The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole!

by Jonathan Moon

  Agent Lickspittle cranks the wheel and slams on the brakes. Agent Gallstone grips the door and steadies himself without taking his eyes off the giant Devil face. Half a dozen razor-backed demons spring from the surrounding rocks. They gnash their teeth and charge the sideways-skidding Humscalade. Agent M opens fire, taking out the nearest two with the cruel efficiency that has made his name legend among other secret agents. The other four remain clustered, and Agent M fires a second missile and blows them to small smoking chunks. Satan flinches as shards of sandstone rain down across his giant exposed face.

  “You guys are dicks!” the Lord of Darkness bellows with enough force to rock the Humscalade.

  Agent Lickspittle straightens his tie and opens his door. Agent Gallstone tells his cuff, “We are making contact and serving the Cease and Desist, Control,” and opens his door as well.

  Two more demons leap at them, and Agent M shoots them out of the air, follows the corpses to the ground, and then cuts them in half with the .50 caliber. Agent Lickspittle nods at Agent M, who responds with a thumbs-up.

  “That was a jerk move, Satan,” Lickspittle says calmly as he stands in front of the giant red face “How about we call it even and get down to business?”

  “Hmmph,” Satan hmmphs. “You guys are at the wrong end. Just turn around, follow the broken highway until you see the huge red ass crack sticking up into this blasted desert sun and jump right in, mother fuckers! Hahahahahahahahaha!”

  “I don’t think so,” Agent Lickspittle says, neither impressed nor afraid. “We are special secret agents in the employ of the United States government.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a sealed letter. “This,” he waves it in front of the giant black eyes, “is a formal Cease and Desist order from the United States government. We are giving you until sunset to remove yourself and your legions from United States soil.”

  Agent Lickspittle isn’t sure where to put the document.

  “Stan! C’mere, Stan, and take this tiny envelope from these government agents,” Satan says.

  A tall, spiderlike demon crawls from the far side of the mountain. A dozen long, slender legs dance as it navigates the rocky terrain with ease. Each leg is forty feet tall and looks to be as sharp as a samurai’s sword. The torso is humanoid, but where the arms should be, tentacles twist and slap at the air. Stan the spider demon leans down and comes face to face with Agent Lickspittle. Up close, Stan looks almost human except for the two clusters of insect eyes peering at Lickspittle hungrily.

  “May I?” Stan asks very politely for a demon.

  “No,” Agent Lickspittle tells him. “I must serve the papers to Satan himself.”

  From behind Stan, Satan says, “Actually, I prefer Beelzebub. And I officially empower Stan the spider demon as my representative when dealing with stubborn agents who should be crawling in my ass.”

  Stan smiles, revealing long, barbed fangs. “I’ll take that,” he tells Agent Lickspittle before yanking the letter from his hand with a thick purple tentacle. He uses a second tentacle to tear open the envelope. His insect eyes scan the document Agent Lickspittle penned in the Humscalade the night before.

  “It is hereby recognized, blah, blah, blah, Satan, Lord of Darkness, blah, blah, blah, wreaking havoc, blah, blah, peaceful gentle country, bullshit, blah, blah, blah, immediately ordered to Cease and Desist apocalyptic actions post haste, blah, blah, signed some pathetic human.” Stan tears the Cease and Desist into tiny shreds.

  “Wrong move, Satan,” Lickspittle says, turning away from the giant face of the Devil. “I’ll give you time to consider it. At sunset, we’ll blast you back to Hell.”

  Agent Gallstone reports to his cuff, “Papers served, Control, now we wait.” He turns and follows Agent Lickspittle to the Humscalade. The two climb in and slam their doors behind them.

  Outside, Beelzebub, as he prefers to be called, jerks his giant head at Stan, and the spider demon skitters to his master’s service.

  “Yes, my Dark Lord.” Stan bows before him.

  “Kill them. And then stuff their corpses in my ass.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” Stan says and turns to attack the agents, but Beelzebub stops him.

  “Stan,” the Master of Evil tells him, “you’re doing a hell of a job.”

  “Thanks, Satan,” Stan smiles. Venom drips from his grin as he scuttles toward the vehicle

  Inside the Humscalade, Agent Lickspittle turns to Agent Gallstone.

  “That went better than I expected.”

