The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole!

by Jonathan Moon

  “What are you looking at?” she barks.

  “Yeah, you tossers. Leave her alone.”

  Edwina glares daggers at the goat. She pulls out a very large knife and studies the blade.

  “Oh, I get ya. I’ll just fuck off for a bit then,” Goatboy says and finds a nice quiet corner to sit in. Phil wanders over and falls down next to the goat. He lays his head on the creature’s soft side and closes his eyes. Goatboy is quiet for exactly two minutes and twelve seconds.

  “I notice you ‘ave a lot of guns. I ‘ope you don’t plan to shoot me. Not old Goatboy. I’m as soft as a lamb and as smooth as the runs.”

  Silence for a few more seconds before Goatboy pops his head up one more time.

  “So. Two ‘ookers were on a street corner. They started discussing business, and one of the ‘ookers said, ‘Gonna be a good night. I smell cock in the air.’ The other ‘ooker looked at her and said, ‘No, I just burped.’”

  “Have you ever had goat curry?” Edwina asks quietly.

  “Eep!”

  Never Steal a General’s One-Legged Whore

  Spittle slips from Pestilence’s lip into a small puddle on his lap. His hood covers his face except for his thin-lipped mouth and his pointy chin. A thick gray hand reaches up and gives his skinny shoulder a shake.

  Pestilence stirs and mumbles, “Weed ain’t a drug,” before nodding right back out.

  General O’Coddle looks at the zombie soldiers loitering around them. They appear to be eager for more flesh to feast upon. He turns his attention back to Pestilence, who is hunched over his steed. O’Coddle reaches up and gives the Horseman a second shake, firmer than before. Pestilence’s head bobbles and rolls, flinging spit and snot, but he still doesn’t stir.

  The soldier zombies groan in impatient unison behind General O’Coddle. He turns his dead eyes on them and stares each one down in turn. He says nothing, but his furious dead eyes promise Hell sandwiches with a side order of shattered bones, and agony sauce for dipping. The zombies quit groaning and mill discontentedly about amongst the bloodstained rubble.

  General O’Coddle grunts his approval of their show of weakness and reaches up to shake Pestilence twice as hard. Pestilence’s left arm flies up, slapping the general’s hand away. In the same instant, Pestilence pulls a curved blade from his robe and holds it to the general’s gray throat. The deathly sharp blade comes to a stop a quarter of an inch into General O’Coddle’s neck skin. If the general’s heart was were still pumping blood through his hardened arteries and veins, the general’s chest would be quite a mess.

  Pestilence’s thin lips curl back, and he growls, “What the fuck, O’Fondle?”

  General O’Coddle cocks one bushy white eyebrow and asks, “What in the cheerleader skid-mark fuck are we doing next?”

  Pestilence gives the blade in O’Coddle’s throat a slight twitch, and his skinny frame rocks with an involuntary tic to match it. The blade sinks another quarter inch into the general’s throat.

  “I mean awaiting orders, sir,” O’Coddle tells the shaking Horseman.

  “Better,” Pestilence nods sloppily. “I don’t fucking know what we are doing next. I just woke up.”

  Pestilence pulls his blade away from the general’s throat, wipes the black sludge covering it onto O’Coddle’s barrel chest, and slips it back into his robe. He rolls his head from side to side, and it cracks like gunfire. He smiles his graveyard grin and stretches. Muffled crunches sound from beneath his robe.

  “What’s your fucking rush, General? It’s the end of the world.” He waves his slender hands in the air at as though conducting the sounds of chaos all around them. He wonders how he slept through the racket. Demons are screeching, zombies are groaning, and humans are screaming.

  General O’Coddle holds up his hands and waves them at the soldiers. “We all will rot and fall apart where we stand if we don’t get the bored zombie fuck out of here.”

  “Fine,” Pestilence huffs. “I smell tweek in the air anyway.” He tilts his head back and breathes deep. “Yup, just a few blocks that way.” He points in the direction of Jerome’s Sex Shop. “Good shit too.”

  He wraps the reins around his fists, gives his steed a soft heel to the ribs, and tells the general, “We are going wherever that smell is coming from. Rally the troops.”

  General O’Coddle grunts and addresses the soldier zombies. “All right, you rotting fuck rags, move out!”

