The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole!

by Jonathan Moon

  With a shriek, Maniwhore rakes his talon-like claws across Frank’s face. Frank lets go, but Maniwhore grabs one of Frank’s wings as he falls. He pulls down and twists, breaking the wing and forcing a scream of agony from Frank. The angel crashes into the dildo display case. Maniwhore is on him in a flash, pulling the angel’s head back by his hair. Frank opens his mouth as if to scream again, but Maniwhore stuffs the biggest dildo, the three-foot-long, nine-inch-thick Party Monster, down his throat. Frank gags and chokes on the giant jelly prick.

  Spurred by the sight of his wounded friend, Jake rallies and flies at Maniwhore. Maniwhore sees him out of the corner of his eye and throws the second-biggest dildo, the two-foot-long, six-inch-thick Little Monster, hitting Jake in the face and breaking his nose. When the angel puts his hands to his face to stop the flow of blood, Maniwhore jumps at him, knocking him to the ground, where he straddles him, tearing feathers from his wings. He flings handfuls of the feathers, white at first and then crimson, into the air where they float peacefully, belying the violence that gave them flight.

  Frank pulls the massive dildo out of his throat and pukes at the release. Maniwhore lets Jake be for the moment, taking a flying leap at Frank. His hooves slam down on Frank’s legs, and the sound of bones shattering radiates through the sex shop. Father Maniwhore grabs Frank by his hair and slaps him hard across the face with his dick. Frank falls to the ground, and Maniwhore stomps down on Frank’s square chin, sending gleaming white teeth skittering across the floor. Maniwhore whoops and stomps on the side of Frank’s head with such force that the angel’s blue eyes squirt out of his face in opposite directions. Frank twitches and dies before Jake can recover enough to save his friend.

  Father O’Coddle stares at the scene, his jaw popping back and forth.

  Bud gawks at the carnage and zips up his pants.

  Big tears slip down Billie’s delicate cheeks while he trembles like a leaf, frozen in fear.

  Jerome cowers under all the other dildos, praying he won’t be made to swallow one.

  Maniwhore stares at Leon, Billie, Father O’Coddle, and Bud. He flips them the bird, gives his prick a few strokes, and jumps back on the moaning Jake. Maniwhore resumes destroying his wings while Jake bellows in pain.

  When Leon sees Maniwhore’s black cock, the dick bruise on his cheek feels like it is about to burst into flames. Something inside Leon’s newly rewired brain snaps, and he picks up the battleaxe. His fury bubbles over, and he runs screaming into the fight. Maniwhore turns when he hears Leon’s war cry: “I’m gonna fucking kill you and cut your prick off!”

  Maniwhore scoffs. It is the last thing he does before Leon decapitates him. Maniwhore’s head, its goatish face still mid-scoff, rolls into a pile of golden shower DVDs. As his body sways and falls, his head blinks and asks Leon, “Are you talking right, Leon?”

  Leon scowls at the demonic head and tells it, “I’m gonna hack your prick to bits, you son of a goat whore!”

  “What do I care? … I’m dying …” Maniwhore mumbles as his eyes go dark.

  “Argh!” Leon yells, turning on the fallen corpse. He shakes with rage at the hard-on mocking him from the between the demon’s goat legs. “Fuck demon dick!”

  Leon squeals and grunts and curses and swings the battleaxe at the dead but raging boner. Gore splatters the walls, knocking the prison lesbian DVDs off their shelves. Bud, Father O’Coddle, and Billie scream as one for Leon to stop. He hears nothing beyond the string of nonsense curse words ringing in his head as he chops the demon to pulp from the waist down.

  Billie whispers to Jake, “I can save you, soldier.” He leans forward, and Leon’s backswing cleaves his dainty head from his shoulders. His headless corpse falls on Jake’s mangled wings, and the battle angel screams into the floor.

  “Leon!” Bud and Father O’Coddle yell at the exact same time.

  Leon turns to face them with his chest heaving and madness dancing in his eyes. He raises the bloody double-bladed axe and smiles at them.

