. Pain slams into his hand and races up his arm.

  He stares at his palm, where the little beetle is dancing on the end of a stinger. It has an angry face like a miniature bulldog. Chuzz positions the thumb and forefinger of his other hand over the thing and rips its head off. Then he yanks the stinger out and stares at the wound. His hand puffs up around the sore. It looks angry and red, and he wonders if he is going to die.

  “Not today, I don’t think. You ain’t dead yet, so they must have plans for you.” Stretch Bangstrom is walking around flexing his arms. He whips them into the air, catches a little beetle and slaps the squealing thing into his mouth. Chew, chew chew. Belches orange dust and repeats.

  Before long, the toy is strutting around like he owns the place. Tiny little hooks protrude all over his rubbery skin. Little wasp stingers. Chuzz looks at his own hand, at the wound, and realizes it doesn’t even hurt. The sting is red, but when he touches it, the place feels numb. Not numb, it feels ... good. In fact, if he weren’t already packing a full cord of wood, he would be standing at attention just from poking the sore.

  He drags himself out of the kitchen and collapses. It’s too much. The angel, the end of the world. The half bottle of Viagra he took. He needs to go bang one out, but he is too scared to drop his pants.

  Stretch Bangstrom walks toward him on rubber legs, his hands going up and down like he is doing some weird Egyptian dance. Chuzz stands, and the toy stops before him. All manner of disturbing thoughts hop around in his noggin. Will his mother be okay? Where is he going to get dinner? How is he going to get to Vegas, and how is he going to stop the Apocalypse?

  Phil wanders up beside him and punches him in the ass. He may have one arm, but it is a strong mother fucker. Chuzz goes down like a sack of potatoes, lands on his hands and knees. He wants to roll on his back and grab his bruised cheek, but the little plastic toy jumps on his back, landing soft as a butterfly fart.

  “What the hell?” He tries to stand up, but the toy lives up to its name, stretching to its full length, diving under his sweatshirt and sinking the barbs into Chuzz’s skin. They jab into his back first, then cold barbs slither along his arms and sink in there too. He screams and jumps to his feet. He’s had shots aplenty, and that is exactly what this feels like. A bunch of needles entering his body from every angle.

  He falls over again, this time on purpose, in an attempt to shake the toy. Phil jumps out of the way, but when Chuzz flops on his stomach, the monkey punches him in the ass again.

  “Fucking Phil!”

  The monkey leaps away and chatters at him. Picks up the lock box and shakes it over his head.

  Chuzz flops back over and smashes his back into the floor. The barbs sink in deeper, and Chuzz screams. Stretch’s head is near his ear and it chatters at him, sounds like laughter. “You wanna laugh at me? You wanna laugh, asshole?”

  Chuzz rises to his feet and backs up as fast as he can, smashing into the wall at full speed. Bangstrom holds on, doesn’t even scream. But Chuzzle does. He howls at the top of his lungs. Then he spins to look at the thing, first one way then the next. He jerks his head around, trying to see what is going on back there.

  The toy laughs, hoots and chatters like a loon. Chuzzle feels like joining him.

  Warmth seeps into his body. It starts where the cold barbs pierce his skin. The cold gets warmer and then grows hot. He feels flushed all over. He feels like he is about to leap out of his skin, it is so warm.

  But it feels good. It feels so good, he blows a load right in his pants. Doesn’t help the hard-on, though. He bounces to the front door and throws it open. His euphoria is just about to bubble to the surface but the damn toy squelches it before it can really get going.

  “Settle down, bub. I’m your new helper. Lucky you and gosh golly, lucky fuck me!” Stretch giggles in one ear.

  “Get off me!”

  “I can’t, bub, I can’t. I was chosen just like you, and now I have to get involved. I liked it better when I was in a donation box. It smelled like despair. I like that.” The toy sighs and titters in his ear.

  “Get the fuck off me!” Chuzz yells and slams himself into the wall. The toy exhales a deep breath as they make contact and then giggles.

  “You got that itch that’s been driving me nuts all day. Thanks, bud!”

