Praise for

Wacktards of the Apocalypse!

“Wacktards of the Apocalypse is a deranged and absurd balls-to-the-wall romp through a deliciously fractured universe. It reads like Douglas Adams on magic mushrooms. If this is how the world ends—sign me up.”

-- Jonathan Maberry, NY Times bestselling author of The King of Plagues and Patient Z

“Disgusting, offensive, irreverent, and profane, Wacktards of the Apocalypse is all kinds of wrong. But in a good way. Jonathan Moon and Timothy W. Long are going to hell for sure.”

-- S.G. Browne, author of Breathers

“Bizarro with bite. Long and Moon are the Lennon and McCartney of apoc-horror.”

-- Wayne Simmons, author of DROP DEAD GORGEOUS and the UK bestselling FLU

"As imaginative and engrossing as it is just f***ing weird. Wacktards of the Apocalypse violated my mind in the best way."

-- David Dunwoody, author of EMPIRE'S END and UNBOUND & OTHER TALES

“It's so off the wall, it's on the floor. And the floor is littered with all kinds of congealing viscera and humor so black it would make Mandingo burn you in the eye with a cigar out of jealousy.”

-- Jason Wuchenich, author of Dinner Bell for the Dream Worms

"4 out of 5 Rapture survivors prefer this version of the apocalypse."

-- Reverend Andrew D. Swallfallerbachintoshington

“It's so much more than a good read, or a great read, or an excellent read! This is one over the top, hilarious, disturbing, poop filled, vomit inducing, bloodletting, sweat pouring, heart racing, psychologically damaging book.”

-- Tonia Brown, author of LUCKY STIFF

“Dip yourself in whatever numbing agent is your preference, strap in, put on some welding goggles, and then perhaps you might be able to absorb this little slice of delightful insanity. But do not read this book if you do not a) have a strong stomach b) have a mind willing to be twisted into little pretzel shapes, then allowing the salt on said pretzel shapes to be licked off by goats and various farm animals with questionable morals, and c) don't have a great fascination with feces and the sexual practices of demons. You have been warned.”

-- Patrick D'Orazio, author of Beyond The Dark

"Bizarro horror has an amazing new spew-hole, and its name is Timothy W. Long and Jonathan Moon. When there's no more room left in Awesome-Book Hell, the Wacktards shall walk the Earth!"

-- Tony Schaab, author and creator of TheGOREScore.com

“The Reverend enjoyed this book more than enough to give it a hearty recommendation to all who like their dark biblical fiction to be as funny, and as FUN as Hell itself.”

-- The Grim Reverend Steven Rage, author of PILATE: A Brutal Bible Tale

Timothy W. Long

http://timothywlong.com

Jonathan Moon

http://mrmoonblogs.blogspot.com/

THE LIBRARY OF BIZZARRO HORROR PRESS

PROUDLY PRESENTS

By

Timothy W. Long

And

Jonathan Moon

A “Library of the Living Dead Press” Book

Published by arrangement with the authors.

“Wacktards of the Apocalypse”

By Timothy W. Long & Jonathan Moon

Copyright 2011 - All Rights Reserved

ISBN10- 1463597444

EAN13- 978-1463597443

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and “Library of the Living Dead Press,” except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the authors’ imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or historical events, is purely coincidence.

Foreword

THE NEW REBELS OF FICTION

An Introduction

by William Pauley III

My first encounter with bizarro fiction was nearly ten years ago. At the time I was a very jaded reader, everything I would pick up would bore me, so when I first found bizarro, It felt like I had found a hidden door in a room that I had spent my entire life inside of. But that feeling quickly left me.

Bizarro seemed to be a style of fiction that was written specifically for my tastes. I’ve always been drawn to weird fiction, strange plots, and unique characters, and bizarro promised to have it all and more. For at least a year, I tried to get into bizarro, but every book I read felt flat, rushed, and, to be perfectly honest, half-assed. I gave it up and returned swimming through that great big ocean of books out there. That is until about three years ago.

Over the years, bizarro changed, a lot… and for the better. New authors had hold of the reigns, and most of them had the same idea of what bizarro should be that I had had. I decided to dip my toes in the bizarro pool once again, this time trying out books by authors Andersen Prunty, Jordan Krall, and Gina Ranalli. Holy shit. There it was. Those were the types of books I was looking for nearly ten years ago – full, well-developed, and perfectly paced stories about interesting characters in wild situations. Bizarro quickly became a way of life for me. In the last three years, over half the books I’ve read have been bizarro books.

But I’m not going to sit here and lie to you, bizarro is still about 50/50 – for every good bizarro book, you have at least one bad one. But that’s how it is in any genre of fiction. There is something in bizarro fiction for everyone, so I encourage you, avid reader, to not give up if one or two books let you down. Bizarro is more than a genre, it’s all genres – horror, sci-fi, romance, comedy, et cetera. It’s cult fiction.

There is something beautiful about this genre, this literary movement, that I’m sure most other bizarro authors probably recognize as well – Bizarro will be big, and it will be big very soon. We are all standing hand-in-hand on the shoreline waiting for the wave to come crashing down on us all. Some of us will swim, some of us will sink, and a few of us will be eaten alive. It’s coming. There is no escaping it. I actually feel a little sad that this moment is soon to be our past. There is a brother/sisterhood in bizarro fiction that is unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed before. I’m sure success will tear a lot of us apart, some of us it already has. But right now, in this moment, we are rock stars. We are what Hunter Thompson was in the 70s, what the splatter and cyberpunks were in the 80s. We are the new rebels of fiction. Our day is coming soon.

If you picked up this book, WACKTARDS OF THE APOCALYPSE by Timothy W. Long and Jonathan Moon, and it is your first exposure to bizarro fiction, then you did well my friend. This book is not only highly entertaining and hilarious, but it also serves as a great introduction to the world of bizarro. If you enjoy this style of fiction, then I would suggest reading Cartlon Mellick’s SUNSET WITH A BEARD, Steve Lowe’s MUSCLE MEMORY, or even my books DOOM MAGNETIC! and THE BROTHERS CRUNK, as they all are very bizarre, but easily accessible works.

You’ll like this one a whole hell of a lot, that I am sure. And the best thing is, there are two more in the series coming out very soon. That ought to juice your brain for the time being.

Enjoy the ride.

William Pauley III

April 25th, 2011

Lexington, KY

Author’s Introduction

If you are holding this book and your hand and you are thinking: “A one-armed, heroin addicted monkey, Leon’s Filthy mouth, and Jesus kicking ass – where have I read this before? Don’t tell me I was duped into buying a book twice!” Yep. You were duped into buying a book twice. But don’t get mad, not yet. See the first version of the book is now a collector’s item.

Someday, and I can’t say when this day will come, the novel The Apocalypse and Satan’s Glory Hole will be worth a lot of money.  Or a lot of ho-ho’s. You know those chocolate things that don’t actually have a hole in them. I believe they may become currency in the future. They are perfect for the job. They taste great and come packed by the pair or in boxes. Who knows? Maybe you will be able to trade a copy of the fabled book for a whole case of ho-ho’s and live the life of a carefree sugar-rush-whacked-to-the-gills, pirate on the high seas of life.

See, we didn’t pull a fast one on you. We pulled a carefully orchestrated slow one on the world. By splitting up the massive first book and making it more affordable, it allows us to work on a sequel and call this a trilogy. People like trilogies. They like them a lot. And we are the kind of people that like to give said people what they want while they give us money.

Now, if this is the first time reading/hearing about/being fully exposed to the twisted characters and demons we created together the best advise we can give is just go with it. Don't let Chuzzle's paranoid and arrogant world view get you down; he has his monkey Phil to keep him from going off the deep end. Worry not about Leon and his 'porno-linguistics', his heart is no-where near as filthy as his mouth. Weep not for the Lord and Savior as he flees this crazy reality for another populated with less humans. All you should worry about is having some fun.

We will handle the comical blasphemes from here on out. Strap yourself in for the most insane apocalypse you could ever imagine...hell, sometimes we even shock me. From the televised bickering of the Four Horsemen to the orgy to end all orgies to the most unlikely buddy comedy pairing you've ever seen to a cast full of gun toting nut jobs to the legions of hell in all their hideous perverted glory we build it just to tear it down.

Welcome to the end of our world. An Apocalypse so ridiculous it can only be saved by The Wacktards of the Apocalypse.

Timothy W. Long and Jonathan Moon

Somewhere in Brazil

2011

God-ish

HE is everything. He is Brilliance and Beauty. Glory and Power. White Hair and Chicken Pot Pies.

He is God. Billions of humans weep for him. Pray to him. Kill in his name.

Omnipresence is exhausting. And fattening. He sighs. Somewhere a blind man sees.

He has watched the humans he created destroy the Earth he gave them. He has watched them destroy each other, then multiply like rabbits. He has watched them destroy every clever thing he ever guided. Like rabbit pot pies.

He frowns. Somewhere a crippled child trips and falls.

He feels the knock before it thunders around him. It ruffles the clouds that drift through the all-encompassing brightness. He feels his angel’s impatience. He hates impatience. So now he is irritable. So now he has to eat. A chicken pot pie sounds delicious. The smell of processed chicken chunks, rehydrated peas and carrots, and flakey golden crust overwhelms his godly senses. His worry is over humankind and their impending Apocalypse, but it washes away in a wave of chicken gravy.

He smiles. Somewhere thirty-seven coma patients simultaneously awake.

The end is upon the world, and his angels are impatient. He knows Gabriel is knocking. He knows his angels are thirsting for battle. He is thirsty for gravy. No one has to die for gravy. They have waited and waited while the dark one’s plans grew bolder. That bastard child. He could find him with a glance and burn him to a cinder with a thought.

Pie sounds much more appealing right now.

A knock at his heavenly door sounds again. He knows chicken pot pies can’t satisfy the masses the way they calm his tumultuous spirit.

"Humans,” he scoffs to himself in a voice that radiates and thunders.

“GAWD,” Gabriel yells before knocking again, “It’s time to go!”

God shivers. Somewhere an island sinks underwater.

He created the universe, and now his creations annoy him. Pester him. Blame him.

Not all his creations, just humans.

“GAWD! We gotta go!”

Why did he model his angels after humans? Beelzebub modeled most of his demons from animals and nightmares. Angels were modeled solely from humans. Foolish mistakes. He’d do better next time.

He hiccups. A tidal wave erupts, killing all six thousand, four hundred and eighty-two villagers living in its path.

Wait. That’s it.

Next time. Now can be next time.

“Gabe,” he shouts a split second before the large angel pounds on the door again, “calm down, my child.”

His side of the door is clear; wisps of fog drift lazily across it. Gabriel’s side of the door is thick, tall, and wooden. Gabriel stares at it now as if it had called his mom a whore.

He smiles again; six judges burst into flames.

“GAWD?!? Can you hear me?”

He sighs. A deaf man hears.

“Yes, Gabe. Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you, Gawd.”

“Good, my child. Now go on without me.”

“Gawd, it is time for the Apocalypse. You’re kinda’ expected to make an appearance …”

“Yeah, I know. But, I got to be honest with you, I’m over it.”

“What?”

“I’m not really in the mood for it anymore.”

“Uh, Gawd, I don’t think you can do that.”

He growls under his chicken breath; somewhere a volcano explodes.

“I can do whatever I want, Gabe. It’s a perk of being The Creator.”

Gabriel stammers on the other side of the door, unable to form words for his dismay and confusion.

“But what about …”

“Over it.”

“But …”

“Over it.”

“Well …”

“Over it, too.”

Gabriel stomps his foot in frustration.

“GAWD!”

“Calm down, Gabe. Don’t look at it like I’m deserting this entire plane of existence for another with no humans or human-like things. Look at it like you are being freed of your celestial servitude.”

“What are WE supposed to do?” the big angel whines.

“I don’t know, Gabe, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. You know, with the new plane of reality and all.”

“Gawd, I don’t …”

“It is okay, Gabe, I know. Just go do whatever you want. If it is battle and Armageddon you seek, then bring your holy fury down upon your enemies. Just, eh, keep my name out of it, all right?”

“Gawd …”

“Okay, Gabe, I’m over this conversation. Have fun, buddy, and no hard feelings.”

Omnipresence is excited again. Creating again. Loving again.

“What is cooler than humans, other than chicken pot pies?” he wonders aloud.

He smiles. Somewhere a turtleman becomes chief of a new tribe on a new planet in the middle of a new universe.

Gabriel turns to face the legions. Shock drains the color from his face and loosens his jaw muscles so that his mouth hangs and drools.

They stare in wonder as Gabriel rubs his chin, trying to figure out what to tell them. They figure it out when they blink and Heaven is gone. Where a moment ago they were surrounded by clouds and brightness, now they stand in the middle of a vast barren desert.

They look ridiculous in their shining battle suits, wings folded behind them. Some bear arms while others carry horns or trumpets.

“Uh, what just happened?” A pair in front ask in unison.

“He’s over it,” Gabriel tells them with a winged shrug.

“He’s over it?” That would be Tony. He has been polishing his battleaxe for months while watching American Idol reruns.

“He can’t be over it!” A perfectly sculpted face frowns. That would be his sister Tonette. She has a spear in one hand and a net in the other. She is addicted to gladiator porn and talks about capturing a few humans for her personal pets, then raising them to fight in the pits once Armageddon is over.

Gabriel looks around the empty expanse of desert. Does it always have to start in the desert? Can’t the battle for Earth start somewhere like Barbados?

“Ah shit. This isn’t even the right desert.”

The collected mass of angels sigh like a departing storm and drop their weapons in disbelief.

Shit You Won’t See on Oprah

The end of the world started on a weekday, which was really inconvenient for a lot of people.

Of course there was a lot of warning. A lot of posturing. A lot of screaming that the end was here, the end was here! Sure there were signs and not just the ones over the freeways and in the hands of loons on sidewalks.

This day was different. The clouds hung around like they were bored. They cast dark shadows over everyone and generally did a good job of depressing the fuck out of the heavily medicated population below.

Around noon, the clouds parted to let in a piss-yellow ray of sunshine. It was quickly replaced by a rippling blast of darkness that left a heavy pallor covering the city.

A section of sky over Hollywood opened up, and a burst of flame leapt across the sky. Surfing this line of fire rode four figures on horseback.

People looked up, but others trudged to their jobs and ignored it, figuring one of the studios was just making a new movie. Gee, aren’t the special effects nowadays marvelous?

The four rode the flames until they hit the freeway at a gallop. They leapt over cars and trucks, trailing smoke. The four riders stayed close together but managed to remain aloof, as if they were a family of dysfunctional siblings on vacation.

They left the freeway by leaping off the I-5 and hit the road in a cacophony of noise that resulted in car crashes and general mayhem. A bus ran off the road and smashed into one of the pillars at fourty-five miles an hour. It struck a fire hydrant, spun to the right, and wrapped around a long concrete pillar.

One of the Horsemen, a man with a giant sword poking over his shoulder, pointed to the west. The others veered that way at his lead. They went pounding up the street, chasing screaming pedestrians into the alleys along the way.

The four came to a roaring stop at the gate to Sodomy Studios and waited impatiently for someone to let them in. When the gate didn’t open, the man with the large sword ripped it off its hinges with one swing of his gleaming blade. They walked the rest of the way to the set.

“It’s the afternoon show with Kayla Mangabbler!” A hyper woman yells into the PA, voice rising and lowering until it punctuates the host’s name at a hundred and thirty-three decibels. The audience has been boisterous, but now they amp it up to a new level, the ones who don’t get immediate ear bleeds.

They milled around during the break. The crowd inhaled coffee, caffeinated water, and the goodies that advertisers left under their chairs. Little red bags with the studio name on them along with the logos from the forty-seven things crammed in the package. Chunks of high-fructose corn syrup, energy drinks, and even a batch of chocolates from the Ostergroup Corporation filled with a curious combination of guarana and high-grade cocaine.

The host perches on her seat demurely. Across from her sit four people dressed like vagabonds. The audience is crowing at the top of their lungs like they expect them to start beating the shit out of each other at any second. Welcome to Hollywood. Welcome to the big show; have a nice fucking day—if you survive.

She has questions for each of her guests prepared from their submitted profiles, although War’s handwriting was hard to make out. He would have been better served by using a crayon on a large sheet of paper.

Death’s read like a serial killer’s.

Cue the camera. Cue the sound. Cue the ultra-bright but energy efficient LED lights that make the place as bright as daylight in the Caribbean. Cue Kayla to sit back and look hot.

“And we’re back. My next guests are the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Are they a motorcycle gang? A rock band? The beginning of the end?” She has to pause here, because the word on the teleprompter reads harbinger, and she is not about to unleash that intellectual bombshell on her audience. They might string her up and piss on her corpse Mussolini-style.

The camera pans across the four guests. Two on a couch, large one on a padded seat, and the last on a metal chair. They tried to put the girl in that one, but she unleashed a string of profanities so long it made the audience actually shut the hell up for a few seconds. Besides, if her wide ass took that seat, it would probably collapse like a house of cards hit by a stiff wind.

The producer points, indicating she is back on camera. Kayla leans forward and takes a sip of her drink, then slowly sets it down. The camera takes this moment to pan across the robed figures. It stops on the one directly across from her.

He has a tattered cowl over his face. It hangs limply, and when he breathes, strings flutter from the sides. Strips of cloth dangle from his sleeves, and torn ends of his robe cover his black boots.

“So Mr. War. Or do I simply call you War?” Her smile is in full effect. It is mocking in its severity. Her lips curl up in a smirk. The viewers at home have seen this look a thousand times. She is about to start some shit.

“War is fine.” His lips are visible. One sneers down when he speaks, like half of his face has been left numb by a stroke. If he wore glasses, he would be the spitting image of Dick Cheney.

“What do you bring? Why are you here? Do you have a message for the viewers?”

“Prepare for the end, for we have arrived.”

