The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole!

by Jonathan Moon

  The guy in the back of the truck follows the monkey by getting to his feet and promptly falling out of the truck. He lands face first, and for a split second Edwina thinks she sees a small head sticking out from between his shoulder blades again. A smart little grin on the thing’s face. But a grin gleaming with razor-sharp teeth.

  “Fucking Phil!” the man screams as he staggers to his feet and then slips in demon guts.

  Not just saved by a man but saved by a clumsy one with a little guy strapped to his back and a one-armed monkey for a companion. Can this day get any fucking worse?

  A pair of shaggy hooved feet approach. They trot in a circle around her, and the face of the strange British fellow comes into view. It sticks out its tongue and licks her across one cheek.

  “‘Sall right, love, Goatboy is here.”

  “A talking goat?” The man who fell out of the truck stands up and stares.

  “Your fucking problem, mate? You got a toy strapped to your back. And you came in a flying car.”

  “Good point.”

  My Friend Can Only Mumble on Account of the Ball Gag

  Leon follows Bud out of the sex shop and into the chaos of the busy street with his backpack over one shoulder and the angel’s bloodstained battleaxe over the other. Cars and trucks are blocking traffic, some empty of passengers, some with passengers empty of entrails. Most of the stalled vehicles have bloody handprints smeared down the sides and flattened tires. Bud and Leon round the corner to the parking lot, where Bud’s pickup awaits, and they stop cold in their tracks. A giant demon with an enormous pot belly and tiny twitchy wings has peeled back the roof of Bud’s truck cab, and is in the midst of filling it with foul-smelling demon shit. The windshield is shattered and spread around the truck.

  Bud stomps the ground and yells at the disgusting beast, “What the fuck!?! You’re shitting in my truck!”

  The demon peers at Bud with beady eyes sunk in a face that looks much too small for its oversized cranium. “So fucking what?”

  “So … fuck … what …” Bud walks in a half-circle around his trunk in awe of the shitting demon and the inhumanly malodorous excrement splattering the inside of his cab. He uses one hand to hold his straggly gray hair out of his face and levels the M-16 at the demon with the other. “Go shit somewhere else. My favorite Hendrix CD was in there, you stinking son of a bitch!”

  The fat demon shudders, farts, and launches one more explosive shit into the truck before telling Bud, “Really you should worry about them.” He nods his large head/tiny face in Leon’s direction.

  Leon looks shakes his head at Bud. “Butthole Beezlebub stinky drain stain, Bud.”

  “Aw, shit, Leon, are you drinking from your straw?”

  “Fuckrag,” Leon says and takes a big swig.

  Bud opens his mouth to warn Leon about the straw, but when he sees the three zombies in desert camo stumble from around the corner, “Turn the fuck around, Leon!” comes out instead.

  Leon says, “Twatsniff?”

  The fat demon shitting in Bud’s truck laughs, and Bud screams, “TURN AROUND,” at Leon before rounding on the obese shitter.

  “Fuck you,” Bud tells the demon, and he lets loose a burst of fire. The demon flaps his tiny wings, and the bullets stop in midair. He puckers his tiny shriveled demon lips and blows a kiss at Bud. Then he shits more.

  Leon finally turns, drops his backpack, and raises his battleaxe. The three Army zombies stumble forward, each covered in boils and sores leaking orange goo, arms raised at Leon. Leon rushes forward as Bud’s gunshots ring out. He swings the axe like a baseball bat and takes the first zombie’s head clean off. He stumbles forward from the momentum of the heavy weapon, and the other two zombies grab him by the hair.

  “LESBO DEVIL GOAT RAPE,” Leon screams hoarsely before bringing the battleaxe back up next to his head. The deathly sharp blade severs all four arms from their zombie owners. Leon pulls away from the snapping monsters with four dead hands swinging from his unwashed hair. While the zombies stare dumbly at their stumps, Leon beheads them both with a single swipe. The two heads tumble to the ground in opposite directions.

  The fat demon squeals and kicks his pudgy legs, which end in tiny little feet, and squeals while more bullets drop to the ground around the shit-filled pickup. Bud stomps and groans in frustration. Leon takes a step to help Bud, but six more zombies stumble around the corner, so he cracks his neck and readies himself for some good decapitating action. Two dozen more zombies shuffle up to join their brethren, and the ghouls form a half-circle around Leon as Bud fires yet again at the squealing shitting demon.

