The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole!

by Jonathan Moon

  The bull-faced demon smiles at Myron and tells him, “Well, Myron the ex-editor, I am Azzehemadheadzqueerz. I am the newly appointed editor of the newly renamed Daily Cunt. Trust me, the pleasure is all mine. Sit down!”

  Myron’s knees buckle, and he sits in the intentionally uncomfortable chair opposite the desk that was so recently his. A smile spreads across Azzehemadheadzqueerz’s bullish face, and one of the tendrils from between his horns brings a colossal cigar to his grin. The demon puffs at the stogie; the ash burns, and thick blue smoke rolls from his snout.

  “I might as well start,” Azzehemadheadzqueerz says, “by telling you that you’ve done a decent job at the helm of The Daily Gab.”

  The smile dissolves, and the demon continues, “But as Bob Dylan once told everyone, ‘The Times They Are a-Changin’.”

  Confused, Myron asks, “What?”

  Azzehemadheadzqueerz sighs and tells the former editor, “Well, as fine a job as you used to do running The Daily Gab, you have really been off your game since the rising of the Dark Lord. When he expected you to be telling the masses about him and his glorious cock-swinging return, you were publishing stories about how celebrities were coping with the end of the world.”

  “The Dark Lord? My boss?” Myron shakes his head at Azzehemadheadzqueerz and tells the large demon, “This is my paper, and I publish what I want, when I want!”

  Azzehemadheadzqueerz laughs, a sound like wheels squealing, before telling Myron, “Wrong, wrong, and wrong. Don’t get me wrong, we are still going to use a few of your ideas in The Daily Cunt.”

  Myron interrupts, “You can’t go calling a newspaper The Daily Cunt. No one will buy it.”

  “Oh, they aren’t paying for it anymore, ex-editor. No, the Dark Lord feels that news is more important than money. EVERYONE will read The Daily Cunt if they know what’s good for them.”

  Still shaking his head, Myron says, “But The Daily Cunt?”

  “Look, little man, we tried other names first.” Azzehemadheazqueerz sounds a bit defensive.

  The small green demon pipes up, “I wanted to call it The Daily Gash.”

  “That fits,” Myron says.

  “ENOUGH,” Azzehemadheadzqueerz yells, rattling the glass walls. He takes a second pull of the cigar, then tosses a fresh issue of The Daily Cunt into Myron’s lap.

  Myron looks the demon in his beady red eyes before folding the paper open and reading half-aloud from the front page. “The Dark Lord, Lucifer, is proud to bring to you The Daily Cunt. Gone are the times where you should be worrying about who is fucking whom and who is getting fat. The end is upon you, and soon YOU will perish. Demons that will rape your soul, your sanity, and even your asshole have been loosed upon this soiled earth. The dead have risen, and they claw and bite the living into their ranks. You should be hiding. You should be praying. Allow us to be the paper that keeps you updated when everyone else is hanging from the streetlamps wrapped in barbed wire.”

  Myron looks up from the paper. “So what does this mean for me?”

  Azzehemadheadzqueerz’s tendril ashes the cigar on the desk, and the demon nods his horned head at the paper. “Keep reading.”

  “We will feature constantly updated celebrity deaths!”

  “Ha!” Myron laughs, “Impossible; it would take up the whole paper!”

  As he finishes his sentence, he reads a small box on the front page of The Daily Cunt. “Who’s Who and Who’s Dead.”

  Directly under the title is the sentence, “William Grimhole, actor 45, starred in Action Zone 1 through 4 and was dismembered by Bihferdar and Wildahgreadd during the happy couple’s honeymoon.”

  “I love the Action Zone flicks,” Myron says sadly.

  “Yeah,” Azzehemadheadzqueerz nods.

  Myron looks back at the paper and sees that the sentence in the box now reads, “Chauncey Blipeppers, actor 34, former childhood star of Both Hands on my Shoulders, was feasted upon by a dozen undead inmates in the Hollywood County jail where he has been housed since an April 2009 indecent exposure arrest.”

  “It … it … changed,” Myron says, amazed.

  “Keep reading,” Azzehemadheadzqueerz orders.

  Myron holds up his hands, looks back to the paper, and continues reading. “Former editor of The Daily Gab, Myron Bottomfeeder, slept on a cot in the basement of the Marvin J. Fartseinheimer Building last night. His wife was at home getting banged out by Mark Corhhole, former reporter for The Daily Gab. What?”