“The end of what, exactly?” She stares at the madman and lets a hint of concern quirk up her tweezed eyebrows.

“The end of the world. We are here to beak the seals and usher in the Apocalypse. The Antichrist awaits the savior. When he arrives, you,” he points at the crowd and then at the cameras. He points and points, and at last his finger points directly at her nose, “are all kitty chow.”

He sits back with a smug look on his face. The crowd is going nuts, laughing at the madman in the cowl.

“You all know me! I’m War and I bring it!” He jumps to his feet and pumps his fist in the air as the crowd goes nuts. They scream and holler like he is a celebrity. Kayla shakes her head at the spectacle.

“We are the four baddest mother fuckers to ever step onto the Earth. We are going to break the seals and trigger Armageddon. Where we go, cities fall and nations crumble. People die by the million. We bring pain, we bring misery, and we bring death.”

“I bring death,” the man in the hoodie interjects. He doesn’t speak loudly, but his voice cuts through the air like a twelve-inch razor-sharp knife.

Kayla shifts her gaze to the man in the hoodie and considers the apparition. He is just as scary as the others, but his face is a nightmare of tattoos that form some sort of spiral patterns. She feels … drawn to him like she is being sucked inside the shadows around his eyes.

“We all bring death. Just because you are Death doesn’t mean you get all the credit.” War yells while turning, hands in the air. The crowd of men and women scream louder at the circus performers.

“Without me, there is no death.”

“Look, Death old pal. If I take this fucking chair and bash this pretty lady into the fucking ground, she WILL fucking die.”

“Not if I don’t take her soul.”

Kayla looks between the two and then at the massive chair. For a split second, she considers bolting from the room.

“War, if you could take your seat we … “

“Don’t listen to that pussy. He’s losing his nerve. Doesn’t want to reap the slaughter like the old days.” Death turns his sneer on the man next to him. “Come on, Death. We used to follow the angels and paint the cities red with blood! We used to rile up the armies of the world. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I will do what is necessary when the time comes,” Death says and tugs the hoodie over his face so it is hidden in shadow. “It doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Dude! Once upon a time we took down most of the world. Remember all the water? People screaming? How many on that one day?”

“Two million, six hundred and seventy-two, give or take.”

Kayla watches the strange exchange. This can’t turn into a philosophical debate at the loony bin. She needs to regain control. The big one does the job for her by jumping to her feet.

“I’ll change your mind. Why don’t you hop on me, and I’ll help you find your balls!” she screams in a voice that sounds like glass breaking.

“Sounds like there is some tension between you and this woman. Care to elaborate on your relationship?” Kayla seizes control once again. She is on her feet, hands out as if she were shrugging.

“There is no relationship, you stupid twit! I am Death. I bring death. I kill, not just a few, but scores. When I lower my scythe, cities tremble and fall. I have taken entire countries and leveled them. I have no time for women or love. Especially not with her skank ass. You mock me at your own peril!” He stares daggers at the big girl.

“Some temper you have there. Do you talk to your wife like that?” Kayla puts her hands on her hips to admonish him. The audience loves it and roars their approval.

“Are you fucking stupid?” Death shakes his head and folds his hands across his chest.

“No wife? Did she leave you because of your temper?” Kayla presses.

Her head buzzes with pleasure again. It’s the drink that does it. Makes her feel like she can take on the world. But something is off today, and she can’t help but wonder if they didn’t tell her everything before they brought these four mental hospital rejects in. People are freaking out about the end of the world, but it is all bullshit. She also can’t help but think about the massive sword War carried when he entered the room. The producer had to come out and ask him to leave the big blade off to the side. They wanted to lock it up at first, but he said in a very deep voice, “That would be a bad idea.” And everyone in the room nodded like they knew it was a bad fucking idea. After a look from Death, War relented and stowed it offstage where he could see it but the cameras could not.

War sits after a moment of catcalls. There are two other ‘Horsemen,’ so she shifts her attention to them. Directly to War’s left is the hefty woman in a dark brown robe. Her hair is curly and wild, and it frames her round face. Her cheeks are so chubby they make her angry brown eyes seem like beads, and they force her small mouth into a frown. She scowls at the host with no effort to hide her disdain.

“His pair are all shriveled up like raisins because he never uses them!” the woman screams.

Kayla smiles at the woman nonetheless and introduces her. "As you just heard, this is the only female of the crew, Fatmine!"

The crowd claps and catcalls.

"It's FAMINE! Get your facts straight, you scrawny mattress of a girl," Famine shouts over the roar of the crowd. She scans the still-clapping idiots and breathes deep. It sounds like sucking spit through a straw. The man next to her chuckles out loud. His face is completely hidden in the shadow of his gray hood.

Famine turns to him and growls, "Fuck you, Pestilence!"

He raises one hand, and his sleeve falls away, exposing a rail-thin wrist and a hand with long slender fingers. He gives her the bird and then scratches his unseen face. The hostess smiles at him and says, "Thank you, Fatmine, for introducing our next guest. Pestilence!"

Famine yells, "MY NAME IS FAMINE, YOU TINY LITTLE WHORE!"

Pestilence laughs at Famine again before waving his spindly fingers at the camera. He leans back a little, and his long chin and thin-lipped mouth become visible. He smiles, and the camera pans to the side after catching a close-up of his train wreck teeth.

“We will get back to you both. I have a few more questions for Death if that is okay.”

“Be my guest. And enjoy it while you can. Not many get to meet Death and talk about it.”

“Got that right. His nethers are so shriveled he has to ask the big guy for permission to take a piss,” Famine howls. The crowd gets a good laugh, but Death scowls at her without blinking.

“Tell us more about being Death. Do you have a regular day job? Do you go after every person who is about to die? I mean, people must be dying now, so why aren’t you there to collect their souls?” She smirks at her impeccable logic.

“I get to them. Sometimes I have a backlog, but I get to everyone in the end.” He fingers the circles under his chin and sighs. “But there are special occasions.”

“I see. And this occasion is what exactly?” Outwardly she is calm. In control. Inside, her mind is going crazy. One of the producers slipped something in her drink. Something that is going to perk her right up. Her mind feels like it is under assault from bumblebees. They buzz around her noggin and make her want to shout crazy stuff. It’s the speed and the absinth. But this is how she puts up with the crazies and does the best interviews. High as a frigging kite.

“It is everywhere. The signs. The end is here.”

“The only sign I have seen is a billboard. Is that what you mean? Or is this something deeper? Something you need to prove to your brothers and sister? Some deep-seated need to show them that you are in charge? No disrespect, of course.” She adds the words that make any question she asks safe. It’s her get out of jail free card. She uncrosses her legs and leans forward to put the microphone right under his chin like a bulbous cock.

“I don’t need to show them I am in charge. They already know. These three have been with me since the beginning. But they are not as clever as I. Not by far.”

“Here we go with the darkness bullshit,” War mumbles.

“The only two things you are in charge of are Jack and shit,” Famine screams then jumps up and spins around while slapping her wide ass. The crowd goes wild. “And Jack just left town!”

“You will learn of the dark soon enough, you ancient twat.”

“So will you, you cock-swilling foul-breathed demon. You will learn of it when I punch you in the fucking teeth,” War says with a wicked grin.

“I come for everyone, and soon enough I will come for you. And when I do, I will skullfuck your soul straight to the abyss myself.”

War roars to his feet. Death is there at the same instant, and the two tussle for a moment, but neither seems very good at it. Famine screams like a banshee, which gets the audience out of their seats for the first time. They shout and scream for blood, but these gladiators are anything but warriors. Pestilence remains seated and continues waving at the crowd with those long fingers. He still has the smile plastered to his face like he is as high as a kite.

“Punch him in the balls!” Famine screams at no one in particular.

The security staff take to the stage to separate the loons, and the Horsemen sit down in a huff, arms crossed. More dark looks ensue.

“Punch him in the cock!” Famine screams again even though the two have settled down.

“I won’t lower myself to fighting by hand. I have armies to do my bidding. Minions to do my killing,” War spits.

“These are not as clever as I.” Death turns to fix Kayla with a stare that sends shivers up and down her spine. “All I have to do is swoop down and lower the scythe, then all their precious armies of shit monkeys fall like toy soldiers. Well, toy soldiers with gaping wounds.”

Pestilence leans forward in his chair and scoffs, "We aren't as clever as you?"

His long fingers disappear in the shadow of his hood and scratch his unseen face. He turns to Kayla and tells her, "He is clever because he doesn't have to do shit!

We do all the hard work." He nods first to Famine and then to War. "We’re the ones who commit genocide. We’re the ones who ravage the worlds with plagues and starvation. We kill you puke-fuck humans by the millions. Death just collects the souls."

“Collecting souls is exhausting!” Death sighs.

“Blah blah blah. I’m the dark one blah blah BLAH!” Famine yells the last word. Death gives her the finger.

“So, Death doesn’t pull his share of the load, is that what you are saying?” Kayla asks.

“You really are dumber than a shit stain!” Famine yells. A glob of spit flies out of her mouth and smacks across Kayla’s lap. Kayla stares at it in shock for a moment before shifting her gaze to the large woman.

“Pardon me, Fatmine. I do not appreciate your hostility.”

“I don’t give two rat rips what you appreciate. This whole place is going to be in the abyss in a few days.” Famine is on her feet again. She gestures for the crowd, but they boo her. Some get to their feet and shake their fists at her.

Kayla smiles and gestures for the crowd to settle down. Famine finally takes her seat, but she has a huge smirk on her face.

“If I could ask you a personal question, Fatmine.”

“FAMINE, You fucking twig. I’m about to come over there and smother your face in my ass!”

“Famine, I apologize. I do have one serious question … If I may?”

Famine crosses her arms over her chest and stares.

“Are you under the care of a doctor for the delusions? Any of you, for that matter.”

Famine leaps to her feet, a truly frightening sight. The woman jiggles here and there, and Kayla is sure the studio shakes. Her chair shoots back, and Pestilence holds on for dear life. She waddles toward the host, but security intervenes. They are only a few feet from the stage when they step between the large woman and the tiny host. Kayla gets to her feet with her hands out to placate the crowd, but they are roaring with laughter.

“Get your hands off me, you fucking apes. I’ll shart you into next week, see if I don’t!” She gasps and squirms, but they hold on. After a moment of screaming profanities, she stills and stares at the two.

“Let her go,” Kayla says softly, and the men do. Famine looks at her, and Kayla suddenly doesn’t feel right. In fact, she feels like she has just eaten something very very bad.

The two men drop to the floor, first to their knees, then they sprawl out as their bodies unfold. Then like twin geysers, they both open their mouths and spew furious streams of vomit across the carpeting. The larger of the two, an older man who used to be a marine and has seen more combat action than most platoons, curls up in a ball and then throws up again.

“Fuccckkkk …” he manages to gag before more vomit spews out. It splatters the floor and Kayla’s very expensive shoes.

“I’m gonna dock your pay you goddamn son of a fucking …” she trails off as her eyes go as wide as stoned saucers.

Kayla gasps as her own stomach is assaulted by something that feels like it ate its way into her gut and took up residence. Then the thing does this mean little circus act where it jumps up and down with razor blades. She falls next to the men and stares at Death’s sandals, which look older than the fucking desert itself. They look handmade, and for one mad moment she wonders how she can get a pair. Then her stomach tightens, and she throws up forever. She can’t even catch her breath. She gasps and waits for someone to pound on her back to help her, but when she opens her mouth to scream, the puke blasts out of her nostrils.

“Pestilence …” one of them warns. Is that Death with his serious face? Her vision is blurry from tears or maybe because her eyes are covered in puke.

“I’m ready to get this fucking show on the road.” She gets a glimpse of the thin man with his thin lips. He is smiling, but it is the scariest thing she has ever seen in her life. He can’t have a soul, not that one.

Another wracking wave of pain strikes, and the rest of her cavities void themselves. Damn shame about the Vera Mutt skirt. Damn shame about the fancy shoes, the maker of which she cannot remember for the life of her.

Kayla tries to roll over, but her body doesn’t listen. She manages to straighten her neck. All she gets is a glimpse of Fatmine’s large foot, which looks like a bunch of oversized hotdogs squished against the bands of her sandal.

“It’s Famine, you stupid twat. Say it with me - FUCKING SAY IT!” The woman’s foot presses against Kayla’s head, compressing her skull against the stage. The wonderful buzz of wormwood has since departed, and she would just about kill for a few sips of absinth.

“Famine,” she mutters between clenched teeth.

“Yo, Death. Got one for you,” the woman screams.

“Do your own dirty work.”

“Never did have a sense of humor,” the large woman mutters. “Or a big enough dick to satisfy me.”

“Please …” Kayla whispers.

“Okay, princess.” Then the world goes dark as the big girl lifts her foot, takes a breath and jumps up and lands on Kayla’s head, which sounds oddly like a coconut cracking.

Chaos - Sweet, Sexy, Chaos

Deputy Sheriff Fenton Morks is watching the Burning Man festival from the sidelines when the first group of people breaks off into the barren wastelands behind the tents and booths. Then another. He leans his sheriff cowboy hat back and wipes the sweat from his face. Morks puts his hat back on and watches a skinny little man dressed as Pan, the goat-footed, flute-playing god, run from the groups back into the main body of chaos.

“I got a bad feeling about this,” he tells no one in particular, as he is wearing his uniform. To his understanding, no one at Burning Man will talk to a cop.

The little Pan Man runs from the camp with a dozen weirdoes in tow.  Officer Morks’s cop instincts kick in when the groups start waving and greeting each other in an excited manner. The Pan Man and the strange dozen behind him skip and sing joyful-sounding tunes, and the distant group claps and cheers. Officer Morks sees smiles on every face–every face that isn’t obstructed by a mask or make up or ball gag—and his adrenaline kicks in, helping him run just a little faster. Dirt flies from his heels, and he reaches up and screams, “Backup requested, directly behind ‘Restroom Tickle Stick,’” into the walkie on his shoulder.

“I got ya’,” squawks the sheriff over the walkie.

The Pan Man reaches the first group seconds before a charging Officer Morks. The Pan Man jumps and stands with his arms bent and his hands in the air. He puffs proudly to his full height of five feet and one inch and announces to the group, “I bring friends!”

As soon as the words escape his mouth, Officer Morks ducks his head and crashes into the diminutive man, striking under his upstretched arm. The Pan Man crumples to the ground with a thud. Officer Morks loosens his nightstick and pulls it free in one quick motion. He turns on the dozen crazies that were behind the already intercepted Pan Man and swings the nightstick at them. They all back up, tripping over each other in their haste.

Morks swings back to the first group, who stare at him with wild vacant eyes. Two men, nude except for long black nun hoods, are crouched in the sand around what looks to be a giant sand asshole. Behind them is a circle of weirdoes of various sizes, colors, and kinks. Officer Morks reaches up and slides his sunglasses down so he can peer over the lenses at what look like small fleshy dicks crawling all over the freaks.

“What in the …” Morks asks anyone who can finish his question.

The Pan Man stands with a groan and tells him, “Cockbugs! Aren’t they fucking sweet!? We,” he points to his chest and to the two bearded naked nuns, “just discovered them! Just now, right here!”

Officer Morks takes a step back and swings his club at the Pan Man’s head as hard as he can. The hard black plastic connects with a sick sloppy noise, and blood splatters the small crowd. The force of the blow knocks the Pan Man off his feet, and he lands in a heap with his hands covering his head. Morks smiles and bashes his club against the man’s tiny toga-clad ribs with a crack.

Officer Morks faces the dick-covered group and in a more confident voice asks, “Are those dicks crawling all over you?”

“YES!” the dick-coated group sings in unison. One of the nuns adds, “They are Cockbugs from the Mother Earth! And they are BEAUTIFUL!”

“YES,” the group chants, “BEAUTIFUL COCKBUGS!”

A man sits cross-legged near the pucker of earth. Cockbugs cover him from his hemp shoes to his dirty Rusted Root tee shirt. The fleshy little pricks crawl all over him, over skin and hair alike. As he speaks, the crowd around him begins humming ommmm. “They are a sign from our Earth Mother. She has given us these little bugs to remind us of the beauty of the penis! The beauty of this tool of love! She is asking for our love! These Cockbugs will take our love to her! Orgy on the mound!”

The Pan Man struggles to his feet with a wide sedated grin. He wobbles back and forth as he raises his hand to Officer Morks. The officer peeks over his sunglasses again and sees a little prick, all veined shaft and head with two nasty little horns, crawling over the small man’s hand on many little black legs. The Pan Man smiles at Morks with a lopsided grin and tells him, “They tickle and get you HIGH!”

Officer Morks frowns at the curly-haired man bleeding from his head wound and offering a dick-shaped bug. Morks slaps the man’s hand away, sending the Cockbug flying. The Pan Man’s eyes criss-cross as they follow the flying bug in slow motion. As soon as the Pan Man’s head turns, Officer Morks swings his nightstick again. It hits the man hard in the back of the head, and blood shoots out his nose, mouth, eyes, and ears. Morks swings the club every bit as hard into the man’s crotch. It cracks and smooshes, and Morks rears back for a final battery. He grasps a fistful of toga and gives the man a good shake before connecting the club with the man’s skull with a crack that echoes through the massive camp.

“What’s the problem here, Officer Morks?” Sheriff Smoochole asks from behind.

The deputy drops his beat bag onto the hot Nevada sand. He is breathing in short wild bursts and smiling like a maniac.

“Nothing, sir,” he says before turning around to see the sheriff in a leather g-string. Thin leather straps rise from the revealingly little piece to meet on a metal circle in the middle of the sheriff’s old skinny chest. He still wears his cowboy hat and his aviator sunglasses. His badge is pinned to the leather strap going over his shoulder. Officer Morks stares at the sheriff with embarrassment reddening his cheeks.

“Sir … what?” is all he manages before he has to turn away from the rail-thin, wrinkly, and nearly nude Sheriff Smoochole.