  Pestilence leads his pale horse away from the ruins of the church and toward the smell of meth. The street is clogged with vehicles, and Pestilence opts to lead his well-fed horde down an alley rather than through the maze of unmoving metal. He stops a half a block away from the sex shop and holds up his hand to General O’Coddle. The general stops and holds up his hand to the horde behind him. Pestilence presses one long finger to his thin lips, and General O’Coddle turns around to the zombie army and repeats the gesture.

  Pestilence leans toward the general and asks, “Do you smell that, O’Fondle?”

  “I don’t smell shit,” O’Coddle grumbles back, “because I’m fucking dead.”

  “Well, be glad,” Pestilence says, waving his hand in front of his nose. “Because shit is what I smell. Nasty shit. And I think our tweekers are this way. The same way as the shit, unfortunately.”

  Pestilence’s steed trots proudly from the alley into the street, its hooves making great clop-clop noises that echo off the remains of the casinos. General O’Coddle strides to his left with the zombie horde stumbling behind him. A few random screams sound in the distance, and they are met with terrifying howls and cackles. The zombie horde pays the screams little attention. They stagger after their general, knowing he will find them more flesh.

  Pestilence eyes the pickup full of shit topped by the obese demon corpse and shakes his head. Rows of headless bodies are piled high in the sex shop parking lot. Most wear the desert camouflage of their earlier deserters, and he reaches down and slaps General O’Coddle’s shoulder to show the dead officer.

  “Serves the chicken-shit douche eaters right,” the general grumbles. He looks away from them quickly. They are not worthy of his time.

  Somewhere behind the shit-filled pickup, a high voice gurgles, “Death? Is that you? I’m not dead; I just lost my head during a shit. Put me back and I’ll be fine.”

  Pestilence follows the voice and finds a fat horned demon’s head lying with its forehead against a tire. The head rolls, and tiny beady eyes squint to see the man under the hood. The decapitated head whimpers, “Oh, shit, it really is you. Please have mercy!”

  Pestilence swings his legs over his steed and drops to the concrete. His legs buckle, and he grabs the reins to steady himself, then leans down to the demon head. He wraps one long-fingered hand around each horn, and with some effort, he hefts the big demon head. He nearly drops it once, then he shoves it at General O’Coddle. The general holds the head by its chin so the horns rest against his broad chest. Pestilence cracks his neck and asks the demon head, “Who is smoking tweek? And where are they?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been staring at the weak fucking tread of a tire for the better part of the afternoon,” the head chortles.

  “Okay,” Pestilence nods to the tiny face. “I guess we’re done with him.”

  He gestures toward the pickup, and General O’Coddle nods, his gray lips curling into a smile. O’Coddle turns on his heels and raises the demon’s fat head over the feces-filled cab. The demon’s small face crinkles as though to cringe away from the stench, and it shrieks in short bursts that squirt boiling hot blood out the stump of its neck.

  “You CAN’”T drop me in there,” it whines. “Put me back on my body! I’ll join with the shit! No! That’s my shit! Put me on a corpse! I’ll serve you the way a master with mercy deserves to be served! Please! No! Don’t!”

  Pestilence and O’Coddle look at each other while the demon head wails and cries above its own defecation, and they start laughing uproariously. General O’Coddle g
lares at the small legion of zombies around them, and they grunt and moan in unison, the best expression of mirth they can manage. O’Coddle turns from the zombies back to Pestilence, but the hooded horseman is already walking toward the back doors of the sex shop. O’Coddle grunts and drops the screaming head into the truck full of demon dung. It lands with a plop and sinks quickly, screaming until shit fills its mouth.

  Someone has boarded up the back door to the sex shop. Pestilence reaches one slender hand through the boards, and the doorknob pops open. “Idiots,” he mutters. He shoves the door open and peers through slits in the boards. Thin yellow smoke stinking of chemicals stings his eyes. His nostrils flex and pull a mist of the yellow smoke into them. The secondhand meth smoke hits his twitching brain right away, and his eyes dilate and bulge.

  “Bingo,” he whispers over his shoulder to General O’Coddle. Pestilence hears excited voices chattering back and forth in whispers just out of his line of vision. He can’t tell what they are saying, and the more meth smoke he inhales, the less he cares. Drool rolls down his long chin, and he shouts, “Let me the fuck in and get me HIGH!”