  “Budddddd,” Leon says over his shoulder. He sees one of the zombie hands hanging there and slaps it back out of his vision.

  “What?” Bud snaps, realizing he might just as well try to skin the immense demon with his eyes as expect the M-16 to do any good. He glances at Leon and sees the sudden swarming of zombies. “Damn.”

  “Wife-swap?” Leon offers.

  “Huh?” Bud asks. After a moment, he figures it out.

  Bud flips the demon the bird. The monster shits. Bud snickers and turns to face the horde as Leon runs toward fatty. Bud sprays the zombies with shots aimed at head level. He knows better than to fuck around when dealing with the undead. Rows of heads explode, corpses fall, more take their place, and Bud blows their heads off too. The fat demon points and laughs at the effort of hefting the axe etched on his Leon’s face. It flaps its tiny wings, and a wicked grin replaces Leon’s strained expression as the battleaxe cuts through the demon’s dainty ankle, severing his tiny foot.

  The demon stops shitting and screams. Leon hacks into the creature’s thick thigh, and it rocks forward flapping its little wings as hard as it can. The pickup’s groans rival Bud’s constant gunfire for decibel level as the demon’s fat ass raises a few inches. The demon’s wings flutter ever more weakly as Leon hacks away. Bud looks over between rows of target practice. He watches for the tiny wings to stop for just half a second. When one does, he fires a single shot at it. The bullet tears the fragile wing in half, and the fat demon collapses into his own shit with a squelch.

  Leon shakes his head and says, “Demon diddle shat glory hole.”

  The wounded demon looks at Leon with fear swirling in his beady eyes. “What? Did you say glory holes? Oh, shit, are they here? I can’t even run! Fuck you guys! I was just taking a shit! You guys don’t ever shit? Fuck! I am so fucked!”

  “Yup,” Leon says as he drops the heavy battleaxe across the demon’s throat. The fat head rolls slowly off the pickup as Bud drops the last two zombies.

  “Good thing the sheriff station is only two blocks away,” Bud says as he picks his two backpacks up off the ground. They trudge onward, leaving a parking lot full of shit and carnage behind them.

  Two blocks away in the sheriff station, Deputy Fenton Morks is looking in the mirror. He rubs his chin and feels the stubble growing there. Then he runs his fingers up his jaw line to his cheek. His fingertips feel the stubbly flesh of his cheeks then a sudden yet smooth transition to the hard, firm plastic that is fused seamlessly to his flesh. The plastic holds a bright red ball gag firmly in Fenton’s mouth. He grumbles behind the thing and swings his battle-scarred nightstick at the mirror, shattering it and sending glass flying.

  Sheriff Smoochole shakes his head and paces back and forth down the small block of holding cells. All three cells are full. Two with dead people still walking around and trying to bite living folk, and one with three blood-drunk pig- faced demons. Smoochole rubs his nose and adjusts his aviator sunglasses and his hat. Deputy Morks moans something from the lobby, and the sheriff frowns at the cells full of Hell. He adjusts the bandoliers he stole from the asshole general in the desert and walks out to see what Fenton is hollering about.

  “Smmmphhh,” Deputy Morks yells.

  “Yeah,” Sheriff Smoochole grumbles as he locks the door to the holding cells, “I hear yer mumbling ass.”

  “Smmmphhh!”


  “I said I’m coming!”

  Sheriff Smoochole stomps into the lobby where Deputy Morks is peeking through their handmade barricade of tables and chairs. Morks has his nightstick out and is tapping it against the tables and chairs that make up the blockage. He turns around when he sees hears the sheriff and nods him to the window.

  “I know, Deputy, the world has gone to shit,” the sheriff grumbles and then spits on the floor.

  “Pmmmphh! Rmmphh lmmmphh pmmmphh! Ommmphh,” Morks struggles to shout around the ball gag fused to his face. “Lmmmphh Smmmmphhh!”

  “People? Real live people outside? Really?”