“When in Rome, Officer Morks, when in Rome,” Sheriff Smoochole says as he walks past the man to get a closer look at the dirt asshole out of which the Cockbugs are climbing. Officer Morks turns back around just in time to see Sheriff Smoochole’s flat pale butt cheeks and the hand-shaped welts of various sizes rising on them. His cheeks snap and wiggle with each step, hypnotizing the young cop. He is still watching them, Sheriff Smoochole’s yells almost distantly lost in the odd rapture of the sheriff’s fabulously hideous ass cheeks, when Officer Dick Johnson bumps into him, stirring him from his trance.

Morks looks from the overweight Officer Johnson, dressed in assless chaps, bright green nipple clamps, and an orange feather boa, to the leather g-stringed sheriff. The sheriff turns around and asks Officer Johnson, “What’s going on in camp?”

Officer Johnson gives his nipple clamps a tweak, cringes with pleasure, and tells him, “There are Cockbugs everywhere! They tickle and they get you HIGH! Oh, Mother Earth loves us all!”

“Hmmmph,” Sheriff Smoochole says, and he turns back to the dreadlocked kid next to the hole. The kid has kicked off his hemp shoes and is tugging at his hemp rope belt. As he shakes, Cockbugs dangle from him before dropping to the sand and skittering to someone else.

“What in the dirty third knuckle fuck are you doing, kid?” Sheriff Smoochole asks the dreadlock, anger rising in his voice.

“I told you, man, these little Cockbugs are gonna take our spunk to Earth Mother. She is thirsty for our love, man. Come, let us fuck on her love-hole!” The dreadlock holds his fist up to his cheek and slides his hand back and forth, moving his tongue against the inside of cheek as he does so.

“I’d be all with ya’ if this here Earth Asshole was fifty feet that way,” Sheriff Smoochole tells the still-stripping hippy. “But as it is, there are rules, and you can’t just run around naked, eat drugs, and fuck anywhere in the desert! There is a camp right … there!”

Sheriff Smoochole’s frame shudders as he wheezes from getting so upset.

“Sorry then, Pops,” the dreadlock tells him with a wink as he drops his patchwork pants down around his ankles, “but we all gotta fuck on the hole so the Cockbugs can take our love spunk to Mother Earth. Ain’t no Earth hole over there; I’d just be blowing an old guy and I ain’t in college anymore and I ain’t blowing any old guys unless it helps MOTHER EARTH!”

The small surrounding crowd cheers and whoops, attracting the attention of more people in the camp. The nuns are yelling, “Cockbugs for Earth!” and “Dump love-spunk here!”

The dreadlock pumps his fist and gets an “Orgy on the Earth Asshole!” chant going.

Officer Morks leans close to whisper into the sheriff’s ear and accidentally rubs his crotch against Sheriff Smoochole’s paddled fanny. “There are too many to shoot, Sheriff,” Morks tells him, panic resonating in his voice.

Smoochole cracks a grin and says, “Yeah.”

The sheriff reaches one hand back and gives his deputy’s ball sack a good firm tug. He reaches from the other side and pulls his deputy’s pistol from the holster. He points the .45 at the buck-naked hippy whose pubic hair is as tangled and dreadlocked as his head. The hippy throws his fists in the air along with the “Orgy on the Earth Asshole!” chant. He leans close to Sheriff Smoochole and tells him, “You can’t shoot us all, Kojack.”

“Right you are,” Sheriff Smoochole replies. Then he cocks back the hammer and pulls the trigger. The bullet slams into the dreadlock’s forehead, forcing his eyes to cross. A tangle of blood and hair flies skyward behind the hippy, and gray brain matter spatters the two bearded nuns. The dead hippy falls face first onto the puckered asshole in the sand. His tongue rolls out of his mouth and dips tenderly at the rim of the Earth Asshole. All the other weirdoes scatter, some running back to camp and a few less fortunate running wild and free into the wide open desolate desert most likely never to be seen again.

The two brain-splattered dick-swinging nuns are still yelling, “Cockbugs for EARTH,” “Dump love spunk in the Earth Asshole,” and now “Fuck in the memory of Dreadnuts Roberts!”

Sheriff Smoochole tucks the still-smoking pistol into the front of his g-string. It sizzles and he smiles. He turns to Officers Morks and Johnson and screams, “Stay here and keep the dirty lawless fuckers from fucking each other like sweaty feces-covered monkeys!”

“Where are you going, sir?” the two oppositely dressed cops ask at the exact same time.

“To call the goddamned Army. They can kill more hippies than we can,” he tells them as he turns and walks back toward camp. He says more, but both Johnson and Morks are hypnotized by his pale flabby ass flaps, and his voice is muffled. So is the rushing crowd of stripping hippies headed for the Earth Asshole behind them.

So is the strange high-pitched giggling rising from the slowly expanding Earth Asshole. It puckers more and more, growing so wide that the dead dreadlock’s head drops in. Blood runs like a crimson stream from the man’s massive exit wound, and the laughter rises up into the dry Nevada day.

Officer Morks feels something slithering across his crotch, and it draws his attention from Sheriff Smoochole’s horribly hypnotizing ass. A small Cockbug is tugging at his zipper and kicking its dozens of tiny legs against the thin khaki fabric of his uniform pants. The bulge in Morks’s crotch grows involuntarily, and the little Cockbug squeals in delight. Panic forces Officer Morks’s shaky hand, and he drives his nightstick into his own swollen package in an effort to kill the happy little Cockbug.

It stabs Morks in his balls with its tiny barbed horns before it falls to the sand. Officer Morks’s nuts throb painfully in response to the two deep pinprick stab wounds, making his stomach twist and knot. He squints behind his sunglasses and watches the death twitches of the nasty little bug.

“Cocksucker,” he spits.

“No, Fenton,” Officer Johnson answers, still distracted by Sheriff Smoochole’s leathery ass cheeks, “they are called Cockbugs.” He sighs and continues, “they get you sooooo high.”

“What? That’s not what I’m talking about, you asshole,” Morks snaps while tenderly rubbing his bloody ball sack.

“Yeah,” Officer Johnson says, “I can see Sheriff Smoochole. He is on the solar phone. I’m guessing he’s talking to them, because he’s waving his hands a lot. He has skinny little arms, but they make great tracers. His ass is like a car crash of fucking ugly, but I can’t take my eyes off it. I’ve worked with Sheriff Smoochole for going on fifteen years, and I never knew that pale atrocity followed him everywhere he went. You think you know a son of a bitch after fifteen years …”

“What the fuck ever,” Officer Morks says as his fat co-worker mumbles off into silence.

More Shit You Won’t See on Oprah

The set is dead quiet owing to the bodies that litter the studio. The cameras still roll, which means Pestilence has to ham it up. Death shakes his head at the thin-lipped man who is preening into the nearest lens like he is the messiah himself.

“Hide your food, for when I come your stomachs will know pain as they have never felt before,” he instructs the viewers. “Hide it well. Got some tomatoes in the backyard? You better can those fuckers in the next few minutes, because I am going to shrivel them up like prunes.”

“Ah, can it, you douche,” Famine shouts over him.

She mashes her sandal into the head of the pretty blonde. One of the girl’s eyes has popped out and is staring at Death. He stares back for a moment and reaches for her soul, but there is nothing there.

“Famine. Back away.”

“Fuck you, you nightmare-faced bastard. I’ll come over there and make you motorboat my tits!” she screams and shakes her chest.

Death shudders.

“Look at the girl.” He gestures toward the body.

The skinny blonde twitches. Her arms and legs move in slow motion. One moves and then the other as she tries to get her limbs under her. Famine steps back and stands with Pestilence. They both watch with interest.

Death approaches and touches the girl. She doesn’t stop moving.

“Oh Christ!” War bellows and grabs his sword.

“What’s wrong, War? You little bitch. Afraid you are going to get your fancy robe wet?” Famine studies the man as he approaches.

“She is dead,” Death pronounces.

“Well aren’t you the fucking psychic to the stars. Of course she’s dead. I crushed her head like it was an eggshell,” Famine yells in his face.

“But she has no soul. It’s gone. I didn’t take it.”

“Crap.” Pestilence sighs.

“Where the hell is Jesus?” Famine looks around at the other Horsemen.

“Supposed to be in Vegas. Isn’t that where all the shit is going down? Those crazies out in the desert stirring up the horned one and all. I thought we were all meeting up there tomorrow.” War studies his sword as he speaks. He runs one finger along it and then raises it high and chops off the head of the blond host.

Then the rest of the dead audience starts to rise.

“I’ll go look for him. Meet you guys at the end. Whenever the hell that is.” Death snaps and a ghostly horse appears. The thing is nearly six feet, but he bounds up into the saddle like he was born in it.

The horse rears back and leaps into the sky, leaving a massive hole in its wake. Rubble falls, and the other Horsemen dodge it.

“Show off!” Famine calls out in her screeching voice.

All around them, bodies stagger to their feet and make for the survivors, but they are having none of it.

War loops his sword around in a killing stroke that lops off a few heads. The others get a whiff of the blood and go to town in their own way. In a few minutes, there is enough crimson and puke to sink a ship.

Chaos - Sweet, Sexy, Chaos

Officer Morks looks back to the ground where a live Cockbug is poking its horns at its fallen brethren. It whistles and then rubs its shaft body against the Cockbug corpse until the dead bug is covered in sticky white goo. Officer Morks’s jaw drops when the once-smashed Cockbug twitches back to life. It rolls over onto its dozens of black legs and stares at Officer Morks. The little zombie Cockbug howls, a thin whispery sound, and charges Officer Morks’s foot. His eyes wide with terror and amazement behind his shades, Morks brings his foot down with a satisfying crunch. He smiles wide and maniacally at the smeared Cockbug with one horn still thrashing softly from the small pink puddle in his boot print. He looks up from the Cockbug stain, and the smile slips from his face like a limp dick in silk boxers. The rushing crowd of naked hippies is nearly upon them.

The massive movement of horny, decadent people stirs the sand, creating a dry storm in their wake. The ground rumbles and shakes at their advance.

Morks yells at Officer Johnson, but the assless-chap-wearing cop doesn’t hear him. Frustrated, Morks seizes the bright green clip pinching Dick Johnson’s nipple. He tugs as hard as he can, and Officer Johnson turns to him, fluffing his bright orange feather boa and squealing in delight—much as the Cockbug did when its feet tickled his throbbing unit. Officer Morks slaps Officer Johnson hard across his bearded face. Then he points to the oncoming rush of nasty giggling naked hippies.

“SHERIFF,” Officer Morks screams into the walkie on his shoulder. Morks doesn’t wait for an answer; he just springs into action, clubbing the nearest nudie hard across his pimply forehead. At his side, Officer Johnson reaches to his bare ass, tucks his hands inside hidden thigh pockets sewn into his assless chaps, and pulls out a .45 pistol with each hand. He steps in a wide arc around his smaller, more conventionally dressed compatriot, firing rounds into the rushing crowd.

The Cockbugs have had time to spread around camp, and the hippies look as though they are feeling the full boner-inducing hallucinogenic effects. Even as the crowd surrounds the law officers, it begins the orgy of the century. The front row of the encroaching mob are all running on their hands while their legs are held by the second row (who happen to be pounding the shit out of them with the sexual position commonly referred to as “The Wheelbarrow”). Behind them are muscular guys carrying small men and women upside down in a running “69.”

Sheriff Smoochole throws the phone after one last inaudible screech and runs toward his men, shouldering a shotgun he pulls from somewhere. He hits the double trigger, and flames spit out both barrels propelling buckshot through dirty hippy flesh in bright gory splashes of crimson and gray. The screams and moans of ecstasy reverberating from the hundreds of people fucking and sucking in that nasty Nevada desert completely muffle the sound of the shotgun blast and the one immediately following it. The crowd of sex and grime takes on a life of its own; twisting and pulsing and rolling forward at the sheriff and his deputies.

Officer Morks clubs a potbellied man in the face, and the woman whose ankles the man was holding scampers off his still-hard prick and onto the first swinging dong she can find. As soon as she grabs the dick, which belongs to one of the bearded nuns, a bullet from one of Officer Johnson’s .45s rips through her face. The nun yells at Officer Johnson, but Officer Morks interrupts him with a nightstick to the teeth. Sheriff Smoochole is blasting the shotgun into the crowd and popping caps with the revolver he stole from Officer Morks while he reloads the shotgun one-handed.

Spurts of blood fly skyward along with drops of sweat and gobs of jizz as the crowd rolls and moans around them like a wave. Sheriff Smoochole dives forward in an effort to beat the wave of dirt-crusted flesh to his men’s position. His scrawny, mostly nude form silhouettes in front of the blazing Nevada sun as he twists in midair and fires both barrels of the shotgun into the smiling faces behind him. A rooster tail of gore flies over the crowd but doesn’t slow its advance. Sheriff Smoochole tucks into a tight little ball as he lands, but he springs to his feet firing rounds with the revolver in one hand and snapping the shotgun shut with his other.

Officer Morks doesn’t even get a chance to see the sheriff as the mad orgy swallows him, but he is still swinging his nightstick. Small hippies have climbed on Officer Johnson’s back and legs. A short dirty man pokes the much larger Officer Johnson in the eye and then starts dry fucking the side of his head.

Sheriff Smoochole yells in frustration as he lets loose both barrels of his shotgun on the small man vigorously screwing Officer Johnson’s head, turning him to a still-humping mound of pulp. Officer Johnson shrugs the corpse off his shoulders, but the motion tips him off balance and he falls to the ground. Instantly, bare feet stomp and kick the fallen deputy as the mob bucks and sways. He bellows, and a skinny Mexican fella stuffs his dong down the cop’s gullet, muffling him with a wet groan. Officer Johnson disappears behind brown butt cheeks.

Sheriff Smoochole runs up the nearest hippy as though he were some greasy ramp and vaults to the top of the wild orgy. He scans the ground, but he can’t see either of his men in the brief glimpses of earth he can spot between the rolling flesh of hundreds of naked bodies. One strong hand reaches up and grabs one of the leather straps from his g-string, then another hand joins it. Sheriff Smoochole screeches and claws at the heads and asses on which he is standing, but more hands reach up from the sex and pull the skinny sheriff down and under.

The entire camp continues tripping off Cockbug acid while fucking their brains out. The ground moans along with the massive orgy. Smack in the middle of the bacchanal, the receiver to the solar phone is getting kicked and smacked, and it’s bouncing off of ass flesh and tits alike. An irritated voice is screaming on the other end, “I told you we will get there when we can! Now hang the fuck up!”

A pear-shaped man hears the crackling voice, and he reaches over and shoves the headset up his ass in one smooth motion. He groans as the voice from the phone screams more muffled words, which vibrate up his tailpipe, and he falls back in ecstasy and is swept away in the sea of sex.

Did You Hear the One about a Bunch of Guys Who Visited a Militant Lesbian Camp?

Summer. Hot as fuck. Woods everywhere like God shit big green arrows. Edwina, Ed to her new friend, perches behind one of the shit sticks and sights a buck with an arrowhead. The shaft is pulled back and tucked right up against her cheek. She exhales slowly as the point settles on his center, envisioning a big target there. The bastard is big, and he has a big old swinging dick, which pisses her right off. Charlie had a swinging dick too, and he put it in every hole he could find.

Thoughts of the asshole cause her to twitch and loose the arrow. It leaps away from the bow like a rocket-propelled grenade. Slams the buck high in one shoulder. The beast freezes for a half second and then takes off, not realizing it’s lost a leg, and collapses with a cry that should tear at Edwina’s heart.

If she had a heart.

“Jesus fuck!” She exhales and throws the bow on the ground.

“It was a good shot!” Darla calls. She steps out of the woods like an apparition. She is dressed in full camouflage except for a bright orange bandana around her bald head.

Chemo did that to her, but now the cancer is gone. So is one breast and part of her uterus. Not like she was ever going to use that. She tried a wig for all of a day and claimed it made her look like some piece of ass right out of the slam. So she started sporting blood-red lipstick to draw attention to her mouth and away from her shiny head. Worked too. When Edwina got a look at her, all she could think about was uses for those lips. All kinds of uses.

The camp is nestled between the rocks of Craggy National Forest and Juniper Hills or, as some called them, mountains. Some called them mounds, but really they were just rises that poked out of the ground and provided great vantage points for hunting. Probably pretty popular back when Native Americans lived here. Or later, when ranchers had to find stray sheep so they could butt fuck them into the next morning.

Now, by and large, Camp Luzon is the sort of place where the members can go and forget all about their troubles. Take Edwina for instance. She had a happy home with her man. Made him coffee every morning, vacuumed and even had aspirations of getting a job. Oh, the nerve!

Charlie, her useless husband, thought that was a terrible idea. Her job was to stay home and keep him happy. It worked too, for a while. He made good money and even gave her a credit card with a five hundred dollar limit. But she got tired of being what amounted to no more than a servant in her own home.

She should have taken the car for a test drive before they got married, but he was old fashioned. He was also shit in bed, and every time they had sex she came away hurt and unfulfilled. Then he would flip her over and do things that did not feel right at all.

But the real rub was when he brought home another woman and said they needed to try a threesome. She was shocked at first, shocked AND appalled. She demanded that the woman leave, but they plied her with alcohol and a big fat joint that would make Tommy fucking Chong himself weep with joy.

They all went to bed, and it turned out to be a pretty nice time. Hubby was pleased but not as pleased as Edwina. She was happy at last, fulfilled, multi-orgasmic, in fact, and decided that having a woman’s face buried between her thighs was just about the best feeling in the world.

Later, Charlie. Loser.

Charlie didn’t like being called names, and he didn’t like being left. He beat her to a pulp and then apologized the next day by bringing her flowers and a new pretty red BMW with leather seats and heated side mirrors.

She thanked him by kneeing him in the balls and driving over his legs while he lay withering in front of the convertible. She didn’t look back, didn’t even bother to give him the finger. She just left and that was that.