  His voice rattles the building and sets a few loose angel feathers aflame. A fat man waddles into his line of sight and stomps out the burning feathers. Pestilence hisses, “I see you, fat man. Let me in.”

  Again the building rattles and loose feathers engulf themselves in flames. The fat man has his back to Pestilence. He stops on the flaming feathers and raises his hands above his head as though he were being arrested.

  “I’m not taking you to jail,” Pestilence screams and then whispers, “I want all your drugs or I’ll fucking gut you and feed you to my zombies!”

  The fat man is shaking and crying, but he starts to turn around behind the door. Pestilence hears someone addressing the fat man in a half-whisper. “Jerome! No, mother fucker, don’t you turn around!”

  Jerome ignores him and turns around. His tearful eyes glance behind the door before falling on a grinning Pestilence. One heavy foot falls forward, then another. A skinny priest with a shock of bright red hair darts from behind the door and shoves Jerome away from Pestilence. The priest looks at Pestilence with eyes as round as saucers and his jaw popping back and forth. The young priest looks lost for a minute then shouts, “Leave here, foul demon!”

  Pestilence leans his head back so far that the hood falls, revealing his thin greasy hair, and he roars laughter. He laughs so hard he hacks and spits on the sidewalk. General O’Coddle doesn’t laugh. He leans in when Pestilence leans back. The general spots a skinny shape with a bright red top. He squints his eyes, and the blurry shape yells a second time (with even less confidence), “Leave here, foul demon!”

  “Little brother Don,” General O’Coddle growls between the boards, “I’ve thought about you a lot!”

  The general smashes his arms against the boards, splintering the wood. Pestilence stops laughing and stares at the general as the dead officer screams and pounds at the makeshift barricade. Inside, Father Don O’Coddle recognizes his brother Mac. He also recognizes the fact that Mac wants to kill him.

  “Holy limping hooker fuck, Jerome,” the young priest gulps. “That’s my crazy fucking brother out there.”

  Jerome unfreezes and runs around Father O’Coddle to slam the door just as General O’Coddle destroys the last of the boards. Jerome dives behind the counter, jumps back up, tosses Father O’Coddle the store shotgun, then dives back down and covers himself with scraps of busted counter and floppy dildos.

  General O’Coddle kicks the door so hard it breaks off its hinges with a shrieking sound and flies inward. Father O’Coddle pumps the shotgun and pulls the trigger at the first shape that approaches through the stirred dust. The blast shreds the shape as it picks it up off its feet. A second takes its place, and Father O’Coddle turns the barrel and blasts it as well. As he chuckles to himself, a massive gray fist zooms out of the smoke at the end of his shotgun and into his nose. His nose shatters. When he breathes, tiny shards of cartilage shoot down his throat.

  “Mac, no,” Father O’Coddle gasps. “I’m sorry, Mac. So sorry.”

  “Fuck you, Don,” General O’Coddle yells as he picks his brother up by his bright red hair. “I bet she loved this hair. Mine is this elegant white, earned through battles of war and love. And yours is like clown hair.”

  Big tears roll down Don O’Coddle’s cheeks as he tells the general, “I like your hair, big brother.”

  “Oh good. Then you won’t mind if I take yours.” General O’Coddle smiles before ripping his little brother’s scalp back with one firm yank. He drops the screaming Don to the floor and admires the bright red scalp in his hand. Then he kicks his little brother in the ribs and stuffs the hair into his shirt pocket, which quickly grows sodden with dark blood. Father O’Coddle tries to crawl away from his brother, but both his hands and the floor are slick with his blood. Mac grabs Don by his priestly collar and picks him up.

  “She left me too, Mac,” Don whispers as his brother leans close, “for a navy guy.”

  General O’Coddle growls as he sinks his teeth into his brother’s neck. He shakes his head and pulls away chunks of tendon and muscle. Instantly the meth in Don’s blood hits General O’Coddle’s dead system. His heart twitches back to a slow life, and his dead eyes dilate. His big meaty hands shake, and his big square jaw pops back and forth.