  Stan taps on the window, and Agent Lickspittle rolls it down. The agent opens his mouth to say something, but one of Stan’s swordlike feet stabs through the window and then through Lickspittle’s chest. Blood gushes from the agent’s eyes and ears as Stan pulls his twitching form, still impaled on his foot, from the Humscalade.

  Agent M aims the .50 caliber at Stan, but the demon swipes one leg straight down and cleaves the gun’s barrel in half. Agent M pulls a knife and puts it between his teeth. Then he pulls two more, one for each hand, and leaps at Stan. The giant spider raises a leg and lets Agent M’s own momentum impale him there.

  Agent M drops both knives from his hands and inadvertently bites down on the one in his mouth. The force of his bite cleaves his head in half, and the top bounces off the Humscalade’s hood with a wet thud. Inside the vehicle, Agent Gallstone screams while rolling up the power windows, locking the power locks, and scampering into the driver’s seat. He slams on the gas, and Stan gives chase, slamming the corpses of Lickspittle and M into the ground with every step. The demon roars, and Agent Gallstone spins a wide donut and thumbs the air missile switch. A thick plume of silver smoke follows the missile to Stan’s chest, where it explodes in a rain of fire and spider legs.

  Agent Gallstone slams on the gas again, and soon the giant red face behind him is lost in the sand kicked up by his screaming wheels. “Two agents down, Control. I’ll regroup and head home, Control. I’ll get even, I swear to you,” Agent Gallstone tells his cuff as tears cut wet paths down his dirty cheeks.

  The Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy Can In NO Way, Shape or Form Save Someone Once He is Zombie Bit

  Leon sits next to Bud in the back of General O'Coddle's stolen Hummer. Bud is reading a copy of The Daily Cunt he grabbed when they last gassed up. The cover features a picture of two bulbous red ass cheeks surrounded by rock and earth. Every now and then Bud says, "Damn," before turning the page.

  The leather-g-string-wearing sheriff glances in the rearview mirror and asks, "What the shit are you reading?"

  Bud holds up the paper so Smoochole can read the title emblazoned across the front of it.

  "I'm an avid reader and diehard fan of The Daily Gab, but I gotta say I think this is better," Bud says solemnly.

  "More titties?" Smoochole asks.

  "Yup," Bud sighs and chews on his bottom lip.

  "Devil titty-fuck ball torture?" Leon asks in a concerned voice.

  "I have no fucking idea what you are saying, Leon," Bud says, turning his attention back to The Daily Cunt, "but it does have constantly updated celebrity deaths. That's cool. And look at this: a two-page pull-out map to the Devil’s ass and his head. Huh, big fucker that Devil."

  "Handjob goat face," Leon mumbles and commences digging through his backpack. A smile creases his face when his fingers wrap around the fleshy shaft of the Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy. He pulls it out, and everyone recoils. Deputy Morks reaches back and swings his nightstick at Leon out of some primal instinct. Leon ducks back and screams, "Finger bang demon tailpipe Satan barnyard! Chuzz!"

  "Is that how you talked to your friend Chuzzle?" Bud asks, astonished.

  Leon nods and thinks back a day ...

  He fell asleep with his "girlfriend," the Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy. Unfortunately for Leon, the Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy is the most innovative sex toy engineered in the last thirty years, and Leon couldn’t turn it on. Leon was undaunted, as he was used to being unable to turn on vaginas, be they real or pl
astic. He knew as he tore the bright pink box to shreds how slim were the odds of him experiencing the "pulsating, throbbing, total dick-squeezing" heaven it promised. So he ignored the thirty-three page instruction booklet.

  As with many great technological advances, the Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy features a three-and-a-half-inch LCD screen and easily accessible social networking. Leon cared not for either. To be honest, he thought the screen made jerking off a little awkward. Lucky for Leon, he didn’t find awkwardness much of a hindrance to getting off. He squeezed the pink flesh shaft and jerked off into it like it was a three-hundred-dollar sweater sleeve. He didn't care that it wasn't on. He just hummed "Me and Bobby McGee" to drown out the screams and general chaos outside and made some sweet self-love.

  But then, after he’d been asleep for hours, the Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy began vibrating and twitching on Leon's nightstand, sending the long-suffering lighters and troll dolls to the floor. He rolled over and stared at it through strands of his unwashed hair. It finally twitched enough to flip it up on its thick, fleshlike lips. His shaft danced in the air like a snake before a charmer. The LCD screen glowed a soft blue, and Leon could see thin black letters on its face. He was still seeing slight tracers, and he missed the first few times he tried to grab the flexing fake vagina. On his third swing, he grabbed it and pulled it close enough to read.