The camp was the perfect place for her. She didn’t have to be Katie Cleaning Lady, and she got to have chicks go down on her pretty much every night. They liked her because she was pretty. She had a short blond bob and green eyes that turned up at the corners as though a hint of Asian were mixed somewhere in her past. She liked them because most could take her straight to multi-orgasm land. Her favorite place in the whole damn world.

She played with a few of the other girls, and there was a little drama but only until Darla arrived. Came in like she owned the place just a week after Edwina’s arrival. Looked all the girls up and down with her dead stare. She was built too, broad shoulders and defined arms. She had small tits (tit now) behind a flannel shirt. Workman-like pants ended in heavy leather work boots to complete the outfit.

Her skin was darkly tanned, her left arm the darkest. She drove a truck for a living. A big eighteen-wheeled semi. She was soft. Smooth. When Edwina touched her for the first time, she marveled at the feel. Still does.

When Darla first arrived, she walked up to Edwina in the middle of introductions and reached out to push a piece of hair out of her eye. Edwina blinked once and thought she was going to faint right then and there. That night Edwina decided she was ready to go full-on lesbian, and she has been with Darla ever since.

Edwina studies the deer as it tries to limp off. A few months ago, this touching nature scene would have broken her heart. Now it makes her want to go over and lick the blood off the creature. She wants to sip it, cut a piece of the smarmy bastard and throw it on a fire for dinner.

Darla raises her assault rifle and shoots the deer in the side. It falls over; legs twitch as life fades away. Then they are by its side, and Edwina’s girlfriend reaches out to close the buck’s eyes. A minute later, the knives come out and they are at the corpse like it’s filled with treasure.

Then, blood-splattered and grinning at each other like a couple of loons, they hike back home.

Because the Military only Solves Problems

General Mac O’Coddle stares out the window of his Hummer, scowling at the expanse of alkali flats surrounding his enormous convoy. He looks to Major Arseblister behind the driver’s wheel, and he smirks at his longtime subordinate. Major Arseblister grins when he sees the general out of the corner of his eye.

“You’re in a great mood today, sir,” Major Arseblister says, taking his eyes off the dusty white road ahead.

General O’Coddle takes a deep breath and puffs his barrel chest. He smiles under his bushy white beard as he tells Major Arseblister, “It’s going to be a good day, Major.”

“You enjoy the desert, sir?” Major Arseblister asks, searching for clues to the general’s uncommon decent mood.

“Fuck no,” General O’Coddle says. “But I haven’t massacred hippies since ‘Nam, and if the godforsaken desert is where I gotta go to spill some hippy gore, then grab me a canteen and a camel with no nut sack.”

One small open-top Jeep leads the camouflage Hummer down the long, straight dirt road. Following the general’s Hummer is a long line of heavy armed combat vehicles grinding their way through the Nevada desert. Four dozen tanks of different sizes and speeds rumble alongside six dozen old covered trucks transporting entire platoons of soldiers. Smaller Jeeps with mounted heavy artillery buzz around the slower-moving rigs, their wheels sending up long billowy alkali-white clouds.

“As a statement of fact,” grumbles General O’Coddle, “my trigger finger is gettin’ itchy. How far away is the target?”

“Sir,” Major Arseblister smirks, “I was under the impression our objective was simply to deliver the Cease and Desist message to the offending parties.”

“Right,” General O’Coddle chuckles. “The Army brought four dozen tanks to the middle of the motherfucking desert just to ask them very nicely to please stop mopping the fucking desert floor with their crab-infested genitals. That doesn’t make any fucking sense, Major.”

The general puffs out his chest and straightens the bronze buttons on his dark green uniform, which he wears despite the desert camouflage khaki all the other soldiers have donned. He grunts and shines the obnoxiously large collage of medals pinned to his barrel chest with a fist the size of a Christmas ham.

He stares out the windshield in front of him and tells Major Arseblister, “Just answer my motherfucking question and then shut the fuck up.”

The smirk dissolves off of Major Arseblister’s face, and he shrinks slightly from General O’Coddle’s angry timbre. “Sorry, sir, we are within fifteen miles of the target, sir.”

“Good,” General O’Coddle barks. “Now get to work on shutting the fuck up, Major.”

The two soldiers ride in silence for only a minute before the taillights of the Jeep leading flash bright red in the blandness of the desert as its driver slams on the brakes.

Major Arseblister stands on his brake pedal, and the massive Hummer skids and slides in response, weaving the width of the dirt road. Behind the two officers, the drivers of the entire row of military vehicles hit their brakes, some with more luck than others.

General O’Coddle is flung forward toward the long, flat dashboard. His muscular arms fly up in the air. His forehead creases with anger. His gray mustache shakes with the force of his yelling. “What in the dead and bloated fuck is going on?”

“I ... I ... I don’t know … sir …” Major Arseblister replies.

General O’Coddle shakes his head. “Major, shut the fuck up. I was yelling at the fuckups in front of us. I say once more, shut the fuck up.”

“Mmmm,” Major Arseblister says through sealed lips with an enthusiastic nod.

The general grumbles and opens his door. He rocks forward, farts louder than common artillery fire, and steps from the Hummer. The major opens his mouth to say something, but General O’Coddle raises a finger and tells him, “Now, you may vacate the vehicle but you must shut the fuck up. Do you understand, Major?”

Major Arseblister nods and eyes the walrus tusk handles of the custom twin .357 magnums swinging at the general’s side. He even eyes the two bandoliers of reloads crisscrossing the general’s broad chest. The general notices the major’s glance at his guns and ammo, and he smiles.

General O’Coddle turns from the major, and the smile spreads even wider across his square face.

Up ahead, a miles-wide circle pulses and throbs in stark contrast to the otherwise barren landscape.  Moans and sighs and screams of passion haunt the wide open space.

“Holy lung-punching fuck, this thing is big,” General O’Coddle says, the grin beneath his mustache never diminishing. He turns on his heel and climbs back into his seat in the Hummer. Major Arseblister scampers to climb in and behind the wheel quicker than teenage boys find Internet porn.

“That thing is fucking massive,” General O’Coddle says. Major Arseblister just nods.

The excited general looks to the silent major and says, “I said that’s a shit ton of tree-huggin’ solar-power-usin’ organic- food-eatin’ war-dodgin’ tie-dye-wearin’ free-love-motherfuckin’ hippies!”

Major Arseblister nods with a stupid look on his droopy face.

General O’Coddle squints one eye as he leans over in his seat and asks, “Are you not talking because I told you to shut the fuck up?”

The major nods excitedly and hums behind his close-lipped smile.

“Well,” O’Coddle says, “don’t be an arsehole, Major.”

“It’s Arseblister, sir,” the major corrects.

“Fine,” General O’Coddle chuckles. “I’ll call you that. It sounds even worse!”

Major Arseblister lowers his head and tells the smiling general, “No, sir, Arseblister is my name.”

The general’s dull gray eyes open wide with shock, and he spurts, “I thought you were Arsepounder. Major Kevin J. Arsepounder.”

“No, sir,” the major says, “I’m Major Robert B. Arseblister, of the Nantucket Arseblisters.”

“Well,” General O’Coddle says, “don’t be an arsehole, Arseblister.”

“Sir,” Major Arseblister nods.

“Major,” the general answers and stares back out at the barrenness of the alkali flats.

Major Arseblister notices the massive makeshift parking lot ahead of them first. His jaw drops at the sight of the thousands of randomly parked cars, trucks, motorcycles, Volkswagens, and converted school buses presenting an impossible obstacle to the snake of Army vehicles behind them.

“Uh, General,” Arseblister says, still awed by the mile-wide thickness of vehicles.

“What in the drunk-enough-to-wear-a-dress fuck do you want now, Major?” O’Coddle asks, but he answers his own question as he turns to face his subordinate.

“Sweet meth lab explosion fuck!” General O’Coddle exclaims.

“Do we head through on foot, General?” Major Arseblister asks.

“Fuck no,” the general scoffs, “We move the mother fuckers!”

With that he grabs the radio and screams into it, “Tank Division: Alpha get your asses up here and clear us a path through!”

Four gargantuan tanks separate from the main line and rumble toward the parking lot, stopping alongside the general’s Hummer. General O’Coddle looks out his window with an ear-to-ear grin as he takes in the superior firepower of the four giant tanks; each with massive turret and .50 cal guns aimed at the vehicle-surrounded orgy.

“Well?” the general says into the mike, “fucking blow shit up!”

All four tanks fire missiles at the same spot at the same time. Smoke, ash, and sand fill the air, and everything is lost in gray for a minute. General O’Coddle leans forward, tapping his meaty fingers on the dashboard, and waits for the smoke to clear. Once it does, he sees the first several hundred feet of parking lot cleared of automobiles. All that remains is a huge crater blasted into the ever-shifting sand, now scorched black and shiny.

General O’Coddle grabs the mike with a groan and says, “Okay, assholes, one at a time. Firing order: Rectum, Damn Near Killed Them from the right. Go!”

The tank farthest to the right of the general lets loose a missile that sends two small foreign cars into the sky as fire and metal scraps. The next tank fires at the two vehicles next to the blackened remains. The explosion sends one skyward and one rolling over onto the car behind. The third and fourth tanks fire, and each destroys two or three automobiles. In seconds, the four tanks have cleared a fiery path almost all the way through the parking lot. The general’s Hummer rumbles forward, and the armada follows.

As the tanks near the orgy, the general orders, “Fan out and spread us a level firing line!”

The tanks group in pairs, blasting the cars and trucks closest to the orgy. A missile sends a VW Beetle flying over the squirming mass of humanity. The flaming chunk of metal skips across the top of the orgy like a rock across a pond, crushing people while they screw. It tears away a swollen section of arms, tits, and dicks in a shower of blood and gore. A tall, muscled man leaps screaming from the spot and climbs over the mass of moaning bodies beneath him. He hollers something at General O’Coddle and Major Arseblister as they step out of the Hummer, but neither can hear him over the sound of tank fire. When he reaches the very outer ring of the orgy, where people drag themselves to rest between wild, crazy fucking, he dives and lands at the general’s feet.

The man is Officer Johnson, still wearing his assless chaps (though they are now tattered and torn) and his feather boa (though it is now brown and slimy). All his fat has been worked away from a solid week of constant boning, and his ab muscles flex and twitch as he screams at the soldiers, “Stop! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

General O’Coddle turns to Major Arseblister, smiles at him, and moves his hands to the walrus tusk handles of his .357s. “This is why I’m in the middle of the desert, Arseblister.”

Officer Johnson stumbles forward, weakly rubbing his perma-chafed cock through paper-thin leather. “You can’t do this! The Cockbugs have started taking our love spunk to the Earth Mother to choke the Devil! If you kill people …”

General O’Coddle draws both his guns at once, and Officer Johnson’s head explodes in two separate blasts, sending flaps of skull and chunks of brains in opposite directions, before he can finish his thought, “… then the blood will mix with the love spunk, and it will poison the Earth Mother and set loose the Devil.” A statement that is common knowledge among the hippies who have spent the last three months with their heads in and out of the ever-widening Earth Asshole.

General O’Coddle blows the gun smoke away from the two barrels with a smirk. He takes aim with each pistol at different unsuspecting orgy members.

“Give the order, Major,” he says.

“Don’t we have to give them,” the major nods at the massive orgy, “a warning first, sir?”

“Fuck no! If they know it’s coming, they’ll run like there’s a war draft,” General O’Coddle says, drool leaking from the corner of his mouth in his pending kill frenzy.

“Right, sir,” Arseblister says. Then into his walkie talkie, he screams, “KILL THE MOTHER FUCKERS!”

Did You Hear the One about a Bunch of Guys Who Visited a Militant Lesbian Camp?

The camp is a nice orderly row of large tents with a barracks or two tossed in for good measure. One of these serves as a dining hall, and it is a sturdy old thing made of fiberglass. Darla heard it was a leftover from the Vietnam War that they got for a honey of a deal.

They also have orgies here from time to time, but Edwina doesn’t attend the fleshfests anymore. She and Darla may watch them every once in a while, but she would rather spend her nights with her girl. Not that there aren’t some fine pieces of ass in the mix, because there are.

There is one going on right now, and Edwina and Darla stop by to grab a bite to eat and a couple of beers. They drop the buck at the kitchen, which earns a strong word of approval from Marcel, leader of the camp and all around badass. She is helping out in the kitchen and has draped her shirt over a chair, ostensibly to keep the stains off it, but more likely because she knows she looks like a goddamn statue of perfect flesh.

Marcel parading around in a black leather bra that pushes her full ebony tits right up her chest is the first thing the girls see, and Edwina has to force her mouth closed. She has learned that one thing she really likes is a nice pair of boobs on a fine-looking woman. Who’da thunk it? That year with Charlie and she had no idea she was a closet lesbian. Well, live and learn.

They have a few beers and chat about this and that. About the traps, the guns. They compare shots with the hunting rifle, and when they get buzzed Edwina manages to lose her pants when Marcel makes a bet about her hygiene. More specifically whether she still shaves it bare down there. Marcel tugs the top of her panties down just a tad to get a glimpse, then leans over and plants a kiss on her smooth skin under Darla’s watchful eye.

They head over to the barracks and walk into an inferno. The woodstove is cranked up nice and hot so that the room feels like a sauna. The smell of burning oak fills the room as does the smell of hot sex. Three women are doing a triangle 69, each alternating hips down and shoulders up to take care of her recipient.

Darla watches for a few minutes then slaps Edwina’s butt and tells her it’s just about time to get her sweet ass to bed. Ed smiles at her lover and prepares to run for the door. Her heart is already beating faster as she thinks about multi-orgasm land. Her favorite place in the world right next to Darla’s hot snatch. The girls’ display must have stripped Darla of her patience, because she grabs tiny Edwina around her waist and hoists her on top of the table.

She leans back as Darla steps close and spreads her legs. When her hands go back to support her weight, they knock over a stack of Daily Gabs. The gossip rag is one of the only pieces allowed up here. Good stuff: celebrity news, world news and news of the weird. That’s Edwina’s favorite part, the stuff about aliens and psychics.

The two embrace and make out for a while to catcalls and cries of “Why don’t you two join us?” Darla steps away from her love, and Edwina can’t help but smile at her.

“Come on, lover. Let’s get back to our tent. I’m going to take you to heaven.”

The night is cool. A soft breeze licks at Edwina’s legs and gusts up her shirt since she wears nothing else but a pair of tennis shoes. Darla always comments on how sexy her legs are and, unlike some of the other women, prefers to have her keep them shaved like the rest of her body.

Someone is behind them; Edwina is sure it is one of the girls from the barracks trying to join them. Probably Rose or the Tsu twins, two Asian women who don’t look anything alike but love to party together. She will have to ask Darla, of course, because she sort of calls the shots in the relationship. Darla is just wired that way. A no-nonsense girl who always has a plan. Unlike Charlie, who was a lazy ass and treated her like shit. His idea of planning was pre-recording a bunch of shows on TV so he could watch them over the weekend.

She spins around at the tent entrance to see which of the women is stalking them. A figure that can’t be female forms in the dusky twilight. Another is already waiting in the small tent, and the larger figures drive the two women to the ground. They fall with twin umphs. It probably sounds like pain to the attackers, like they have taken the women down. But it is not a grunt of pain. It is the sound of two experienced fighters exhaling as they strike so the force of air leaving their lungs is voluntary.

Edwina doesn’t even try hard. She drops to the ground and rolls with her assailant. Her knee comes up, and she uses the figure’s momentum to toss it over her head. She rolls with it and comes up with her shirt flapping to expose her lily-white ass, but at this moment she couldn’t give two shits about what she is displaying.

The attacker groans, and she lashes out a foot to land a perfect blow that flips the figure onto its back. Looking over her shoulder, she gets a glimpse of Darla, who is astride her own attacker’s chest, beating the hell out of whoever it is.

Darla looks up. Their eyes meet, and they both smile.

“You all right?” Edwina asks and feels stupid since the person under Darla is probably down and out for the count.

“Yep. Let’s truss these mother fuckers up and see what we caught.”

Screams erupt from outside as the camp becomes a chaos of running figures and shouts in the night. There are groans and smacks and even a low howl that could only come from … a man! Edwina hops onto the figure she subdued and whips the black cloth off its face. A scruffy fellow with half a beard stares into her eyes with fear oozing from his blood-splattered face. He is clearly terrified. His nose is smashed and bloody, and two of his front teeth are broken. His lips are split, and all he can do is raise his hands to his face in supplication.

“Please,” he gags on his own blood, but Edwina has a different idea of what the man is asking for and delivers a crushing open-hand blow to his throat. He chokes and gags, tries to roll over and even sticks his fingers in his throat in an attempt to get air down. It’s useless, and after a minute his legs stop twitching and he stares wide-eyed at the ceiling.

Darla is also having pretty good luck. She wraps her legs around her attacker-turned-victim. Edwina gets a look as she first lifts her leg high then smashes her ankle into the guy’s face. Then she wraps her thick thighs around the man and smothers him right into her cooch. Just as he stops thrashing, she lets a long and loud fart rip across the tent.

Edwina collapses in tears.

Darla chuckles as she extracts her legs from the dead guy. She pulls the hood of his black sweatshirt aside, and they both stare at him. This one is younger than the first but still scruffy and covered in blood.

“What is that on his forehead?”

“Smudged blood, I think. Wait, it’s a symbol.”

Darla leans close. Edwina is ready to strike if the guy so much as twitches. It’s like that in the movies; when you get close to the dead bad guy, he always pops his head up with an evil grin. If he does that now, he is going to get a fresh fist in the schnoz. Just one of the many skills taught at this ‘girls camp.’

“It’s a fucking pentagram.”

Screams from outside the tent interrupt their scrutiny. Edwina is on her feet as fast as a whip with Darla right behind her.