  They both nod to the floor, Bud in the direction of Billie’s head, which rolls facedown into the growing puddle of Frank’s blood, Father O’Coddle in the direction of the headless corpse and the dying angel beneath it. Leon looks at the head, then the body, then back to Bud and Father O’Coddle. “I’m keeping this axe,” he tells them.

  “Jesus, Leon, that was insane,” Bud says.

  “But now I’m really in a demon-killing mood,” Leon snarls back. “Better grab what you need, Bud.”

  “Right,” Bud says, eyeing Leon nervously, “I’ll be right back.”

  Bud disappears into his bomb shelter. Leon walks past Father O’Coddle to the janitor closet. He grabs his mug, slings his backpack over his shoulder, and walks to the soda machine, which was smashed open in all the chaos. He grabs a soda off the floor, pops the top, and fills his mug. As he snaps the lid back on the mug, he asks Father O’Coddle, “Are you coming with us, Father?”

  “N-n-n-ooo,” O’Coddle stammers. “I’m going to absolve the corpses. The angels are from the Lord. His soldiers perished in his war. And Father Maniwhore served as a priest for decades, the good he must have done … sometimes … maybe by accident …”

  Bud returns with an M-16 over/under fully automatic slung over one shoulder and two heaping backpacks over the other. A .44 sits snug in a holster around Bud’s waist, and a sheathed knife is strapped to each of his thighs. He’s even changed into his favorite Hustler tee shirt—the black one with the bright pink logo.

  “Fuck yeah,” Leon says.

  “You coming?” Bud asks Father O’Coddle.

  “No. Leon and I just talked about it, and we think I should stay and absolve the dead,” Father O’Coddle says solemnly.

  Leon says, “He’s going to see if Jerome has any tweek.”

  Father O’Coddle winces. Leon and Bud start for the door.

  Father O’Coddle calls out, “Leon,” in a high, needy tone.

  “Oh, yeah,” Leon says, raising his straw to his lips. “He’s under all the dildos. And tell him,” Leon takes a long refreshing pull from his mug, “cock cock Satan cock.”

  Apocalypse Right Fucking NOW!

  We’ve Come for Your Codes, Asshole

  Thomas S. Phimpham, the president of the United States of America, the commander in chief, the man to whom the military reports, the person who wields more power than anyone in the world, is crouched under his desk in the Oval Office with a bottle of Lone Star in one hand and a Bible in the other.

  A whole case of ice-cold goodness teeters atop a massive stack of papers. It sweats condensate on briefs and treaties. Piles of papers that were waiting to be signed are shuffled out of order, covered in spilled beer and the roaches from smoked joints. Bottles lie here and there like downed bowling pins, and when his advisors come into the office, they must take care to step over them or risk ending up on their asses.

  The Oval Office smells like a brewery. And sex. Ass, to be exact.

  The first lady is curled up under the massive desk next to him. He’s just finished fucking her silly over the desk, something he has wanted to do for years. He finally talked her into something different. It took a six pack and enough pot to choke a lifetime stoner, but she finally dropped her silk chastity belt.

  “Bera, get yer ass up. The joint chiefs wanna shit down.” He smacks her butt. She rolls away from him and jabs him in the side with a very sharp shoe.

  “Fuck off and let me sleep, Tommy.” She doesn’t sound sleepy; she sounds pissed off. Can’t blame her. He has always wanted to try the old Sodom and Gomorrah, but she never liked the idea and told him to go find some sheep if he wanted to butt fuck something.

  “You said you’d be more careful.” She kicks him again.

  “I didn’t mean ta, I swear! And don’t call me Tommy in my place of bidness. I told you about that.” He stifles a laugh. Didn’t mean to my ass. Or her ass. Haven’t heard her squeal like that in a good long time.

  “Jerk.” She tugs her
skirt down her legs with a wince.

  “Get yer ass up. I got stuff to take care of. Got the damn Russians wantin’ to go nuklar, got the Chinese wantin’ to bring in a buttload of little slant-eyed bastards to help us. More like take over if I give ‘em half a chance.” He takes a long pull on the beer bottle, smacks his lips loudly and belches. “Sorry about the buttload comment.”