  Directly below the paragraph is a picture of Myron standing in the lobby talking to the small green demon. He looks short and fat, and the expression on his face is one of utter stupidity. Below that picture is one of his wife, Mildred, on her hands and knees with her floppy tits swaying while Mark Corhhole fucks her from behind.

  Mark’s glasses are fogged up.

  Myron feels heat rising under his collar. His neck turns red, and the flush eases up to his ears and face. He shakes with rage as he continues, “Mrs. Bottomfeeder and Mr. Corhhole were both offered up as sacrifices for AssStretch the Inhumane of Hell 121 about an hour ago. All that Mrs. Bottomfeeder leaves behind for her overworked husband is a pillow covered in Corhhole’s pecker tracks. When alerted to the facts that he had no job and that his wife was fucking his employee and then was eventually fist-fucked to death by the large-handed minions of AssStretch the Inhumane, Mr. Bottomfeeder replied, ‘Arghhhhhh!’ before being torn apart by the paper’s new editor in his former office.”

  “What …” Myron looks up from the paper. He doesn’t even have time to move before Azzehemadheadzqueerz’s clawed hand wraps around his throat and pulls him to his feet. The demon squeezes Myron’s neck until blood spurts from his ears and nose. With a snot-dripping grunt, Azzehemadheadzqueerz holds Myron above him.

  “Nooooooo,” Myron bellows weakly before Azzehemadheadzqueerz tears him cleanly in half. Blood splatters the glass walls and drips slowly to the floor. Azzehemadheadzqueerz holds Myron’s torso in the air, greedily drinking the free-flowing blood, and then he tosses both halves of Myron aside like wrappers from a fast food meal.

  “Fix that misquote,” he tells the green demon, who is now covered in blood and snot. “He said “‘Nooooooo,’ not ‘Arghhhhhh.’”

  Only the Special Secret Agents Get to Drive the Humscalade and Pack Nukes

  Agent Clearance Lickspittle is completely focused on the mission. He manages to tune out the constant whispered flirtations between his longtime partner, Fred Gallstone, and Gary back at ‘Control’ in the earpiece. Nope, Agent Lickspittle is a goddamned special secret agent, and a little bit of man-on-man dirty talk won’t cost him his chance to drive the Humscalade. Not now, not when it is within his reach, just down the block in an empty warehouse surrounded by stumbling, ravenous dead folks and shifty, howling demons. So far none of the dead or the demons has paid the three agents any mind. A fact that Agent Lickspittle recognizes as incredibly lucky considering the three agents are parked in the middle of the street in their secret agent double sidecar motorcycle.

  Fred sits opposite Lickspittle’s sidecar, and a giant of a man drives the secret agent cycle. This giant is Manfred Manface. People never call him Manfred or Mr. Manface, oh no. He doesn’t exist. His friends, who are few since he’s preferred to be a lone wolf ever since losing his K9 partner his rookie year, call him Meat. Everyone else who meets him, also very few as well as very fucking unlucky, as such meetings usually happen at the wrong end of his oversized Uzi converted to the size of an AK-47, calls him Agent M.

  Right now, Agent Lickspittle is going over every possible angle of the surrounded building that holds the most fashionable weapon of mass destruction ever: the United States government’s one and only Humscalade. The comfort and style of an Escalade with the ruggedness and .50 caliber mounted machine gun, state-of-the-art guided missile systems, and ten-inch-thick bomb-proof windshield, body, and frame of an extraordinarily advanced military Hummer.

  Agent Lickspittle became a secret agent just
for the chance to rub against the vehicle once in his lifetime. Now that he has a chance to drive it, he will leave a river of blood and gore in his wake. He smiles because he gets to keep his perfectly manicured nails around the Humscalade’s steering wheel. His eyes dart back and forth behind his dark sunglasses as his brain frantically scrambles for a strategy for evading the zombies and demons and getting into the fucking warehouse. He has been taught not to worry about a body count when there is a mission to be completed. So they fire up the mini-chain-guns attached to either sidecar and plow straight down the street.