“Poor men.”

“Yep.”

No Direction but Fuck

Nathan P. Chuzzle wakes from a dream of drunken ballerinas performing fellatio on his sick monkey Phil, rolls over, and throws up. Violently. With a will. It splatters the wall, the floor, the bed. It’s on his face, on his fucking clothes, and when he finishes vomiting, he falls out of the old cot and does it again. He drifts off to dream land as the drugs chase his consciousness away.

Phil wanders over and leans in for a sniff. He looks at Chuzz, looks at the mess and decides it ain’t so bad. Takes a taste, just a little on the tip of his white monkey tongue. Then he laps at it. Chuzz opens his eyes and tries to shoo the little bastard away, but Phil couldn’t give two shits what his master thinks or does. He is a monkey, and he does whatever the fuck he wants, and he does it frequently.

After a nice breakfast of Chuzz afterbirth, he goes to his corner to shiver. Little monkey images flash through his head because the man hasn’t given him his medication today. He is sick of waiting until noon for his hit. If that jerk doesn’t get up soon and cook it up, he is going to have to go ape on this place and nobody fucking wants to see that. The last time he went ape, he killed a possum that got trapped in the house. Followed it upstairs and beat it against the floor until it was pulp!

Phil passes out from thinking too hard, just sets his head down and drifts into monkey dream land.

Chuzz groans and rolls over. He stares at the ceiling and burps up a mouthful of fresh vomit. He should lean over and spit on the floor, but just thinking about moving makes his head pound, so he just swallows it back down.

Chuzz wants to die. He wants to die now.

He has a gun and it is beautiful. He stares at it all the time. Well, the time that he isn’t staring at his monochrome screen or whacking off to Asian anime fetish porn. He stares at it, and he thinks about how cool it would be to see the barrel for the last time. Just look down it, study the tip of the lead ball and contemplate it accelerating up said tube and into his head. His biggest question is, ‘Will I hear the explosion as all those little grains of gunpowder ignite?’

After groaning for a half hour, he finally rolls to his feet and tugs some dirty white underwear on. They were on the floor, but the puke missed them. He is pretty sure they were washed last week, so he has a day or two to go. He squishes through his own filth as he rips his puke-covered shirt off and tosses it in the corner. Steady now, on his feet, or not so steady since the floor insists upon swaying under his blurry eyes.

Little bursts of light *pop pop pop* around the corners of his eyes. The headache just gets worse as he gets farther off the ground until it is a full-bore sum-bitch that grips the back of his skull and throbs all the way to his forehead. Like something is holding him in a vice. Something is squeezing the life out. Someone is turning his brain to mashed potatoes.

One stumbling step goes squish in his vomit. Looks down, gross. Fights the urge to puke again but can’t help it, and the only thing nearby is his fish tank. Chuzz throws the lid back and unleashes another stream, which will keep those little meat eaters happy for a while ‘cause he is pretty sure chunks of his gut came up. Have to check the pH balance later, he chides himself and laughs. Ha ha; pH balance. Those little leeches won’t last a day in that stuff.

Then again, weirder stuff has happened to Chuzz. Even weirder stuff is about to happen.

Splashes some water under his pits. He sniffs them and decides he should probably get in the shower. He tries to dig a towel out of the basket, but there isn’t one. When the hell is his mother going to get his laundry done?

Glances in the mirror. He’s already got three days’ worth of dark growth; it can wait another day, so fuck the shave. Little toothpaste swished around with some pure potato vodka that he makes himself.

Right as rain, and he is ready to get to work. Had to pop the lid of the bottles of pills, though, didn’t like that one little bit. The government can track him that way, and he likes that even less.

Always trying to catch the Chuzz up to no good. He is way too smart for that, which is why his pills come to a PO box and are delivered to a woman named April P. Umbrella. His Internet doctor makes sure everything is on the up and up.

Pills, not the blue one ‘cause it isn’t Wednesday. Or is it? Some regular painkillers with a side order of Depakote for the bipolar. Lithium for the voices and Zoloft for the depression. A pair of methadone for Phil. He goes to his companion and shows him the pills. A handful of heaven. Phil stops masturbating for a few seconds and opens his mouth wide, then it is all adoring grins while he beats his meat like it IS Wednesday night. Chuzz shakes his head and goes back to the tiny bathroom.

The thirty-watt bulb doesn’t illuminate much in this chunk of nirvana. It makes the yellow yellower and the shit stains on the toilet seat darker. Makes the layer of scum in the bathtub a little more tolerable, and it makes his skin seem almost normal.

He frowns at the thought of stripping off his clothes and standing under a white sheet of searing agony as water that is barely above freezing does its best to tear his skin off. He could pay his heating bill and get some warm water, but he only has enough extra cash to pay for his Internet usage this month.

Can’t lose his website. If that goes down, the gays will take over and then it will be the end of the world. The damn end!

He douses his hair with cold water, and his hands come away oily. He uses a roll of Bounty to dry off his long hair then runs the old silver hair dryer for a few precious minutes. It almost depletes his entire reserve on one battery—one of hundreds of potatoes sitting in lemon water, rotting and creating electricity. He walks naked back to his pile of clothes and digs through them. At least one shirt doesn’t smell like shit, so he puts it on. Maybe he should just drag his clothes upstairs and wash them today.

Not today, please not today. He has things to do, places to go and cocks to suck.

No not suck, never suck! He goes to investigate. To map out where the damn gangs hang out with their rock-hard cocks on display. Bastards; every one of them will burn in the fires of Hell.

“Ain’t that right, Phil?” he calls over to his orangutan, who is lying on his side, head lolled back so he can stare at the ceiling. Drool runs down his hairy chin and coats his neck. One eye is closed, and the other is a slit. He keeps stroking himself even though he is limp.

Stupid monkey, or should he say stupid ape? The semantics are frequently lost on his drug-addled brain.

Probably feels like shit. Just like me. He gets a flash from last night. A drunken game of patty cake with Phil. They were making out. That can’t be right!

Stands up, looks for pants. There they are, across the room over his computer chair. The space seems vast, but he will make the pilgrimage for his pants. One shambling step after another sees him at his destination and then with pants. Life is getting better.

“Phil, wake the fuck up!” he calls to his pal in the corner. Phil holds up one hairy hand, his only hand, and gives Chuzz the finger. A hairy finger. Fuck you buddy and then some. His hand falls back lifeless. Snores filter across the room like a train leaving the station.

He takes a Jenny Craig breakfast bar and tosses it to Phil. Fine, suck on that.

“Fucking Phil,” he mutters.

Tosses some clothes on the pile of vomit, and the place smells a hell of a lot better. Contemplates breakfast, but his stomach still feels like hell. Still feels like it is filled with acid. Like he is going to puke it all out at some point in the very near future. If there is even anything left in there.

Need calm, center. He goes to his tiny refrigerator and extracts the carton of homemade buttermilk. A few quick swallows and he feels as right as rain. Funny how the texture is just like the stuff he puked up earlier. Well, goes out, goes right back in. Time to head to the store and then it will be time to get to work.

When O’Coddle met Smoochole

The dark green tarps that cover the troop transport trucks are tugged down in unison, and each truckload of soldiers opens fire at the orgy. Bullets tear flesh away from bone and blood away from body as they cut large gory swaths in front of the vehicles. The general whoops and takes headshots at members of the mass that refuses to stop fucking like crazy. Major Arseblister shoulders his semi-auto rifle and unloads into the fuckfest. He steps forward into the blood and semen left in the orgy’s wake, and he doesn’t notice the skinny man wearing a cowboy hat and a tiny leather g-string crawling out of the mass of corpses on his hands and knees, with a shotgun in one of those hands.

Arseblister holds his trigger down until the rifle clicks empty. When he lowers it to reload, the blood- and jizz-covered Sheriff Smoochole looks up at him from the ground over the barrel of his shotgun.

“Asshole,” Smoochole shrieks and pulls one of the two triggers.

Major Arseblister’s neck and shoulders disappear in a smear of blood and bone. His eyes grow wide as his head rolls forward and he sees his body fall to the ground before his head hits the sand, where it rolls to General O’Coddle’s feet. The general turns on the balls of his feet, picks up Major Arseblister’s head by the hair, and stomps toward a slowly standing Sheriff Smoochole.

“You are one slam-your-dick-in-a-drawer dumb fuck, son.” General O’Coddle says as he thrusts the dead major’s head at Smoochole.

Sheriff Smoochole shakes with fury. “You stupid sono’ bitch! You’ve doomed the entire world!”

“I doomed this tiny little corner of Babylon, and I’ll burn it to the sand and then burn the sand to glass,” the general says as the two men come nose to nose and hat brim to hat brim, “and since this is where you are, this must be where you want to die!”

Tanks turn their turrets on the miles-wide orgy and fire heavy rounds into the crowd, sending fiery geysers of body parts and pulp into the sky. Soldiers scream as they empty clip after clip into the crowd, but no one makes an effort to flee. It is as though the hippies have resigned themselves to being massacred, and they want to go out fuckin’.

General O’Coddle towers over Sheriff Smoochole, and his wide barrel chest keeps the skinny little sheriff back a few inches as the men lean into each other and scream, empty shells pinging all around them and tank fire filling the air with the smells of smoke and blood.

“I don’t choose to be here, you slippery shit stain,” Sheriff Smoochole says, “I was here when the shit went wild! I lost two men to this fucking monster of a fuckfest. It kept growing every day, more cocks, more pussies, more mouths, and more assholes!”

Sheriff Smoochole wants to yell more, but he recognizes Officer Johnson’s headless corpse on the ground behind the general. His heart breaks, and he spits through gritted teeth, “You … killed … my … deputy.”

General O’Coddle glances at the headless man and turns back to Sheriff Smoochole with a laugh. “Yeah, I did. What in the clubbin’ baby seals fuck are you gonna do about …”

Before O’Coddle can finish his tough talk, Sheriff Smoochole brings the butt of his shotgun up to the general’s chin with a crack. The general stumbles back, swinging wild haymakers. Smoochole dodges one, but a second knocks the sunglasses from his face and splits his cheek wide open like a menstruating vagina. General O’Coddle bellows in fury and stomps the ground, trying to crush Sheriff Smoochole as he rolls back and forth. Smoochole catches one of the general’s raised feet and kicks him in his balls hard enough to pick him up off the ground.

O’Coddle falls in a heap, clutching his crushed testicles. Sheriff Smoochole pulls his knees to his chest and rolls onto his hands and shoulders. He thrusts his legs out, and the momentum springs his body upright as he shouts, “Hi-yah!”

The sheriff kicks the general in the forehead, and it seems to jolt the big man from his daze of agony. O’Coddle stands and tackles Smoochole in one quick movement, driving the air from the small sheriff. O’Coddle climbs onto Sheriff Smoochole’s chest and pummels him with big meaty fists. The general slams fist after fist into Smoochole’s face while his men massacre every person they catch moving in the tangled mass of the orgy. Eventually Smoochole’s skinny arms fall to his sides and his body trembles.

General O’Coddle’s eyes are wild and crazy. Scanning the chaos around him, he adjusts his fully erect prick and bends over to unclip the walkie from Major Arseblister’s belt. While he is doubled over, Sheriff Smoochole delivers a cowboy boot to the back of the general’s thigh. Surprised and hurt, O’Coddle turns, giving the sheriff the perfect opportunity to kick him in the face. The general spits out a mouthful of blood and teeth as he tries to recover.

Sheriff Smoochole dives for his shotgun, and General O’Coddle dives for his walkie to order an airstrike to quicken the massacre.

Smoochole reaches his shotgun first, and he turns it on O’Coddle just as the general snatches the walkie.

“This is General O’Coddle,” he yells into the walkie as Smoochole brings the butt of his shotgun down hard across the general’s face. A fan of blood splatters the sand around the general’s head, and he moans.

A distorted voice answers him through the static. “Yes, sir, awaiting orders.”

“Don’t you … fucking … do it,” Smoochole warns the general down the barrel of his shotgun as O’Coddle brings the walkie to his lips.

General O’Coddle looks at the shotgun-wielding sheriff and tells him, “Fuck you, flat ass.”

He then grabs the gun by the barrel and screams, “Launch air strike! Now!” into the walkie. Sheriff Smoochole struggles to aim the shotgun at the squirming general’s forehead, but O’Coddle throws the walkie at Smoochole’s face. It hits the target hard, and the sheriff’s fingers fall away from the shotgun.

Sheriff Smoochole rolls back and forth on the ground while General O’Coddle struggles to his feet. The general can’t walk straight or even see straight, but he still manages to kick Smoochole in the ribs as the first of many planes flies over, raining bullets down on the orgy. Behind it is another and another and another and another.

General O’Coddle laughs at the carnage, and he picks up Sheriff Smoochole with one hand and the shotgun with the other. He raises both in front of him so Sheriff Smoochole’s shotgun is pointed at his own chin.

The ground below them rumbles and quakes, but the general just tightens his grip. Fire and brimstone spurt weakly through every open space in the mass of naked corpses. The ground howls and cracks, but as it opens, the bodies slip down and plug the hole. A mighty, evil scream thunders far beneath the flesh-clogged crevice. Small streams of fire melt through dead bodies, but more fall to replace them, snuffing the flames. More evil howls fill the air, and the soldiers panic and scream.

“Your boys are losing it, General,” Smoochole mocks through chipped teeth. “Of course, that is the fucking Devil down there screaming. So they should be freaked out.”

“Shut the fuck up, you hippy … fuck,” the general yells into Smoochole’s face.

“Fuck you,” Sheriff Smoochole says with a broken smile. General O’Coddle growls, but before he can pull the trigger on the shotgun, the hard thick plastic of Officer Morks’s nightstick cracks across the back of his skull. The general’s eyes roll back in his head, and he falls to one side, dropping Smoochole and his shotgun.

Sheriff Smoochole extends his hand to a wild-eyed Officer Morks, who still wears his uniform but has also acquired a bright red ball gag that looks fused to his face and skull.

Sheriff Smoochole picks up his shotgun and forces the barrel into the semi-conscious general’s mouth.

“I want you to know, you Apocalypse-stirring shitbag,” the sheriff says with a grin, “I’ll be taking them purty fucking guns.”

General O’Coddle mumbles something around the gun barrel, but Sheriff Smoochole pulls the trigger, sending small gray chunks of brain splattering across the bloodstained sand.

Did You Hear the One about a Bunch of Guys Who Visited a Militant Lesbian Camp?

“So what the fuck do we have here?” Marcel wears a skintight black leather dress and a no-shit-taking frown. She carries a whip in one hand and a knife in the other. Edwina feels a tightening in her stomach every time the statuesque woman looks at her. She has heard the stories of the big tent where women go to serve.

Marcel is pacing up and down a row of chairs. Her high heels put her over six feet tall, and she is pretty much the spitting image of a dominatrix. Her prisoners are far from the spitting image of willing slaves. They are crying and moaning, and one of the little fucks has even pissed himself.

“You mean to tell me that you came here to kill us?”

“Yes,” one of the men sobs. He, like the dead men, has a pentagram on his forehead, but now it is smeared, and snot is running down his face and he almost looks pathetic. He cries when she stops in front of him and slowly brings the knife up to his face, to the place between his eyes and then drags it ever so slowly down his nose, lips, chin and chest until she stops at his groin. She uses the knife lightly, but it leaves a thin slit where it passes.

The man is tied to a high-back chair, and someone had the good sense to strap a two-by-four behind his head so that he can’t move his neck. When Marcel moves out of his line of vision, his eyes flick back and forth at the ocean of angry women before him, but his pleas fall on deaf ears.

“Why?”

“We came to unleash he who will obliterate the sun. The spawn, Satan himself.”

“Satan?” she asks lightly.

“Yes, the light destroyer.”

“Know something, champ? You are a fucking idiot.” And she jams the knife home in his groin. Blood sprays out, and he screams with such violence that his voice goes hoarse, and when he drags in a breath to do it again he can’t. He can only whimper with his mouth wide open while his life drains onto the wood floor. After a while, he stops twitching.

There are only a few left, and their interrogations follow much the same pattern. Ask a question, get pissed and kill the bastard. When she is done, there are nine bodies in chairs and not a one has breath left. The man who held out the longest begged and begged. Even when Marcel slit his throat, he forced his head down against the strain of the ropes and managed to keep the blood from gushing out. But his breathing became troubled as the plan backfired and blood pooled in his lungs.

The women have no survivors, but they do have an awful lot of info. They know where the dumbasses came from. And they know where to find the rest of the fuckers in the cult. The Sons of Satan’s Reedeming Cock are about to get a wakeup call.

Later, Marcel gets the ladies together and gets them all worked up. This is something she is good at and the reason she is the leader.

“Ladies, they thought they could come up here and kill us in our sleep. They planned to rape and strangle us. How does that make you feel?”

Edwina gets a chill when the cries of outrage come back. Fists pump in the air and hurled shoes and flung rocks batter the corpses.

“I say we pay a visit to these wackos and teach them a lesson they won’t forget because we are going to shorten their lives!” She cracks the whip, and the girls come to their feet, ready to rain unholy terror on the cretins who brought this on themselves.

The quake is so small it could almost be mistaken for the thudding of the women’s enthusiastic feet, but Edwina knows better, having lived in earthquake country her entire life. It is the barest of shimmers at first, but it builds and rumbles. It feels like it is right beneath them. She stares at the floor and watches the blood draining between the slats of wood, dripping onto the solid ground underneath.

The shimmer goes on for a long time.

Like Crack Smoke through a Glory-Hole

He takes his mother’s beat-up Camaro to the grocery market. Chuzz ignores his neighbors, who are packing up. Trucks backed into garages like the whole neighborhood just sold to some land developer. Maybe it did, but Mom played hardball and refused to sell. Now they will have to build condos around her house.