  She kicks him again and pulls a joint out of the little cubbyhole under the desk. One of the forefathers may have used it to hide a weapon or a bottle, but Tommy Boy keeps a stash of weed and coke for rainy days.

  The smell of ganja fills the Oval Office again.

  The chatter of gunfire and explosions fills the streets outside. Grunts and screams filter into the room. Something slams into the side of the White House, but she can take it. Over the years, the old bricks and mortars were replaced by steel and a composite plastic that can stand up to a rocket-propelled grenade. A direct hit from one of those seek and destroy missiles would probably take her out. They told him that the first day in office. But the chances of one getting anywhere near the White House are about as slim as an anorexic donkey.

  Something else hits the building and shakes it all the way down to the foundation.

  “Holy shit balls! That dog had some bite!”

  Bera scoots a little farther under the desk and pulls at the joint before handing it to her husband. He takes a deep lungful of the Carolina Pete blend that his cousin Johnny-Lee-Boy Phimpham grows in a trailer park. It’s good shit, the kind that makes you all happy, makes you care about fuck all. Just what he needs. Fuck all.

  There is a polite knock at the door. The president peeks over the top of the desk and calls out a tentative “Yepper?”

  “Sir.” A head pokes in. It’s Sinclair, one of his top secret service agents. Tommy likes him because he can drink like a fish and still tell decent racial jokes. But he once confided in the president that he likes to wear a diaper and a saddle while his boy toy Jethro rides him and tells him to head for the Alamo.

  “What do you know, Sinclair?”

  “Got a couple of emissaries to see you.”

  “Emi-who? I’m fucking busy right now, buddy. Can they come back when the world ain’t going to shit?”

  “Sir. They say they know why the world is going to shit. They have come to negotiate.”

  “Monkey balls. Well who are they?”

  “Sir. These guys are unusual. They appear to be demons like the ones we have seen on TV. One is named Quixotol and the other is named Mark.”

  “Why the hell is one of them named Mark? If I were a demon I’d have a cool name like Assmurder or some shit.”

  Sinclair sticks his head back out into the hallway and whispers something. Then he is yanked out of the doorframe, and the door slams behind him. There is a loud crash from the hallway, followed by a few seconds of silence, during which the president of the United States takes a long pull from his beer.

  “I hope he’s all right. He’s a good man, that Sinclair is.” He punctuates his sentence with a lusty belch.

  “Excuse you!” Bera looks shocked.

  “Relax, baby. It’s the end of the world. I can burp and git away with it.”

  She rolls her eyes and takes the joint back. She puts it to her lips and is about to take another hit when the door slams open again. A pair of figures walks into the room. They glow bright orange and red and drip fire with every step. One is taller than the other and walks on cloven feet. The other has a face where its ass should be and walks on four legs. Each leg ends in a pair of sharp knives, so he has to pull his digits out of everything he steps on.

  The hooved demon has a body like a cow’s, complete with udders and nips that look like big swinging black dildos. He has a long beak about the size of a banana.

  The president starts the Lord’s Prayer. With one hand, he wields the Bible like a weapon. With the other, he clutches his beer.

  “Prez here?” Banana-beak asks. The sound of his speech is nearly indistinguishable from the sound of burping.

  The two demons stare around the round room like they are taking in the old architecture. The pictures, paintings that are a hundred years old. Massive desk, chairs and couches. The president looks around as well, takes in the place that has been his home for the last six years. He gets up and dusts off his suit, then calmly takes a seat at the desk.

  “That’s me. Now who in the blue blaze fuck are you two losers?”

  The hooved fellow looks down at his companion, who in turn spins his ass-head upward to exchange a wounded look with his tall friend.

  “Just cuz we’re demons don’t mean we don’t got no feelings.”

  “Oh … eh, I apologize then. I didn’t think …” The president trails off as the demons burst into laughter.

  “We’re just fucking with ya, cuz.”