  Deputy Morks nods and steps aside so the sheriff can look out the peephole. Sure enough, Smoochole spots two living humans working their way in crazy zig-zags toward the fortified sheriff station. Zombies stumble from behind cars and out of alleys and lurch toward them. But they defend themselves well enough to impress the stoic Sheriff Smoochole. Demons dive from above, and the taller man, wearing green overalls and a faded White Lion tee shirt, swings a mighty battleaxe, cleaving them clean in two. The shorter man, wearing Smoochole’s favorite Hustler tee shirt (the black one with the bright pink logo), concentrates his fire from an M-16. Smoochole straightens up and pulls the leather g-string from between his flabby ass cheeks.

  “Well, Deputy Morks, let’s help them boys out.” Sheriff Smoochole grins and moves the first of many folding tables from in front of the door. Morks clips his nightclub to his belt and helps the sheriff clear an opening. Sheriff Smoochole stands back, hands on pistols, while Morks prepares to open the door.

  “Rmmmmpphh Smmmmmphh?” Deputy Morks asks.

  “Yeah,” Smoochole growls.

  “Ommmmphhh … Tmmmmmph …” Morks counts.

  “Oh, just open the fucking door,” Sheriff Smoochole groans as he pulls his walrus tusk handled .357s from the holsters.

  Morks shoves out on the door, and the small sheriff steps out, guns blazing. He drops the two zombies closest to the men with well-aimed headshots. Both men look up at the sheriff and abandon their zig-zag pattern for a beeline to the front door. The demons above dive at the sheriff, and he rewards them with hot slugs of metal that tear their membranous wings to shreds. As they hit the ground, the axe-swinging fella lops their horned heads off. The two run past Smoochole and into the lobby. Sheriff Smoochole fires a few more shots at demons and zombies both before backing into the lobby himself. Morks slides the tables back as soon as Smoochole walks in. All four men rush to set the barricade back up as their dead and demonic assailant’s pound at the front door.

  The two five-foot-three-inch men, Smoochole and Bud, stand across from one another, pointing their weapons at the floor.

  The two six-foot-two-inch men, Morks and Leon, stand across from each other with their weapons at the ready.

  Morks and Smoochole wear sheriff-issued cowboy hats over their close-cropped hair. Leon and Bud both have greasy shoulder-length hair. Leon has four zombie hands hanging from his.

  “Wmmmmphhh tmmph fmmmphhh ammph ymmmph?” Deputy Morks asks Leon, eying the four zombie hands hanging from Leon’s lank hair.

  “Pussy scramble Lucifer ass toy,” Leon tells him, trying to explain that he didn’t understand a fucking thing that Morks just said.

  “Wmmmmmph?” Morks steps back and raises his nightstick.

  “Devil shower,” Leon answers and raises his battleaxe.

  “Whoa, he didn’t mean anything by it,” Sheriff Smoochole tells Leon and Bud. “My friend can only mumble on account of the ball gag.”

  “Huh,” Bud tells the sheriff, “my friend only speaks in perverted nonsense.”

  “We got caught in an orgy-turned-slaughter. A gateway to Hell opened up beneath us, and corpses clogged the hole. Hellfire spurted through, and one blast caught Deputy Morks here in the face and melted his ball gag to his skin.”

  “Did it melt that g-string to you?” Bud asks with one eyebrow raised.

  “Nope,” Smoochole answers firmly.

  “Leon talks funny because our boss Jerome uses Leon’s straw to stir his homemade LSD,” Bud says with an inadvertent chuckle.

  “Cock rim?” Leon asks, forgetting about his staring contest with Deputy Morks.

  “Oh shit,” Bud says. “Don’t worry about it, Leon. I’m sure Jerome will die soon and he’ll never make that shit again. You’ll get right again.”

  “Fuck,” Leon says. Knowing the reason for his constant tracers and wild hallucinations doesn’t make him feel any better. He sighs and the walls sigh with him.

  Sheriff Smoochole asks, “Where are you two heading?”

  “Las Vegas,” Bud says, leaning closer and talking more quietly. “Leon is bound and determined to go down there and fight the Devil. I know it sounds crazy …”

  A wide smile creases Smoochole’s face, and he interrupts Bud. “Good! We’ll take our Hummer; it’s military issue. Deputy, pack what you need; the time for revenge is upon us!”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Bud asks, confused, as Deputy Morks runs to the back offices.