The store’s parking lot is a madhouse. The line stretches a half-mile, but he knows a short cut. Chuzz cuts around the back of the parking lot and noses between a pair of large hedges that scrape the car. Someone catches sight of him and honks their horn from the line, but fuck them. He hits the gas and fishtails through the gravel, shoots past the back of the store and zips around to the front. He parks in a tiny space marked with a handicap sign. He takes an old towel from the back seat and covers the sign. He’ll only be a few minutes.

Inside, more lunacy waits. People run all over the damn place buying up cartfuls of canned goods and bottled water. The shelves are almost bare, but he finds what he needs after a few minutes of looking.

Chuzz can’t stand waiting. He’ll do anything to avoid a line, including feigning injury. He scores a place at the front of this one with a limp and a downturned mouth like every step is pure pain.

It doesn’t hurt that he is feeling a little foggy today as though he were walking in a dream. Not one of those stupid nightmares he has every night, but a dream where everyone around him is a character and he the lead. He smiles when he has to, looks sad when it is appropriate, and tries to make as much eye contact as possible. This serves to control those around him like he is their puppet master. He reckons that’s why he gets his way. Always. And if those tricks don’t work, he resorts to his favorite weapon in his arsenal.

He is about to unleash that baby right now. A ballistic missile designed to obliterate the enemy. In this case, the enemy is the cashier who has already scanned his meager collection of items. A bag of marshmallows, some kerosene and a package of stew beef meat that was marked down because it is turning brown and no one wants to see that shit on the meat aisle. Not that there was a lot else to see.

Chuzz knows that the red color everyone demands is a byproduct of the food coloring and other unmentionables they add to stuff these days. He knows this because he reads The Daily Gab. Which brings up his immediate problem. His newspaper has not been put out yet, and the woman manning the cash register is staring at him like he is speaking another fucking language.

“I said madam—and when I say madam, I say it to be polite not because I think you are some member of royalty, which you clearly are not unless dreadlocks are a mark of the upper class, and let’s be honest here dear, oh my dear, you ain’t got the chops for that. NO chops at all for that matter.”

His eyes take their time sweeping over her body, which is round and reminds him a bit of his mother’s. But this woman is young, younger than he is, and she looks like she is more concerned with her nails than with his needs and that is not cool, man. Not cool at all. But she also looks worried and keeps glancing toward the exit as if she were preparing to bolt.

“I don’t know where the new one is. Just pay for it and pick one up on your way out. I’m sure you can find one at another register,” she says, her voice a deep baritone and husky like a smoker’s. Now she may as well be the one speaking a different language. “Can’t you see all the people waiting? They are freaking out. All they want to do is pay for their stuff and get home to their families.”

The woman behind him sighs loudly and shifts her items around on the conveyor belt like it will signal him to give it up and move on. He doesn’t bother glancing at her. Their entire interaction came down to him asking in his forlorn voice if he could just step in front of her. After all, he only had a few items, and his ankle was acting up from when he was hit by a drunk driver. Oh that would be so nice, ma’am, if you could just let me slip ahead of you. I don’t know how much longer I can stand on this stupid leg.

“Get someone here and get me the item I have requested!” He shouts the last word just loud enough for people in other lines to turn and look his way. Now the cashier and her dreads look around. The ends of her hair whip around like snakes, and he wants to grab the kerosene, spray the ends and set the little bastards on fire before they come alive and turn him into a statue. He has already been in line long enough to die of old age.

What happened to customer service? What happened to the customer is always right? It went the same way as all the big stores. All the supermarkets with their slick signs and cheap prices. It went away when mom and pop stores became a thing of the past.

Goddammit! He is just sick to death of the poor service, the poor selection. The poor attitude of kids barely out of high school rolling their eyes at him when he asks for help. He is going to go straight home and blog about this. Oh, he is going to unleash a world of hurt on this particular situation. Once he makes a stop of course; gotta check out a little hole. Gotta check it out and mark it off his map.

When thoughts of the map come to mind, he calms down a little.

The cashier rolls her eyes now as she speaks into her fancy cash register phone. She doesn’t even get her fat ass out of the seat; she just sits there and blah blah blahs about how he needs his newspaper.

She hangs up and smiles a tight little smile.

“They‘re bringing some over right now.” She stabs at the keys with her long nails. “Do you mind if some of the other customers pay while you wait?”

“Yes, I mind! I’ll stand over there like an idiot for five minutes before you remember me.”

The woman sighs, staring at him. He stands resolute. Screw this woman and her oh-so-important job. Probably has half a dozen kids at home and all by different men. Probably smokes crack around them. Passes the pipe around. Well he won’t be intimidated by her.

Customers shift, and a couple stomp off with heavy sighs to show their contempt. Yeah you sigh like I give a shit. Go on. Write about your ass too, see if I don’t.

After what seems like forever, a man finally shows up and hands over the stack of papers. He takes the old one out and sets it aside while Chuzz takes his and hands it to the woman. He smiles at the headline, which assures him the world is coming to an end.

“Will this be all?” The woman rolls her eyes, and Nathan Chuzzle wants to go Phil on her ass! Fucking Phil! He wants to jump up on the little conveyor belt and bash in her head with the cash register. Pick it up and smash her to the ground then jump up and down on her corpse. He wants to revel in her blood and splash it all over the damn place.

“That will be all, thank you very much,” he practically shouts then counts out the four dollars and eighty-two cents. He has two one-dollar bills, but it only takes a few minutes to stack up the nickels, dimes and pennies for the rest.

Goodies packed, he performs a mock bow for the woman and storms off while muttering about the disrespect some people show. The couple that made such a fuss is walking out of the self-pay section with bags in each hand. Chuzz hurries to pass them and then slows his walk when he reaches the door, forcing them to wait on him. The man fumes, but he won’t do anything, because no one messes with the Chuzz. No goddamn one!

Then the earth starts to shake. Chuzz looks around as the ground moves under him and decides that being in his mom’s car is preferable to staying here. The building might collapse and crush him. He breaks into a run, jumps into the beat-up automobile and screeches out of the parking lot the way he came in, this time taking part of the hedge with him.

The park is quiet. A few leaves fall here and there. Rain is pittering and thinking about doing a proper pattering. There were a few people here when he arrived, but they decided to move on when he sat with the windows rolled down for a good while. He stared at them. Just stared. At them and their grubby little kids. Sure way to clear out the park ladies and gents, make them think there is a crazy man interested in their children.

The river is unusually high, and when summer hits it will be filled with kids on inner tubes. Dogs will run around and shit on everything while their dopy masters follow them with plastic bags. Chuzz feels nothing but contempt for them. Go to a park with all the other dirty dirties. Yuck.

But he has a mission today. He checks his map and then the old wind-up watch on his arm. He checks them again and again, and when it draws close to two in the afternoon he gets out of the car, looks around as if he’s lost someone and then casually strolls to the bathroom.

The place reeks of years of piss and shit. There is an undercurrent of cleaning supplies, but they do little to alleviate the stench. Past the sinks with their grimy push-down hot and cold water dispensers. Past the urinals with their little white hockey pucks that are supposed to cover up the smell and clean the pisser but really just make good targets.

Past the first stall, which is empty. Past the second stall, which is also empty. He takes over the last one, the big sucker with a wheelchair sign on the door. He pulls out half a dozen toilet seat covers and uses them to make a chair. He doesn’t have to take a crap right now. He just has to wait. Oh, he is going to catch one now, oh yes he is!

He looks at the toilet paper dispenser with its myriad numbers and scrawlings. One says, “For a good time call Shantay at fo fi fi fo fi na na.”

A few minutes later, footsteps shuffle in. Chuzz double checks that the lock is secure. The person who just entered pauses, maybe checking his hair. Probably not the right guy. Probably the wrong place. Sure, the telltale sign is here, but it doesn’t mean anything. Could just be a trick, and he can mark this place off his map.

No! He has to wait it out to be sure.

The feet shuffle again; this time they walk down the aisle and enter the shitter right next to Chuzz. He waits patiently for the person to sit down. He sits, but he doesn’t drop his pants. So this is the right place!

Feet shuffle on the ground back and forth as if he is shifting in his seat. Chuzz can’t wait anymore. He knows he has the right place!

He stands up and unbuttons his pants, which have confined a raging hard-on for the past half hour. He drops them. Puts his hands on the wall and then carefully inserts his member into the hole above the toilet paper.

A sigh from the other side but no words. Then a touch of rough hands. Chuzz sighs as well. Yep, this is the place.

Quick and Greasy Like a Truck Stop Whore

Leon wakes to a scream from the theater below him. His eyelids snap open, and his blue eyes dilate in the near-darkness of his room, which is lit by the soft glow of a Care Bears screensaver and two strings of multi-colored Christmas lights. The scream fades into moans and sighs of ecstasy. The bass turns up, and the moans are so low that a good portion of Leon’s collection of Bic lighters and wild-haired troll dolls spills off his nightstand to the trash-littered floor below.

“LICK IT!” he yells to the floor, but a chorus of groans and passionless grunts muffles him.

He scoots off his bed, his tighty whities drooping and stained. Leon walks across his room as the screams resume loud enough to set his one small window rattling. The sounds below fade into nothing, but the hum of speakers pushes to their maximum. Leon knows the silence is just the space between scenes, the calm before and the bloodcurdling war cry that will signal the next round of fucking. He recognizes the yell and knows Jerome is watching Ugandan Midget Gangbang (most likely volume 3 or 7).

Leon reaches into his drawers and gives his pud a few halfhearted tugs before he grabs both his pairs of overalls and looks them over. The white and black striped ones have more than one inconspicuous stain, while the muddy green ones have only one. He smiles and drops the striped ones back onto the pile on the floor. He climbs into his green overalls and digs through the collection of rock tee shirts conveniently piled next to the door. He settles on his faded and worn White Lion shirt from ’87, and he slides his bare feet into his work boots.

Leon sweeps the fallen lighters and trolls into a pile and drops them back on his nightstand. He sets one troll upright, but the screams of two females send the lighters and dolls tumbling back to the floor. Leon recognizes the shouts of ecstasy from a scene in which two midget ladies pleasure three tribesmen hung like rhinos while bouncing ass to ass on a seven-inch-thick double dildo. Yup, Leon thinks, Volume 7, before opening the door and heading down to the theater.

Leon clomps down the narrow staircase between his apartment and the busy porn shop/theater below. Jerome waddles out of the big theater buckling his pants. Leon’s beer-bellied boss shoots him a smug grin. “Do you love that scene as much as I do, Leon?”

Leon rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Just because he still jerks off to it every now and then doesn’t mean he entirely enjoys the scene. He is sick of waking up to the same midget screams every morning.

Jerome smiles and asks Bud the same question.

Bud doesn’t look up from the Daily Gab spread out on the glass case containing the flavored anal lubes and beads. He turns the page lazily and tells Jerome, “Nope.”

Jerome grunts and asks, “How ya doin’ this morning, Leon?”

Leon walks down the last step and replies, “Cock cock Jesus cock.”

Jerome adjusts his crotch and laughs, “Jesus cock you’re weird, Leon.”

“Sins sheep blowjob lamb,” Leon tells him and then makes his way to the peep show hallway where his janitor closet and mop bucket await him.

“Mornin’, Leon,” Bud says without looking up.

“Anal twins hail Mary, Bud,” Leon says with a nod and a smile.

Jerome waddles past a display of Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussies (his current bestseller) to Bud at the counter. “I don’t get it. Leon don’t act retarded, but he talks like some sacrilege pervert.”

“Are you kidding me?” Bud’s bloodshot eyes glare at Jerome over his skinny-rimmed glasses.

Jerome huffs and stares at Bud with confusion etched on his fat face.

“You are slowly frying his fucking brain, you asshole,” Bud says with a look of disgust. “You and your fucking bathtub acid. You use his straw to stir every batch of that shit …”

“Whoa,” Jerome says and raises a hand to silence Bud. “First of all, you shitbag, it ain’t ‘shit.’ It is every bit as potent as real LSD and made almost entirely of things you can find around your house.”

Bud scoffs. “Yeah, if you live in a crack house with The Merry Pranksters and have a pharmacy for your basement.”

Jerome hitches up his pants and frowns at Bud’s interruption. “And I don’t just stir it, Bud, I straight dose Leon every fucking morning. Well, except Sundays. Because of church and all.”

Bud’s jaw drops open and his eyes twitch. He can’t find the words to describe what a greasy shit stain Jerome is.

Jerome misinterprets Bud’s silence. “I know, right?!?!”

Bud’s self-control loses the battle with his outrage, and he shouts, “You are a greasy shit stain, Jerome! Your bathtub acid is full of fucking household poisons. You’ll fucking kill him!”

Jerome waves his fat hand in the air as if to wipe away Bud’s words. “What the fuck ever. It kicks ass.” He chuckles and it shakes him like a bowl of moldy Jell-o. “Just ask Leon!”

As he says it, Jerome remembers he has a batch in the back-up mop bucket in Leon’s closet. Leon hardly ever changes buckets, but if he notices the oily acid, he might dump it down the drain.

“Shit!” He waddles as fast as he can to the peep show hallway, yelling Leon’s name as he goes.

Leon has the door to his closet open, but he hasn’t yet grabbed his mop and bucket when Jerome rolls around the corner into the darkened jerk-off hallway, clutching his chest and wheezing like the dying. The fat man’s face has turned blue.

Jerome gasps, “Leon … *gag* … some ass … *raspy breath* … hole … *gag* … unsealed … *raspy breath into gag* … the … *deep breath* … motha’ fuckin’ … *cough, cough, gag* … glory hole… *gag, choke, spit, and sigh*… between booths fifteen and fourteen.”

Leon looks down the hallway, which is lit only by the large case showing the current assortment of porn playing in the booths, to booth 15 at the hall’s dark end. A chill shakes him, and nervousness clouds his eyes.

He looks to the still-wheezing Jerome and says, “Glory hole … nononono.”

“Oh yeah,” Jerome adds, reaching past Leon into the closet, “and take this.”

He hands Leon an old and rusted half-empty toolbox. Leon sighs and walks down the dark hallway, never even turning to see what movie he would choose to spank off to before he goes to his next job. Most likely that new Hindu/sacred cow/bestiality DVD Jerome showed him two days ago. Then he could watch it in the privacy of his own small room rather than one of the crowded cum-smelling booths he cleans to pay his rent.

While Leon walks down the hall, lost in thoughts of swinging cow balls, Jerome ducks back into the janitor closet. He grabs the straw from Leon’s favorite mug in one fat fist and pulls it out with a slurping sound. He chuckles, fat and wet, while he stirs the small tub of homemade LSD with Leon’s straw.

Leon opens the door to booth 14. So far in his employ at Jerome’s EXXXtreme Theater and Sex Shop, Leon has never been inside booth 15. It is the darkest booth in the entire hallway and the most popular. It has only one neighbor and gives a half-assed impression of privacy to businessmen as they take mid-afternoon wank breaks. Something about booth 15 always sets the hair on the back of Leon’s neck on end. When the glory hole appeared between booths 14 and 15, Leon got his first views of the creepy area through the dick-shaped hole. Leon has sealed the hole up at least a dozen times, but someone (or in Leon’s mind something) keeps tearing the block away.

He digs in his pocket for his employee coin, which he drops in the coin slot. The screen clicks to life as the coin drops out of the return. A blonde with double D titties is getting pounded from behind on the screen, but Leon pays her little attention. He likes the noise, as it keeps his mind from wandering about the horrors of booth 15. He kneels, opens his toolbox, and digs for the flathead screwdriver.

The screen in booth 15 clicks to life. Leon jumps a little at the sound, but he glances to the blonde on screen. After watching her tits bounce for a second, Leon turns his attention back to his screwdriver search. He hears a deep moan from booth 15, and he mutters “titty fuck” under his breath. He wraps his shaking fingers around the screwdriver. As he turns to stand, a giant black dick flops through the glory hole and smacks him hard across his face.

Leon tips backward, hand on cheek. He stares at the dick (which is big enough to have starred in Ugandan Midget Gangbang volumes 1 through 9), and it bounces playfully inches from his stinging cheek. Leon reacts instinctively by hammering the offending prick with the hard plastic handle of the screwdriver before grabbing his tool box. He rubs his cheek and smashes the rusty toolbox against the huge prick before fleeing the horror of the massive face-slapping schlong.

The owner of the beaten dick howls and crashes against the walls of booth 15, shaking the doors to all the booths on the same side of the hallway, but Leon doesn’t look back. He opens the door to his janitor closet and throws the toolbox to the floor harder than he means to. The man in booth 15 is cursing and threatening lives in a deep angry voice, but he doesn’t open the door before Leon grabs his mug and leaves the hallway behind him.

Jerome eyes Leon suspiciously as he hauls ass out of the hallway.

“Whoa, Leon,” Jerome says while leaning forward on the glass case. The case whines under his weight, and he leans back, “What happened?”

Leon shouts, “Monster cock vengeful God!” before bolting out the door and disappearing into the bright sunlight of the Nevada morning.

Antichrist Comes a-Callin’

Lorna Jean Swallows is having a shitty day. Rose from 212 stopped by earlier and asked if she could borrow some sugar, just a half cup. Lorna is used to the frequent requests and gave her some. The old bat stops by at least three times a week, and she is sick and goddamn tired of it.

So today she went off on a rant about how her friend should quit mooching off her all of the time. How she should plan ahead and keep stuff in her cupboard. Then she remembered that Rose is senile and can barely recall what she baked yesterday. She has been losing it for about a year now. Should get tested for Alzheimer’s, that bastard disease, but Rose can’t remember long enough to make the appointment.

Lorna has been knitting a little sweater for her dog, Buttchunk, for a few days while the programs play on television. His lazy English bulldog eyes roll around when she holds it against his side like he is saying, “If you dress me in that thing, I will crap in your shoes.” But she knows the old boy will put up with it; he has for many years.