  Now Online: *Nathan Chuzzle*

  It had told him. And then they talked. But Leon doesn’t know how to make it work again.

  He could really use a chat with his buddy now, so he slaps it. Then he smacks it against the seat next to him. Bud cowers and holds his Daily Cunt in front of him like a shield. Leon's eyes go wide and he turns away from Bud. He slowly and silently unzips his pants. Maybe fucking the pocket pussy will bring it to life. He glances around and pulls his pud from his overalls. He is lowering it slowly into the wide plastic opening when the pocket pussy shouts, "Leon, what the fuck? Where are you?"

  Leon doesn't even bother to tuck his dick back away before he types, "Chuzz, we are almost to Vegas! Where the fuck are you?"

  “In Crazyville with a crazy chick. I did it, Leon, I killed a demon. Big mother fucker too. I rescued a chick and everything! Thank fuck you are okay, man. I'm on the way. I think. We ended up in an ice cream truck, and I have a lesbian with me. Oh and a talking goat thing!"

  "Goat thing? Huh? Bud just read in The Daily Cunt that Satan is ass up just outside of Vegas. We are in a nice-ass Hummer with two wack-ass sheriffs, and we’re headed there!"

  "We are on the way, Leon! Wait until you meet the goat. Just don't let anyone shoot him. He tells great dirty jokes."

  "I can promise no one will shoot the goat, but the ball-gagged deputy is a billy club swinger. Chuzz, we've killed demons and dead people, so I think I am as ready as I'll ever be to fight the hordes of Hell."

  "What the fuck is up with all the demons? I saw some in the street and they had a big box. A big metal box that should say The Daily Gab but it said The Daily Cunt. They were doing bad things to the box, Leon. Bad things. And you know how I feel about putting your dick in stuff, because I have talked about it a lot on the blog. You know that, right Leon? RIGHT?!"

  "Oh, I know, Chuzz. The demons seem to be getting more sick and twisted. And I don't know about sticking your dick into anything a demon would, Chuzzle. Maybe they have crabs in Hell, Chuzz, big demon crabs. Stay AWAY! Also, Bud loves the Daily Cunt, he says it is ‘action- and news-packed.’”

  "Crabs in Hell? Maybe that's it, Leon. Maybe we are all in Hell already. I think I’m in Hell with this lesbo who wants to put a bullet in my head. I never did nothing to her! Nothing!”

  "Chuzz, can you channel her rage? Point her at Satan? Bud says the Daily Cunt has a pull-out map of Satan, he is in the desert outside of Las Vegas!"

  "It’ll be something if I can just get her to channel her rage away from Goatboy. She keeps talking about making goat curry, and she has a really big knife.”

  Chuzzle pauses for a breath. “Vegas. We are on the way. Stretch is navigating. He’s this stupid toy that is stuck to my back. When we meet up, I need you to cut off his head!"

  A tinny voice in the background calls out, "You need me, bub! You need me in the battle that is to come, buddy!"

  "Oh, I got just the axe for taking off heads! Wait, you have a toy stuck to you? Who was that?"

  "It's a long story, Leon. I wish I was back in my basement blogging about this shit instead of doing it. See you in Vegas, buddy!"

  “See you in Vegas!”

  “Okayyyy.” Bud nods with understanding, “Sounds like a plan. How soon can we get there, sheriff?”

  “Half an hour tops,” Sheriff Smoochole says and cracks his neck.

  Next to him Deputy Morks says, “Imph hmmph pmmph.”

  “Okay, Deputy,” Smoochole tells him, “I’ll pull over at that truck stop up ahead.”

  He looks in the rearview at Bud, his Daily Cunt open on his lap as he jots some notes on the map. Then to Leon, lighting a joint he found somewhere. Sheriff Smoochole almost scoffs, but a glint of sun off the gore-stained battleaxe sitting next to Leon catches his eye. Morks is rocking back and forth as the parking lot for the truck stop is getting close and Smoochole is looking in the back seat.

  “Smmmph, pmmph ommph, imph gmmph pmmph mmmph pmmmph!”

  Sheriff Smoochole cranks the wheel hard, and the Hummer squeals and bounces into the parking lot. Bud doesn’t even look up. Leon drops the joint in his lap and slaps his nuts when he tries to grab it. The Hummer slams to a stop facing the burnt-out shell of a truck stop. Morks jumps out of the Hummer and runs for a row of parked sixteen wheelers to the left.