  On the bike next to him, Agent M ties one boot very fiercely. He cocks one eyebrow, and his large flat forehead wrinkles clear up into his generic flattop. He eyes the surrounded warehouse ahead and leans over to tie his other boot. When he leans back, the big man starts humming something by Rammstein and dropping the clips out of one of his many guns. He double and triple checks them, slamming the chambers back in and then replacing them in their holsters.

  In the other sidecar, Agent Gallstone has one hand cupping his earpiece and one tucked into his cramped sidecar. He glances with furtive looks between his fellow secret agents and the zombies milling back and forth in their path. His attention is on the deep, gravelly voice tickling inside his ear. Every time Gary whispers a directive or asks for a status report, tiny tingles resonate from his ear all the way down to his dick, where they mature into throbs. Agent Gallstone is feeling randy, but there is no way he can rub out a quickie with his fellow secret agents so close. He figures he’ll settle for the next best thing and kill something.

  “Control, we are awaiting orders,” he breathes heavily into the microphone on his jacket cuff.

  “As am I,” answers the gravelly-voiced Gary from the white van two hundred yards behind them. “Why don’t you give me a status update while we wait?”

  “We are sitting here in the spy-cycle and watching a bunch of dead folks stumble back and forth.” Agent Gallstone glances at Agent M and tells his cuff, “Meat is humming Du Hast for the seventeenth time. He has already reloaded his personal arsenal and is now rezipping all his zippers. I can’t see Agent Lickspittle, but I imagine he is staring at the target, plotting the path to his goal. He is so dedicated, Control, a good solid leader.”

  “Oh, you are a fine solid agent yourself, Agent Gallstone,” Gary purrs, and the tingles start dancing down Gallstone’s neck toward his crotch. “How many stiffs are out there?”

  “I count thirty-four in the street and one right here,” Agent Gallstone sighs back.

  In the other sidecar, something snaps in Agent Lickspittle’s head, and he shouts into his cuff microphone, “Enough! I’m no longer waiting on orders we already received. We aren’t waiting for someone else to decide how to deal with this. We’ll report our progress and blog it down if we have to. But damn it, they said pick up the Humscalade and take it to Las Vegas and await orders, and that’s what I plan on doing!”

  As he finishes, he looks up to Agent M who is checking out his reflection in his thirteen-inch survival knife, and slaps the big man’s leg. Agent M’s head snaps to his left, and he twists the large blade so it is mere inches from Agent Lickspittle’s throat. Agent Lickspittle sees Agent M’s earpiece swinging from his ear, and he realizes the big man has heard nothing he said over his own humming.

  “Easy, Meat,” Agent Lickspittle tells him, “save it for the enemy.”

  “Everyone is mine enemy,” Agent M growls, and he tickles the back of the blade on Lickspittle’s throat.

  “Well, I’m your friend. And Fred is your friend,” Agent Lickspittle nods toward Agent Gallstone, who has taken full advantage of his fellow agents’ distracted state and commenced rubbing out a quick one. Agent M doesn’t follow Lickspittle’s nod, so Lickspittle continues. “We are sick of waiting, Meat, let’s go get that Humscalade!”

  “Da,” Agent M grins. “Rules is only made for being brokened!”

  Agent M sparks his Zippo lighter to life and lights a massive cigar, then jumps in the air and kicks the bike’s ignition on the way down. His large frame rattles the motorcycle and forces it to swerve as it squeals toward the warehouse. Every zombie in the street turns to face the spy-cycle. They moan and drool at the sight of living flesh, and they stagger toward the approaching machine.

  “We are GO,” Agent Gallstone reports to his cuff.

  His lover fires the chain-guns mounted on the side of the cars, spitting hot lead at the loitering dead. The heavy bullets tear through rotting flesh, pulverizing the walking corpses to goo before they hit the pavement. Agent M reaches into his heavy leather jacket and pulls out a stick of dynamite that looks like it was made in the 1940s. He takes both hands off the handlebars to light the long dusty fuse on the stick, and throws it into the crowd of zombies. As it explodes, he chews on his cigar and observes, “No better crowd control than dynamite!”

  Between the heavy gunfire and the use of old-school explosives, a workable path has been cleared through the dead. Brackish yellow goo and dismembered body parts form a sticky creek of gore through which the remaining zombies stumble. The spy cycle swerves to hit every shambler as it careens towards the warehouse, leaving no one standing in its wake.