  A half dozen secret service men pour into the room with weapons drawn. Three have large-caliber handguns; the others carry assault rifles. They all have do-not-fuck-with-me attitudes plastered to their faces behind dark sunglasses. It’s a good thing they are wearing the shades, too, given the drug they take every morning. It makes the men fast and trigger-happy. It also makes them see weird things. The drug is like a combination of speed and a psychotrope, and it is just about the bee’s knees as far as the president is concerned. He tried some once and thought the prime minister of Kazakhstan was half lion and half poodle. His eyes didn’t stop twitching the whole time.

  “Take ‘em down, boys!” the president calls. He waves his hand forward as if leading a charge himself, then dives behind his desk.

  Gunfire echoes around the room followed by screams. Something sails past the desk and hits the window. Thomas S. Phimpham drops his Bible and hits the joint. He manages to hold the smoke in until the gunfire dies down, but he has to let it out before the screaming stops. Because it goes on and on.

  He pokes his head out from under the desk and exhales a long cloud of white. The room is dim, but it could be because he is stoned out of his mind. Blood drips from every surface, as though someone took a water cannon and filled it with crimson goo. A piece of someone detaches from the ceiling and splats on the desk, throwing bits of gore over the president’s face. He shakes his head and ducks back down. Bera doesn’t even stir.

  “Come out come out wherever you are,” one of the bastard demons calls. He has an accent that would be right at home in New York.

  “I am the president of …“

  “Shit!” The second demon cuts him off.

  He dares another peek, this time coming face to face with a red kneecap covered with gigantic blisters. They undulate and moan, and the president can make out the features of a goat complete with horns pressing from the inside of each one.

  “Lovely, ain’t dey? I’m from sixth circle, you know, the old down below, and I got me some hangers-on. I let ‘em stay for the ride.” The thing speaks in Cockney English and puffs at a dangling cigar.

  “Uh.”

  “So look, you give us the launch codes and we will leave you in peace. Sound good, big guy?” the four-legged demon asks. His swinging dildo teats clank and clatter against one another.

  “What in the Jim Parson’s fuck are you planning to do with the launch codes?”

  “Son, look here. The Apocalypse is upon us, and we need to get those codes and guard them. Keep them safe. We need to make sure that no one else gets them and shoots missiles every which way. No one wants to die in a nuclear war. No one. Am I right here, Chuckles?”

  “Right, mate, you should listen to me partner ‘ere. He’s just full o’ good sense.”

  The two demons maintain perfectly serene looks on their nightmarish faces. Maybe it’s the pot talking, but their calm expressions might almost inspire confidence … if the damn things didn’t smell like a sewer explosion.

  “Well hell, son, if you’re going to protect them, I don’t see what the harm is,” the president’s drug-addled mouth says, much to his surprise. Sure it seems
slightly insane, but strange times being upon him and all, Tommy finds himself reaching into his pocket and extracting the codes. He hands over the plastic envelope marked Top Secret.

  “Now don’t do nothing stupid with ‘em, hear me?”

  “Sure thing. We’ll guard ‘em with our very lives.”

  The two demons glance at each other. The taller one breaks into a grin filled with broken teeth the shade of piss. Then one massive hand grabs the president and hauls him out from under the desk. The other demon rotates a knife-tipped appendage and grabs the first lady, dragging her out by her ankle. She squeals in anger and lashes out with her other foot.

  “What are you doing?”

  The demons ignore the cries of protest. The president is tossed into the air and caught by his ankles so he dangles upside down staring into his wife’s face.

  “Sword fight?” the taller demon chuckles.

  Thomas S. Phimpham, the president of the United States of America, is brought up in an en garde position and then smashed into his wife at high speed. The last thing he sees is her face howling in fear while flopping black dildos shift and twirl on the body of the demon that holds her. Then he crashes into her face for one final kiss that results in an explosion of light and a complete absence of thought.

  Zombie with Soul

  By the time Pestilence and his horde of diseased Army dead and Cockbug-risen hippy corpses hit Reno, the demons have thrown the town into total chaos. Cars and trucks of all sizes and sorts litter the freeway. Pestilence leads his gang from atop his steed with General O’Coddle staggering right behind. They wind through the maze of abandoned automobiles, passing under two overpasses. After the second, the sounds of screams echo off the tall casinos and the dead start staggering more slowly, distracted and hungry.