It’s later in the day when, still knitting and with yarn in hand, she wanders down to Rose’s apartment. She wishes she could step outside for some fresh air, but the blazing sun over Las Vegas is an inferno that would send her panting to her air-conditioned room in about fifteen seconds.

She strolls past Reverend Danske with his pipe hanging out of his mouth. Damn thing hasn’t had tobacco in it in an age, but he sucks on it just the same. He offers her a fine day and she offers him a blowjob. He declines, as always. Too bad; she hears from her male friends that her dentureless mouth is like a fine slice of heaven.

The carpet has been freshly cleaned since Leonard Shelton went and had his little accident. Not much of an accident; he got himself one of those crazy spells and ran up the hallway with shit pouring out of his backside. Made the whole wing smell to high heaven.

The shit stink still permeates the hallway, she swears it does. They need to pull out the drapes and hang them outside for a day. Let the scent of old Leonard’s crap filter out. But does anyone listen to her? No they do not, and if anyone in God’s waiting room knows how to get smells out of stuff, it is Lorna. She and Dan ran their bed and breakfast for almost thirty years before he keeled over from a massive coronary after taking up with cocaine at the ripe old age of eighty-one.

White walls, bright curtains and gray carpet. The whole place looks like a hotel, but that is just fine with Lorna. If it looked old and run down, then she would have no part of it. She was always fond of nice things, and her place to die should be no different.

Shuffle step because her hips grind bone against bone, and sometimes it feels like chunks of glass have worked their way in there. But she makes do, just as she always has. She strolls past Ernie’s room. Six birds and counting, but no one can count all the bird shit in the little apartment. She knows that the administrator asked him to get rid of the birds because only one is allowed, but the great thing about being old as dirt, or so Lorna has reckoned, is that you can put on a dumb expression, nod sadly and forget that the conversation ever took place. And that is precisely what she is hoping Rose will do. Forget her harsh words from earlier.

She knocks on her friend’s door and calls out, “Rose? Love? Are you in there?” Her voice still has a good southern twang to it thanks to almost fifty years in Dallas. All those years in the same city and most of them with the same fine man. They had a good life that only got better when they became swingers. Her mother found out and told her she was the most sinful person she had ever known.

Lorna took that as a compliment.

“Rose!” She knocks again and the door swings open. But Rose doesn’t answer.

She walks in and tugs her glasses up from the string that hangs around her neck. The room is a mess, the floor a gritty expanse of spilled sugar. The dark space feels empty, but she knows Rose doesn’t leave at this time of day. She watches sitcom reruns and laughs even though she has seen them over and over.

Beside an overturned chair, Lorna spots a foot peeking around the corner from the kitchen. She doesn’t have to be a genius to guess that Rose fell out of the chair. And she needs no CSI team to tell her the foot isn’t moving.

She rounds the corner and peeks at the figure, knowing what she will see, knowing it is her friend, knowing she is barely strong enough to roll Rose over and see about CPR if she has to. If it isn’t too late. If the old bat isn’t stiff. Stiffs are the worst.

Lorna touches her friend’s foot, but it is ice cold. She gets to her knees and follows the curve of Rose’s body. Knees hook around the hallway, and her torso is on the kitchen floor.

“Oh Rose, please be all right.”

Quick and Greasy Like a Truck Stop Whore

Jerome asks Bud, “What do you make of that, smart guy?”

Bud doesn’t look up but says “Hmmmmmph.”

Jerome nods and leans onto the counter. The old wood creaks painfully, and he leans back quickly.

“Huh,” Bud says. “Do you remember the Cockbugs they found at Burning Man?”

“Not as cool as a Pussybug would be,” Jerome says and then laughs immediately at his own joke.

“Whatever,” Bud tells him. He has heard the same joke for a week now. He pushes his shaggy gray hair away from his forehead and wipes the sweat away as well. “Do you remember?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jerome says with a fart. “Did you hear me say Pussybugs? You fucking stink, Bud,” he adds as he waddles farther down the counter in an effort to outrun his own stench.

Bud takes off his glasses and sets them on the counter. He spins off his tall metal stool and points one nicotine-stained finger at Jerome, “You know what, you fat flop of shit?”

“Whoa, calm down, Bud,” Jerome tries to lean on the case again, but the jelly dildos of assorted colors and sizes waggle admonishingly at him, and he leans back with a sigh. “Tell me about your super-neat Cockbugs.”

“Nope.” Bud shakes his head of wild gray hair. “if you want to know about it, you gotta read the cocksucking paper your fat self.”

He grabs his copy of The Daily Gab and flings it down the counter at Jerome. It lands with a thwack and hides the still-shaking dildos below. Jerome leans forward and eyes the magazine.

It reads “The Daily Cunt,” and the headline warns “It’s the End of the World and You are About to be Assfucked into Eternity!”

“You strange bastard,” Jerome chuckles as he reaches for it, but the fat man’s chortle gurgles into silence when he looks at the cover again to see an ordinary Daily Gab with the far less eye-catching headline “The Beginning of The END!”

“What?” a confused Jerome blurts out.

Bud grits his teeth and asks, “Are you still being a funny guy, you fucking asshole?”

“No.” Jerome shakes his fat head, “It was called The Daily Cunt, and it told me I was about to be assfucked into eternity.”

“Oh, you should be so fucking lucky,” Bud snaps as he grabs his Daily Gab off the counter. “It’s the Apocalypse and you want to make jokes. But I guess that doesn’t matter none, because my bomb shelter is built off your basement. Am I right?”

“Yup,” Jerome snorts, “Now go make sure we have enough beer for the end of the world, bitch.”

Bud heads for the door and says, “I’m gonna go see if I can catch Leon. He’ll take this shit seriously.”

As luck would have it, Leon hasn’t made it far at all. Bud walks a few steps, his arm above his face to shield it from the sun. He spots Leon at the far end of the parking lot talking to a streetlight pole covered in multicolored flyers. Bud quickens his step and walks up behind Leon.

Leon is smiling like a fool, his hand gently rubbing the smooth metal pole, as Bud walks into his line of sight.

“Bud,” Leon says and then points to the light pole, “Bukkake forgive banghole, Martha.”

“Leon,” Bud asks in a soft voice, “Are you telling me this light post is a girl named Martha?”

Leon tilts his head just a little so he can get a good look at the ultra-hot woman in the neon jumpsuit. She is way taller than Leon, and she is crack-head skinny just like Leon likes them. At least half a dozen tiny breasts bulge out from different parts of her jumpsuit. He just wants to peel off her skintight jumpsuit and kiss every pert titty she has. He imagines fucking her right there in the parking lot. He sees himself with a tit in both hands and one in his mouth, and then he kicks off both work boots so he can reach more nipples with his toes.

Bud says, “Leon,” and Leon imagines Bud standing by as he bangs his tall skinny multi-breasted girlfriend. Bud grabs Leon by the shoulders and gives him a shake.

“This is a light post, Leon, not a girl.”

“Rim job, Bud, sanctify rim job,” Leon tells his friend, fully intending to say “Whatever, Bud, what the fuck ever.”

“Are you going to the church?” Bud asks, tugging Leon away from the light pole.

“Sluts,” Leon nods as he gives Martha one last smack on her ultra-firm ass.

“Would you like a ride, Leon?”

“Sluts,” Leon nods, “and Jesus, Bud.”

“Sluts and Jesus, indeed, Leon,” Bud says as he points Leon toward his rusted gray pickup.

Bud opens the passenger-side door, and Leon climbs in. Leon settles back and marvels at all the shiny knobs and switches across the control panel. All the blinking and pulsing lights make him dizzy, but he smiles and tells Bud, “Whoa, bastard have butt plug,” which translates to “Whoa, nice spaceship.”

Bud grumbles and says, “Leon, we are in the last days, Brother. The Devil is rising right out in the middle of the wide fucking expanse known as the Nevada desert!”

Bud turns the key and pumps the gas, saying “bitch” with every pump until the engine kicks over. He pulls out of the parking lot toward Our Lady of Eternal Melancholy, where Leon works part time as a janitor. The streets are strangely empty for midday in Reno. Bud points out the tall pillars of smoke burning to the east. “See, Leon, all them Army trucks came through here the day that started.”

Leon doesn’t see tall pillars of smoke. He sees enormous crows walking on freakishly long legs and pecking at the smoldering desert with strange jerky movements. Leon turns to Bud, his eyes wide with panic, and Bud tells him solemnly, “Yeah, it’s that bad, Leon. The day the smoke started and the Army trucks drove through, all four hundred and some odd websites dedicated to that huge mother of an orgy disappeared too.”

Leon watches the monster crows picking up hapless people in their razor-sharp beaks. The people kick and scream, but the crows snap their beaks and blood clouds the air. Leon shivers and Bud continues, “Those goddamned Cockbugs that were getting everybody so stoned are raising the fucking dead, man, the FUCKING DEAD!”

Bud takes a few deep breaths, and Leon stares out the large front window of Bud’s spaceship trying to ignore the terrible crows to the east.

“At least you take me serious, Leon. That fat bastard Jerome is gonna do his best to die jerking off to that goddamned midget gangbang scene. We can survive this, Leon, trust me, Brother.”

Idiot Spawn of Satan

The room is so dark. Why didn’t she think to turn on the lights? She feels around, and something warm and sticky welcomes her fingers. She raises them to her face, her foreboding borne out by the sight of blood. She backs up and whacks her bony butt against the edge of the table.

She doesn’t want to see what the kitchen holds. She has seen terrible things in her many years, from her own son dying after a tractor turned his legs to pulp, to the boy who came back from Vietnam as a poppy freak. Hollow-eyed, drooling, stoned out of his mind. Willing to do anything for his next fix.

That son tried to get his life together; he found Jesus, and what a sight he made at church. Strutted around as a dean, talked the talk but did not walk the walk. Died when he got caught in bed with another parishioner’s wife. Technically out of bed, from what she could gather, but in the vicinity of the bed. And in the company of the cuckolded parishioner’s wife, another fella, and numerous cans of whipped cream.

Lorna wobbles to her feet and turns on the light, which flickers and casts dull shadows on the wall. They dance tauntingly for a few moments before the lights burst to blinding life, then dim slowly to a normal level. Stupid power surges.

Lorna moves to the body, stares down at it, at the blood, at the position in which Rose is lying. Must have fallen. Look at that blood by her head; it just poured right out. Poor Rose.

“She was a good mother.” A deep voice speaks from across the small space. The apartments at the Shady Oaks assisted living facility are scarcely more than large rooms. Rose’s place doesn’t even have a separate bedroom, just a small mattress tucked in a corner near the lazy boy. The big plush chair is currently occupied by a man dressed in a sharp suit. Dark gray with big lapels down the front. In one hand he holds a cane topped with a huge knob. With meticulous motions, he wipes the knob with a handkerchief. “But she asked far too many questions.”

His hollow eyes make Lorna take a deep breath and whisper a quick prayer. She clutches her knitting close to her chest. She should turn and run, grab someone, scream at the top of her lungs, “THERE IS A KILLER IN THE BUILDING!” But she remains transfixed.

The man stands, straightens his jacket, and smoothes his pants. They are made of some silky material, makes her think of girl pants, and isn’t that just the funniest thing? Girl pants on such a big strapping man. He has that cane at his side, and she can’t take her eyes off it.

A dark beard covers most of his lower face, and the hair at the center of his chin has gone to gray so that it makes a little point. Looks like a dagger. She thinks for a stupid moment about how it would feel to have that beard rubbing against her thighs, which used to be soft and smooth as cream. She imagines him impaling her from behind and gets a little excited for the first time in ten years.

The man steps out of the shadows, which is a neat trick, because there aren’t any. He moves closer to her and he is sly and sinuous, she can read that in his body language, in his eyes, which shift back and forth but never really focus on her.

“What did you do?” Lorna demands. Her teeth chatter on the last word, but she feels stronger for speaking. Like she has overcome a treacherous climb.

“What had to be done. Poor Rose.” He sighs and his voice is like satin. It tantalizes and whispers dark promises.

“Who are you?”

“You know who I am. Look deep.” He whispers the last two words as though to remind her of a shared secret.

“I don’t know you from Adam.”

“Adam? That twit. He should have taken care of business all those years ago.” His voice takes on a conversational tone as if they were old friends. It makes Lorna want to turn and run. “Rose never really wanted to keep me. At first she took to me because I was her only son. Her husband, well the man who took care of me for a few years before leaping to his death, didn’t have much input. My real father was always by my side, but he stayed in the shadows as he has for many years.”

“Just let me go back to my room. I don’t care who or what you are. I just want to go and take a nap.”

“There will be plenty of time to lie down in the near future. Events are in motion that I cannot stop. Events that will see me take my rightful place at long last. My mother was just an … an obstacle. I shall miss her, but it is for the best; a kindness really. What I have done, the release I have granted her.” He pauses and looks up with a pained expression. “Am I not a dutiful son?”

His words are refined and cultured, his inflection proper for the expression of loss, but it’s a sham and Lorna can hear the lies for what they are.

Darkness whispers, tugs at her, makes her want to sit down, but she fights it off with a shake of her shoulders.

“Let me go. You sound like one of those actors in the old black and white monster movies. Except you can’t act.”

“But I’m not touching you.” He stifles a chuckle. “It would do you no good, you know. You could run to the authorities, but they can’t stop me.”

“Blah blah blah. You need a new script. I don’t care about you or your plans. I just want to go back to my room.” She stomps a petulant foot and starts to turn around, but he is beside her quick as a whip crack. His hand circles her bony arm. She turns to confront him, but the big silver ball at the top of the cane catches her eye. She doesn’t want that to be the last thing she ever sees.

“As I was saying.” His voice is right next to her ear, and she feels the back of her neck go livid as the hairs stand on end. Her body shivers again, and her knees threaten to give out.

“We had a peaceful life while my real father prepared the world for me. For him. Now he rests under the city and waits to make his move. After I make mine, of course. Father is coming back for the end of days, and I will sit at his right hand as I lead the world to oblivion, and it will be beautiful. We will rule the world and we will rule the dead.”

“What are you going to do with a dead world, sonny?” This man is wicked, but there is also madness in his words. She feels brave when she realizes he may be just a crazy person with some charlatan tricks.

“Pardon?”

“What are you going to do with a bunch of dead people and a world burned to a crisp? How will anyone live?”

“That’s the point. No one will live.”

“So you are going to rule a big empty burned-out husk of a world with daddy? Sounds like a real shindig.”

“I … eh ...”

“Do you like girls? Do you plan to keep a few around?”

“I guess. I mean I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“And now Rose is dead. Rose Mary Lebouf, your own mother. For shame. She would be sad to see her only son saying such things.” Lorna may be more scared than she has ever been in her life, but she still knows how to play the disapproving mother card.

“You cannot understand.”

“Oh I understand all right,” she says and knees him between the legs as hard as she can. She may be old as dirt, but she knows this move just as she knows how to breathe.

The man’s eyes widen, and he grabs his balls while staggering back. As he stumbles, she pulls the knitting needle out of the yarn. When the man looks up again, his mouth is a snarl that emits a string of profanities so vulgar that their viciousness sears the room. His eyes are great gaping holes that transfix her and make her want to scream. They are livid, beyond hate.

Lorna swings the needle right into one of those wicked black holes. The needle thrusts through something hard before sinking into something soft. His body reverses the process in a grotesque parody. First it softens like the sly snake he was, then hardens like the corpse he is fast becoming. His hand claws at the needle, but Lorna has shoved it in so deep that he can barely get a hold on the slick piece of metal that is covered in white ooze and dark blood.

He tries to curse, but all that comes out is a hiss. Then he falls forward, and the impact shoves the needle all the way into his head until it clunks against the back of his skull. The smell of ammonia fills the room as the dead man pisses himself. The most malodorous shit Lorna has smelled in her long life floods the room. Makes her eyes water. The corpse shrivels a bit, and his hand, outstretched as if in supplication, shrinks over the bone, leaving a gray oily material behind. Lorna has an urge to touch it, but she fears the stuff will burn her.

She has just turned to leave the room when the body bursts into flame. Then it explodes, tossing her through the doorway. She smacks into the wall across the hall like a doll tossed by a child, then falls to the floor in a heap. One arm lies at a weird angle so she can clearly see her palm. It isn’t long before the pain of her broken arm, cracked clavicle and shattered hip rise to the surface of her mind. She takes a breath to scream, but her lungs feel like they are filled with glass. Her legs are numb, and when she tells her head to move it just lies there the wrong way so she can focus on a flea that is hauling ass across the floor. Better get while the getting’s good.

A groaning from under the building shakes the foundation, and then a great rolling earthquake sends her body tumbling over and over. Flames are everywhere, and when they reach her feet she is glad for the numbness. The last thing she hears as the world burns around her is a great booming voice that shatters her eardrums before the line can even finish.

“Imbecile! Fucking do everything myself …”

House of the Hardcore Holy

The creaky pickup slams to a stop, and Leon turns to see the towering wood and stone building that is Our Lady of Eternal Melancholy. The walls twist and breathe when Leon looks at them, but his acid-soaked brain chalks that up to God’s presence in the old dark church. In truth, it has been several decades since the church saw normal services.

“Well, Leon, I gotta go hit up the storage shed. The time has come, Brother,” Bud says.

“Sluts, Bud.” Leon smiles as he climbs out.

Leon slams the door, and the spaceship rattles and squeaks as it drives away. Leon walks into the shadow of the dilapidated old building, past the blank sign formerly used to announce current sermons, through the old wooden double doors in the rear. The stone floor seems to radiate coldness, and Leon’s teeth chatter as he walks down the candlelit entryway. To Leon’s left is the stairway to the priests’ quarters. To his right are two more sets of wooden doors. One leads to the large chapel and the other to the row of confession booths.