  A big white van speeds around the far corner, pursued by winged goat-faced demons. All three agents turn to see the driver and passenger screaming in terror at their hellborn assailants. A demon grips the roof of the van and slams a gnarled fist through the driver’s-side window. It claws at the driver’s hairy face; tearing away fuzz and flesh with its talons. The van swerves and tips onto its side, sliding straight at the spy-cycle and the three secret agents.

  Agent M reaches down and grabs Agent Gallstone under one arm and Agent Lickspittle under the other. He dives away from the motorcycle, slamming his fellow agents into the closed door of the warehouse a split second before the van crashes into the spy-cycle in a squeal of metal and sparks. The demons tear at the van’s panels as it slows to a stop, peeling up the side of the van like a giant can of sardines. The terrified passenger screams in a guttural foreign tongue. The demons growl back, accusing the man of inappropriate sexual congress with their full goat brethren as they tear his limbs from his body.

  “We are at target, Control,” an out-of-breath Agent Gallstone reports. “Making entrance and securing Humscalade, Control.”

  “Well done, agents,” Gary purrs. “Think maybe once the Humscalade is secure, one of you can drive this shitty van for a while and I can ride in the Humscalade?”

  Agent Lickspittle looks at Agent Gallstone and shakes his head slowly back and forth.

  Agent Gallstone slumps his shoulders and asks Agent Lickspittle, “Really? What can it hurt?”

  Agent Lickspittle only shakes his head in response.

  “No, Control,” Agent Gallstone pouts, “only the special secret agents can drive the Humscalade and pack nukes.”

  “That’s fucked-up, Freddy,” Gary snaps. “Just report back when you’ve secured the fucking thing.”

  Agent Lickspittle pulls a locksmith kit from his pocket and leans over to work on the lock to the warehouse door. Agent M beats him to it, kicking in the door with one smooth, forceful motion. The three agents dive into the warehouse and surround the shiny black Humscalade. After a quick look around the big room, the agents deem it secure and empty save for the vehicle and a steel briefcase next to it.

  “Building secure, Control,” Agent Gallstone reports.

  “Whatever,” Control replies.

  “Humscalade secured, Control,” Agent Gallstone says a little more firmly.

  “Whatever,” Control responds with no less apathy.

  Agent Lickspittle opens the door of the Humscalade and grabs a handwritten note off the driver’s seat.

  Dear Secret Agents,

  This is the Humscalade, the most advanced and comfortable weapon ever known to mankind. Satan has risen in the desert outside of Las Vegas, and the Humscalade could be the only way to stop the Dark Lord. Remembe
r your training and handle this mission with extreme care. Body counts, civilian or otherwise, are completely irrelevant in this mission. Kill them all and let God sort them out!

  Beware, there is a rumored nuclear weapon in the area that may be under terrorist control. If so, steal the nuke back and use it if needed.

  God Bless,

  Secretary of Secret Agents,

  William Bluntbone

  “I have our next orders, agents. Let’s go,” Lickspittle says to Agents M and Gallstone. He turns his attention to the briefcase and notices another note taped to it.

  Dear Kamal,

  Here is the thermonuclear weapon as we agreed upon. Please remember our deal. Only nuke poor families and counties. No big places. 911 was way too showy. We don’t want another cluster fuck like that, now do we?

  Mohammad loves you,

  Secretary of Terrorist Relations and Employment,

  William Bluntbone

  “Son of a bitch,” Lickspittle growls before picking up the nuke case and putting it in the back seat next to Agent M.

  “Control, we are ready for the next step of the mission,” Agent Gallstone tells his cuff as he buckles his seat belt. “Destination Las Vegas.”

  After a moment of silence, he asks, “Control, do you copy?”

  “Yeah,” Gary says in a faraway voice, “but there is some kind of box out here. It has lips and stars painted on it. A poster for a newspaper called The Daily Cunt on one side. It’s humming at me. I’m going to investigate.”

  “No! Stay put, Control, await backup,” Agent Gallstone yells into his sleeve.

  “Oh, calm down, Fred,” Gary says, and they hear his door creak open. “It wants to suck my dick. I don’t know how I know, but I know it does. It is calling my prick. I’m gonna do it!”

  Agent Gallstone hears Gary’s zipper and then obscene sucking sounds followed immediately by deep gravelly Gary moans.