  “Revenge, friend. I’m talking about some mother fucking revenge,” Smoochole says, holstering his weapons. “We spent days getting fucked by a legion of smelly hippies, and now Morks has to wear a hellfire face mask. I saw that big red mother fucker. He shook one of his pricks at me. It … burns … in … my … mind.” Even as Smoochole speaks, a giant blood-red cock waves tauntingly in the depths of his brain.

  “Fine,” Bud says. “Hear that, Leon? We got more firepower and a ride.”

  “Slut bang demonhole smut, Bud,” Leon says with tears brimming in his eyes.

  “I know, Leon.” Bud puts his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “But Jerome will pay for what he did to you, buddy. If not, once we smear that devil cock sucker out, we can come back and do the same to Jerome. Sound good?”

  “Asslick foursome, Bud,” Leon says, waving his hand at the ready Sheriff Smoochole and Deputy Morks. He is ready to leave. The walls are crying the tears he won’t.

  “The Hummer is parked out back,” Smoochole says, still grinning. “Hurry up, boys, I can’t fucking wait. Oh, yeah, Deputy, grab some of them sweet-ass shotguns on your way to the Hummer.”

  Your Lord and Savior is Pissed

  Death ponders the remains of Las Vegas.

  Buildings lie in rubble; girders and chunks of concrete are the sole remnants of the most luxurious hotels in the world. Now they are gravestones, marking the burial sites of people and chips and tons of money. Neon lights once shone like daylight. Now they are dead or sparking in the street.

  The first quake was bad, and when the form of Satan rolled over, it was pretty much the end of the entire city.

  People wander like zombies, covered in ash, blood and sometimes parts of other people. Every few minutes, a demon pops into view. Gets a hard-on at the sight of the destruction and cock slaps the shit out of some poor soul. Death could put an end to this. He could stretch out his hand and end the misery. He could wipe it away with a look. A smile. A grim grin as only the grim reaper can pull off. He has done it before, and he could do it now.

  But he doesn’t.

  A demon tosses a man into the air, a fat guy dressed in sweats with a big gold chain around his neck. The necklace flies away from the demon, but the guy is impaled on the demon’s raging member. His face goes completely white in shock. Then red in pain. Then his eyes light up, and his throat opens in the most bloodcurdling scream Death has heard in a few years.

  Death should help, but what’s the point?

  A green demon covered in flaming giant warts pops out of the rubble right in front of the man in black. He drools a vitriol that drips to the ground and burns holes in everything it touches. Death stands resolute, doesn’t even raise his hand. His hoodie slides off, leaving his bald head exposed.

  “Sup,” the demon hisses.

  “Taking in the sights.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”
>
  The monster is at least eight feet tall with hips wider than its shoulders. It resembles a spider with a long neck and round head at one end and half a dozen knobby arms on its chest. The thing crouches down on haunches the size of semi tires.

  “I guess I can’t eat you.”

  “Probably not.”

  “A lot has changed. A lot of the rules don’t work the way they used to.” More drool cascades out of the mouth that hangs long and lean like a giraffe’s. Snout the color of a pickle.

  “This hasn’t.” The dark man gestures and a massive scythe forms in his hands. The demon whistles in appreciation. He looks over his shoulder as though he may have heard a friend call. Or maybe he left something back down the road. Maybe he doesn’t want to get sliced in two.

  “Guess I’ll just fuck off then.” The demon turns away.

  “Later.”

  “Antichrist, I hope not. Hey, you wouldn’t know where Satan’s spawn is, would you?”

  “Dead.”

  “You sure?”

  Death stares at him.

  “Right. So … have a nice Apocalypse.”

  The demon wanders away, chancing upon a showgirl cowering behind an overturned car as he goes. He pulls her out and rips off her red sequins to reveal a flawless naked body the color of ash. Her screams don’t last long, because his mouth opens to an impossibly large maw, and in she goes, headfirst. He pulls her back out, sucking the flesh from her bones like he is skinning the meat off a chicken wing. He tosses the pile of steaming bones in a heap.

  Death walks deeper into the remains of the city.

  A flickering sign proclaims the building that used to be the El Douchola Hotel. Now it is slabs of concrete. No demons lurk here, and Death has to wonder what’s up. He’s had to scare a few more away, which is a new experience. In the old days he would have sliced them to bits without a second thought.