  Chuzz falls on his back and rolls around a few times. He bounces up and down, but the toy chuckles and rides him out. Chuzz reaches behind himself and grabs the thing’s neck, prepared to rip it off. The toy does something that makes every barb in his body feel like it is connected to an electrical outlet. ZAP!

  “Get off me!”

  “No way, bub. Just settle down and listen to me. Just listen! You need me and I need you. We are like two peas in an apocalyptic pod. You wanna fight back? You stick with me, and I will keep my eyes open. I got your back. Get it? I GOT YOUR BACK!”

  Chuzz shakes his head. He goes to the cupboard and takes out a bottle of Jym Beaner and a really big glass. Milk is next. He has to dig the warm carton out of the back of the fridge.

  He doesn’t speak, just mixes up a double dose of memory eraser and tosses it back in one long swallow.

  Phil is passed out. His monkey ass sticking up in the air, his one good arm under his body. Chuzz grabs a ratty blanket from what’s left of the hallway closet and covers his companion. Phil doesn’t move except for one eye that opens slowly. It fixes on Chuzz, then his lips pull back from his teeth in a satisfied grin.

  “Swear to God, Phil, I’m going to take you to rehab one of these days. Stupid monkey.”

  “Better hurry. The days are all growing to a close.” The toy on his back snickers. “You know your buddy is from the genus Pongo, right? He’s a great ape, not a monkey.”

  “I know that, you idiot! Don’t you think I know my best friend is an ape?” Chuzz takes a seat at the remains of the dinner table. He hunches forward so Bangstrom doesn’t get squished. When he turns his head to the side, he can see those sharp grinning teeth. Like a bunch of tiny razor blades. His head is buzzing from the drink, but he still feels on edge. “So. Which way is Vegas?”

  “Fuckaroni, I don’t know! If I gotta explain everything to you, our partnership is going to be a long and trying one.”

  “So why are you here then?”

  “I don’t know. I was fine until one of those flying fuckers gave me life. Breathed it right into me like I was a CPR doll.
”

  “Oh.” Chuzz slumps forward onto the dinner table, which reminds him that he should be eating now. He is hungry enough. He takes a half-thawed bean burrito out of the freezer and munches on it. Thing is stringy and tough. Tastes terrible cold. Despite the shards of tortilla stuck in his teeth, the food goes a long way toward making him feel more human. He lets a big juicy fart rip across the silence of the room.

  “I’m not sure what is worse. The smell of that burrito or your ass.” Stretch Bangstrom mumbles.

  Nathan P. Chuzzle ignores the thing. His mind is spent. There is literally nothing going on up there. For the first time in his life, not a single thought intrudes on the nothingness. Twang twang? Nope, the guitar string must have broken. Nothing. Just a haze of nothing.

  He sits for some time and stares at the wall. The ceiling. The fading light of day. He listens to the screams in the night, howls and cries of pain. Cries of ecstasy. He should get up and check out the excitement, but he can’t muster up the energy.

  “Fuck this. I’m going to bed. In the morning everything will be fine. I know it.”

  “No it won’t.”

  “Yes it will.”

  “How are you going to sleep with me back here?”

  Chuzz is already heading downstairs. The roof hangs over the dimly lit passageway and threatens to give in at every step.

  “Easy. I’m gonna pop a couple of Ambien, and when I wake up, everything will be fine and dandy.”

  Chuzz dry-swallows the pills like they are going out of style. He tries to slip his jeans off but doesn’t quite manage the feat before collapsing on his sweat-stained sheets, pants around his ankles, raging hard-on standing at attention. The toy groans and shifts under Chuzz as he passes gas like a locomotive chugging up a hill.

  “Fucking asshole,” he sighs and then closes his eyes. Chuzz farts again.

  Foolish Weaver of Intricate Insults

  Father Maniwhore rants and raves at the increasingly large crowd of people seeking atonement in the face of the coming Apocalypse. He pounds his fist and screams so loud, his spit flies seven rows. It splatters across pale scared faces. Sweat drips down his long goatish face. His booming voice increases in volume when the sound of demons descending on the town creates a wave of panic that grips the enthralled throng.