  Pestilence fluffs his cloak as he walks through the door. He steps over the dead priest behind the counter. He picks up a thirteen-inch pink dildo and tosses it over his shoulder. Even as Pestilence digs through his cocoon of sex toys, glass and particleboard, Jerome remains in the fetal position with his eyes closed. Pestilence leans down to talk to him, but Jerome whines and tries to duck under the remnants of the counter. Pestilence shakes his head and gestures at the counter. General O’Coddle grabs what’s let of it and rips it away with no effort. He tosses it behind him, where it shatters and knocks the few remaining DVDs to the floor.

  “Where is your tweek?” an enraged Pestilence yells.

  “We smoked it all,” Jerome whimpers from his fetal position.

  “Bullfuck,” Pestilence tells him. He nods to General O’Coddle. The general reaches one large shaky hand down and grabs Jerome’s ear. The fat man uncurls and scrambles to his feet. General O’Coddle’s dead hands twitch, and he accidentally tears Jerome’s ear off. The man bellows, and General O’Coddle holds up the ear, regards it curiously, then eats it whole. Jerome screams and wets his pants, and Pestilence asks again, “Where is your tweek?”

  With one hand cupped to the side of his head, Jerome sobs, “In Father O’Coddle’s hollow leg.”

  Something dawns in General O’Coddle’s brain, but the meth pounds more thoughts over it. He mumbles, “Don only had one leg” as he pops the prosthetic off his brother’s corpse. Rather than searching for some opening mechanism, he crushes the hard plastic limb to shards and tosses Pestilence the Ziplock bag half full of crystal meth. “Mai Ting only had one leg.” More thoughts chase that one away too.

  Pestilence tucks the baggie away in his robes and nods at Jerome. O’Coddle answers the nod by grabbing Jerome and throwing him onto his knees in front of Pestilence.

  “Where is the rest?” Pestilence demands. “I smell more.” He sniffs and walks toward Leon’s closet and the peepshow hallway. “Strange chemicals. WHERE?”

  “No more,” Jerome sobs.

  General O’Coddle wraps his dead hand around Jerome’s live one and squeezes. Jerome squeals in pain as O’Coddle crushes his hand to mush. He screams again when the general lets go of the mass of sinew and bone where his hand used to be.

  “In the fucking closest! In the fucking mop bucket!” Jerome screams, while goggling at the bloody stump where his beat-off hand used to be.

  Pestilence runs to the janitor closest and wrenches the door open so hard the hinges snap. He tosses the door down the hallway behind him with a clatter. He spots the oily mixture in the filthy yellow mop bucket, and
he grabs it with both hands and raises it to his gaping jaw. Pestilence guzzles the homemade LSD and lets it run down his chin and chest. He leans forward for a breath, and long strands of his greasy hair fall in into the half-empty bucket. His eyes dart back and forth, then roll madly in their sockets. He raises the bucket to his face and chugs it in the same sloppy fashion. When he is finished, he stands up, drops the empty mop bucket, and laughs out loud when it grows dozens of spindly legs and crawls out of sight down the dark hallway.

  He walks slowly back to the main store, each step sending shivers up his spine and twitches to his fingers and toes. He raises his arms as he stands before a kneeling Jerome. Pestilence feels great razor-sharp wings grow from his back and reach for the sky. He feels titties bulge and flop from the flesh on his sides and belly. He feels realizes bells have grown from his wings when he hears them ring. He opens his eyes, and colors roll and dance around each other.

  Pestilence feels flowers sprouting from his palms, so he turns them up and vines wrap his arms and the tits on his sides and belly. He looks at down at the spot where Jerome used to be, but a wounded hippo has taken the whimpering man’s place. Pestilence drops his hands to his sides and feels his wings, tits and vines turn to large drops of fluid and run down his body, each tickling and pleasing him. As the drops hit his dick, he explodes all over the inside of his robe.

  Pestilence falls to his knees, his eyes wide and wild, and tells Jerome, “I want more.”

  “Leon took the last,” Jerome whines. “But he is fried as fuck and headed to Vegas.”

  “Vegas,” Pestilence repeats as his mind dances through a postapocalyptic disco.

  “Make me more,” Pestilence grins at Jerome with his graveyard smile.

  Jerome holds up his stump and cries, “I can’t!”

  Pestilence huffs and waves his hand. General O’Coddle grabs Jerome by the back of his neck and throws him through the back door and into the arms of the waiting zombie horde. The camo-clad creatures rip and tear at Jerome, opening his belly and carrying off his organs.