  He ducks down the first row and starts pissing on a big truck wheel. His heart throbs in his ears from running so hard, and he doesn’t hear the dead truck stop hooker sneaking up behind him. Her blond hair hangs in clumps and knots, except where a flap of scalp dangles, dripping black sludge all over her ‘Diesel Fumes Make Me Horny’ tee shirt. Her chipped neon orange nails sink into his shoulders. Deputy Morks howls in muffled agony and tries to jerk away, managing only to piss all over himself as she sinks her black teeth into his neck. Morks slams his head back as hard as he can, smashing the zombie’s face to pulp. She staggers backwards, and he stumbles back toward the group, holding the back of his neck and still pissing down his leg.

  As Morks nears the end of the row, another dead lot lizard lunges out from under a trailer and bites down on his thigh. Instinctively, he brings his nightstick down on the back of her skull with a satisfying thud. She falls away with a scrap of his skin between her teeth. Morks stumbles forward and into sight of Leon, Bud, and Sheriff Smoochole right as a third truck stop whore attacks. This one stumbles forward on big cheap heels and clamps her rotten teeth onto his shoulder. He shrugs her off and smacks her with enough force to spin her head halfway around.

  “Damn it,” Smoochole grumbles. “Leon, can that magic pocket pussy of yours help us here?”

  Leon looks at Sheriff Smoochole for a second, then at Deputy Morks, who is fighting off a fourth dead hooker. Leon holds up the Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy and tells Smoochole, “Finger fuck, butt fuck, titty fuck.” He sticks two fingers in the sex toy and wiggles them, making the shaft dance slightly. Then he shakes his head and holds it up like a telephone, “Evil snatch golden shower, Chuzz.”

  He looks to the slowly stumbling Morks, bleeding from numerous bite marks and whimpering behind his ball gag, and tells Smoochole sadly, “Rimjob stiff mung jump dog-faced demon three way donkey porn devil nutsack.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Smoochole mumbles and draws his guns.

  Morks sways where he stands, and the life leaves his eyes. He takes another step, and Sheriff Smoochole puts a bullet in his forehead. His dark eyes cross, and Smoochole fires two more shots, which blast the top of Morks’s skull away.

  The ball-gagged deputy falls to the concrete, and dozens of zombies stumble from the rows of trucks, summoned by t
he gunfire. Bud levels his M-16 and fires wildly. A stray bullet blasts the lock on the back of a trailer, and a parade of dead illegal aliens stumbles out, howling for blood. Bud and Smoochole open fire, but more dead are appearing from everywhere.

  “Fuck this,” Smoochole yells, and the three jump in the Hummer.

  “Sorry about your deputy,” Bud tells Smoochole as they pull away.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll avenge him.” Smoochole grits his teeth. “We’re only ten minutes from that evil fucker’s giant face.”

  You Get to Be Thelma Next Time, Bitch

  “Dude. I am so wasted.” Death is stretched out in the back seat with both feet over the door. Jesus hums to music, out of tune, in the front seat. They parked after their last cup round because Death was seeing two roads, and he was afraid he was going to drive off at least one of them. He hit a small demon that looked like a pig, but J-man just laughed about it. Some of the yellow ooze that made up its blood splattered all over the window, and no amount of windshield wiper fluid could get it off.

  He fingers the end of his scythe and tries to see into the soul of the foul weapon. The blade is still as clean and sharp as the day he got it. Handed to him by the man himself back when he still strutted around the Earth and did things for himself. Then all the damn people came along, and he had to outsource the management of the cosmos. The four Horsemen were an afterthought. The bigwigs needed someone to come in and take care of mass murder, but they didn’t want to do the dirty work themselves. They needed someone to collect all the dead, grab the souls and funnel them to the right place. Death was working his way up the chain to archangel status when he was tapped to take on the job.

  They said he met a certain profile, something about all the cackling with glee when he was doing the dirty work, also known as ‘killing in the name of.’ He was good at his job, very good. Need a city razed? Just point the way, and he was at the head of the other angels. But all that changed when they gave him the scythe. They didn’t bother to tell him that every time he committed genocide, he would be marked somewhere on his body. At first it wasn’t so bad. Wipe out a few cities and get a new one. Just a few pokes. But after a thousand years, they started running out of room.