Leon pauses and watches the old stone walls breathe for a second before Father Maniwhore sweeps by him with a gust of wind that rocks Leon into the wall. The near-seven-foot priest turns his long goatish face to Leon and snarls, “Be careful, Leon,” before disappearing up the stairs to the priests’ rooms. Leon watches the large man until the staircase turns. Father Maniwhore is the strangest of the three priests crowded in the old church. Father Michaels, the kind and shithouse-rat-crazy priest who hired Leon, has lived at Our Lady of Eternal Melancholy for the last forty years. As Father Maniwhore’s father built the church, the tall scowling priest has lived within the rotting wood and crumbling stone of the church nearly his entire life. Father Michaels, finally feeling the effects of age on his tired mind, recently took in a new priest, Father Don O’Coddle.

Leon likes Father O’Coddle the most. The tall skinny priest has a shock of bright red hair that sticks up as if constantly charged with static energy. He smokes crystal meth in his room and plays the acoustic guitar. He once told Leon he couldn’t play any songs but he was writing a dirty Christmas ditty called “Santa Cums Tonight” and it was his ticket out of this hellhole. Leon still hasn’t heard a verse, but he believes in following one’s dreams, and he can’t wait to hear it.

Leon walks into the seldom-used cathedral, letting the wooden doors fall shut with a bang that would normally echo in the cavernous room. Then again, the room is normally empty. Today, however, masses of people line the aisles and crowd the pews. They stare gap-mouthed at Leon, and he mirrors their faces with his own fish mouth. Father Michaels spots the wide-eyed Leon and he wiggles through the crowd to his side.

“Leon, look at all the sheep the Lord has sent for us to shepherd!”

He claps his arthritic hands and turns back to the cathedral full of humanity. To Leon, the people appear as half-sheep half-humans with gaping snout-mouths.

“Jesus love juice,” Leon says as he takes a few small steps away from the sheep-people. He sees their indignation as their sheep-faces melt to bone and then build themselves back up with an odd bubbling effect.

“Oh, Jesus’s love is right, Leon.” The kind old priest shuffles the few steps closer to Leon and asks in a whisper, “Could you go fetch Fathers Maniwhore and O’Coddle? Many in this throng wish to confess, while others seek the comfort of a service of the Lord.”

Leon backs up quickly and darts up the stone stairs to knock on Father O’Coddle’s door, nervous and sweating from his encounter with the crowd of melting sheep-people downstairs. Shadows thrown by the candles on the wall dance and crawl at Leon as his trip takes an even darker turn. Long faces scowl and laugh at him from the shimmering shadows. Panic tingles in the air around him. He hears the murmur of the crowd downstairs and shouts louder than he means to.

“Blowjob, Father!” Leon yells at the closed door.

The door next to the one on which he is knocking opens, and the dark shape of Father Maniwhore peeks his long face out.

“Are you talking to me, Leon?”

“Uh, gangbang barnyard downstairs,” Leon says. “Confession and service cock hole dirty whore.”

Father O’Coddle’s door opens, and a thin cloud of yellow smoke drifts out. His face is almost as long as Father Maniwhore’s, but it lacks the sharp features of the goatish priest. Father Maniwhore looks like a demon to Leon, while Father O’Coddle resembles Beaker the Muppet. O’Coddle fixes his wide eyes on Leon and asks, “Are you talking about a gangbang, Leon?”

Father Maniwhore growls and exits his room. “No, you twat, he is telling us that there is a throng of people downstairs, and they want confession and service in these dark times.”

He casts his dark eyes to Leon, who can only nod in reply.

“OK,” Father O’Coddle says as he tries to force his bright red hair down, to little effect.

“So you and I are doing confessions while Father Michaels preaches?” O’Coddle asks.

Father Maniwhore rubs his crotch and stares at Leon. “No, I’ll do the service and you and Father Michaels will do the confessions. As the Dark Lord rises, the throngs will seek redemption. Let me wash it over them.”

With that he turns and slams the old wooden door, and the candles rattle in their sconces from the force. Leon forces himself past Father O’Coddle into the dingy smoke-filled room, away from the shadow faces reinvigorated by the slamming door.

“I tell ya’ Leon,” Father O’Coddle says with his jaw swinging back and forth, popping as it goes, “I see more than most, you know, being a man of the Lord and all. I see things most don’t. I’m more ‘aware,’ you know?”

Leon looks at the spun priest and nods. “Tweek.”

“No, Leon, I’m enlightened by the Lord. But that’s not my point.”

He pulls his robe over his skinny pale form and slides his collar in. “I’m talking about the ogre of an angel Father Maniwhore. I may not be the straightest arrow in the quiver, but he takes it to a whole new level.”

Father O’Coddle pulls his door open as Leon stands. O’Coddle pops his wild red head through the doorway, looks both ways down the candlelit hall, and pulls the door closed. He turns to Leon and whispers, “And I don’t know why he wants to lead the service. He likes to beat off during confession.”

A sick feeling rolls Leon’s belly. He’s listened in at the confession booths, but he would never spank it there. Thinking of ugly Father Maniwhore beating his meat while relieving sinners of their faults as Leon listened, unknowingly, through the thin wood makes him queasy. He wants to go back home and hide. Maybe get on the computer to see if Chuzzle, his favorite paranoid blogger, has any words of wisdom about the chaos.

Father O’Coddle sees the sickness in Leon’s eyes. “Yeah, Leon, I feel it because we sit back to back with only the thin wall in between. It’s distracting as fuck when I’m trying to absolve a mother fucker. You know what I mean?”

Leon doesn’t want to think about it, so he nods and hopes he won’t have to hear any more about Father Maniwhore and his self-love. The two walk down the hallway without talking, Father O’Coddle whistling his Christmas song and Leon staring at his feet to avoid the laughing faces on the walls. The cathedral is even more crowded than before. The mob turns and looks at them, and Leon feels their eyes burrow into him.

Father Maniwhore’s deep voice thunders through the church. “THE END HAS COME, ALL SINNERS!!!”

The dick-shaped bruise darkening Leon’s cheek begins to burn, and Leon watches everyone melt and puddle on the stone floor as Father Maniwhore continues, “REJOICE, I SAY, FOR THE TIME IS UPON US!!!”

Whimpering, Leon pushes his way through the melting crowd, into the foyer, and out into the day. Smoke fills the sky, and flames pour from the buildings around him. Leon sets off at a dead run for home with his hands held up to shield his eyes from the chaos of people screaming, windows breaking, and cars crashing.

“I just want to make it home and go to sleep,” he repeats in his head over and over. He tries it out loud, but “Snuggle fuck holy house monkey sack” just doesn’t have the same calming effect.

He pushes through the front door and past Jerome, who barks, “Where the shit is Bud?”

He ignores the fat man, still thinking “I just want to make it home and go to sleep.” As Leon turns toward the stairway to his room, he grabs an unopened Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy. He amends his mantra as he trudges up the stairs. “I just want to go home, fuck a piece of pussy-shaped plastic, and go to sleep.”

Jesus, he Sucks at Craps!

Charlie’s boss sucks on a cigar. He is as wide as a refrigerator and bald as an apple. He puffs when he isn’t gasping great big breaths that rattle and wheeze when he moves.

A waiter steers around the men and into the hubbub of the casino. Amidst rumors of the end of the world, people have flocked to Sin City like never before. Charlie has never seen so many luckless losers blowing their savings at such a rate. They are making so much cash that boss man hasn’t said shit about losses all day. Even the Chinese guy who left with two million house dollars was allowed to just go back home like he won two bits. Few weeks ago, Edgar Marcinni would have been all over the guy like a snake oil salesman until they won some of the money back. What the fuck was the world coming to?

A slow army of graying hair and tropical shirts pours inside. Probably another bus of rich golden-year retirees who are sick of kneeling in church praying for their souls.

The volume is increasing by the hour. People are flooding in like Tom Jones is performing tonight, but he isn’t. He’s rumored to be vacationing in Bali while the ‘excitement of possible coming events’ plays out.

The ground picks that moment to heave and ho like a ship that just hit a wave. He reaches out and grabs the arm of the pit boss to keep his balance. The bigger guy smiles at the minor earthquake and rides it while clenching down on his cigar with yellowed teeth.

“Another little one.” He shrugs off Charlie’s hand and turns to face the army of the old. “Come oh ye faithful. Spend yar fuckin’ money like it is going out of style.”

“This can’t keep up. People are going to get wise to the fact that they are still alive in a few days. Take that guy there. How long has he been at it?”

“The crazy in the robe? Three fucking days. He ain’t moved and ain’t that some shit?”

“What?” Charlie says.

“He ain’t moved in three days.”

“That a record or something?”

“Pretty close. That meth head made it for four, but he went out in an ambulance. This guy doesn’t look tired. He seems … I don’t know, elated. Go talk to him. See what he is all about. Offer the guy a nice room or something. The way he is spending money, we need to keep him happy.”

“Sure, boss, no problem.” Charlie steps away and is almost plowed down by an electric wheelchair driven by a demonic-looking woman with black cat’s eye glasses and a disheveled bun of blue that trails behind her. “I fucking won ten grand. TEN GRAND!” she yells as she almost runs him over.

He takes the long walk along losers’ row. How many times has he taken the steps and tried to reconcile what he does? How much money he helps bring in, how many dreams he has seen crushed. How many times has he stared into the eyes of someone who just lost a child’s college tuition? Offered comforting words, offered the devastated parent a free upgrade to a suite and a fresh line of credit?

It pays to look like a nice guy. At work at least. He tried to be a nice guy at home, but that didn’t work out so well with his lovely bride Edwina. Bitch kicked him in the fucking balls and drove over his legs. They found the car a few days later but no sign of her. He wanted to press charges, but he was too damn embarrassed that she’d beaten the hell out of him and stolen his car.

Stupid cunt. He gave her everything, and as payback he gets to walk with a limp everywhere he goes. Some days he wakes up and can’t feel his fucking legs. If he ever catches up with her, she isn’t going to feel her legs for a long time.

He strolls past a pair of patrons. A short man with bright red hair and a stunning woman dressed in something that resembles clothing. She has gigantic fake boobs that are barely contained behind her string top. They are kissing while she takes his dice and tosses them across the table. He grabs a handful of her ass and peeks as the dice come to a stop. Then he jumps up and down as they win a cool five grand. Charlie can tell the winnings from a mile away. His eyes lock on the color of the chips, and he feels like the money is being taken out of his own account.

They will probably lose it back to the house in a few minutes. Nothing else to see here; move along, folks.

He makes it to the craps table and gets an up-close look at the man who is perched over the back of it. One foot cocked up on the support of the leg rest. His other hand crooked, elbow on the table, hand cupping chin with fingers tapping pearly white teeth. He has a full beard, which reminds him of one of those Al-Qaeda mother fuckers on TV. The ones who want to kill Charlie and take away his freedom.

The man’s eyes are wide open and bloodshot. Sweat drips down his brow and onto the collar of his robe or toga or whatever the hell that sheet hanging to the ground is supposed to be. Probably works on one of the shows; he looks like one of those Broadway wannabes who run around in costumes. Looks like he could play someone’s dad with all that hair and those dark circles under his eyes.

“You … uh … you okay, sir?”

“Yep.” He doesn’t even look at Charlie. He just grabs the dice and tosses them with a flourish of his hand, white robe whipping out with a snap.

“Sir, if you would like to take a break, we can hold your chips for you. No one will let anything happen to them. Or you can take them with you, and the table will hold your spot.”

He tosses the dice again, and they come up a three and a two. He stares at them like they are his worst enemy, like he is going to reach across the table, sweep them up and toss them across the room.

“Me!” he exclaims.

“Pardon?”

The man turns his full gaze on Charlie, and the man who has seen it all recoils. There is something there. Something old beyond measure. Something that makes him want to find a hole and hide in it. He feels like he is under the gaze of his angry father, just like the old days when the drunk used to chase him out of the house.

He thinks of the first time he hit Edwina, and he feels a flash of pity, of shame. He feels like a child who has done something wrong but was never punished for it.

“I’m sorry,” he says to no one in particular.

“I said me, you half-tard. Now fetch me another of those wondrous drinks that make my head buzzy and dizzy at the same time.”

Charlie really can’t do anything. The man is in full possession of his faculties, that much is certain. He may be a bit crazed, but otherwise he is harmless. If he were causing a scene, it would be a different matter. He stands on unfamiliar ground here as he contemplates what to do with the man. Three days of gambling. That can’t be good.

He affects a tight little smile meant to look dismissive even though he is the one being summarily sent away like a kid without his supper. He meanders back to the boss, narrowly avoiding a pair of midget Elvis impersonators who are belching fire from their mouths and asses.

The boss gives him the arched eyebrow. He doesn’t really know what to say, how to respond to the fact that he was told to go away. He shrugs his shoulders. A sound from the table he just left grabs his attention. The guy is stomping his foot. Is that a fucking sandal? “Me Me ME!” he yells.

“How much is he down?”

“They say three point four mill, but I find that hard to believe.”

“Jesus.” The room goes completely silent for a split second, and all eyes glance at the man in the robe.

“What the fuck?” the boss whispers, then it is chaos again as machines spit out money, take in money, lose money and clang clang clang like there is no tomorrow. Which there isn’t, according to most of the people in the building.

Charlie is not so sure. He still has customers to draw in, and he plans to wring every dime from them so he can keep the real bosses happy.

“Weird,” Charlie says to himself. Boss nods and goes back to work.

The building shakes again, and someone wails as chips fall to the floor and roll everywhere. Scrambling, fingers reaching then fists pummeling. Kicks, groans, bodies go down. Security descends on the scene and sorts things out with elbows and clubs.

Death Gets Some Ass

The horse is a massive stallion that gallops through the rent in reality. His name is Chester, and he breathes fire when he is in a bad mood. He and Death have been together for a long time, but the stallion is sick and tired of carrying the bald man all over the damn place. He was due for retirement a long time ago. He was promised an endless field of young fillies, but that never happened. Yeah he is resentful, but he has a great job. He gets to lead the charge, and when the two-legged people fall, he gets to mush his hooves through their skin and blood.

Sometimes it’s the little things in life that make it worth getting up for one more mass slaughter.

He lands on the ground going a solid twenty miles an hour and leaps over an oncoming car. The driver freaks out and hits the brakes, sending the car screeching to a sideways halt before the front end, now at an angle to the road, is sheared off by a Dodge Ram truck loaded with slot machines.

Chester tugs his lips back in something suspiciously like a grin.

The slot machines fly over the front of the truck and smash all over the street, sending coins and shards of wood and metal into traffic. The resulting scene resembles overdone movie action as every driver on the freeway tries to adapt to the impromptu obstacle course.

The rider taps the stallion with his left foot, speeding him to the side of the road so the rider can see what’s going on.

Chester drinks it in. The guy he frightened tries to get out of his car, but a limo hurtles into the truck pushing the Dodge into the side of the car. The door flies back and pins the man to the side of the vehicle before his head pops like a melon.

“Sorry!” the man calls.

Chester is not.

Death is confused.

Nothing is going right. The seals haven’t been found. That was the first bit of concern he brought to his colleagues. The fact that all seven were still intact. But they didn’t listen; they said it was time to make up their own rules instead of living up to something a bunch of guys high on mushrooms wrote almost two thousand years ago.

The chosen are going to be pissed. Jesus is supposed to appear and take them to Heaven (which ain’t all that great; Death has been there and no one has a sense of humor) leaving the others to roast in Hell. Well it sort of works that way. Once he takes the good guys away, the four Horsemen have free reign. But none of it is happening the way it’s supposed to!

Where are the plagues, the fires, the mass deaths? Where are the locusts and shit? And where the hell is Jesus?

He wanders the streets, which are filled with partiers indulging in all manner of revelry. What the hell else would they be doing? It’s the end of the world and no one cares. Well he is going to make them care, he and the other three Horsemen. No one makes a mockery of them the way that woman on TV did today.

But he has something else on his mind right now. Something about which he has been thinking for thousands of years. Something that he is not supposed to try, but what the hell, the rules are all messed up. Nothing is going as planned.

“Its Arma-fucking-geddeon and no one cares!” he yells at the top of his lungs.

“Armageddon! Wooooooooo!” a bunch of college kids yell back with their hands and drinks in the air.

“ARMAGEDDON!” others yell farther down the street.

Death shakes his head and considers breaking out the old scythe right here and now.

He comes across a place that is just what he’s looking for. It was probably a pawnshop until recently, but the sign has been torn down and replaced with a fresh handwritten one. The windows are brightly lit, and the object of his quest is just inside.

He dismounts and shoos his horse away. Just before it departs, Death is pretty sure his steed gives him a sardonic look. What the hell is wrong with everyone today? The steed spins in a full circle, front legs kicking at the air. It stops with its giant horse cock pointed at Death and then leaps into the air and is gone in a half heartbeat. The air ripples where it passes.

He turns his attention to the shop. The figures in the front are pretty good-looking as far as mortal women go. He was always partial to those angels, the arch ones with the blond hair and muscular bodies, but most of them were far too pure and chaste to take up with him. He heard that War got a hand job from one once, but War was probably just talking out his ass.

A leggy blonde strolls up to him and hands him a flyer. She is dressed in a see-thru white top and a bright pink thong that reads Eat At Ella’s on the waistband. Her age is hard to guess, because she has enough make up caked on to make a clown break down in tears and worship her.

“Welcome to the Fuck Pit. My name is Ella, and here are our rates.” She sounds and looks bored. “You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”

“I have a face like that.”

“With all those tattoos? I bet you don’t at all. Are you in the movies or something?”

“Like you said. With a face like this?”

“Christ. What a day I’m having. With all the crazies in the street talking about the end of the world it seems like every virgin within twenty-five miles has been in and out of here.” She cocks a hip and strikes a pose that Death assumes is supposed to be sexy.

“Isn’t in and out all part of the game?” he asks.

“Nothing gets by you, smart guy. We just opened. Carl said it was on the up and up, but I have my doubts. You don’t just have a whorehouse spring up in the middle of the city in a day. There are palms to grease, people to blow. Why the hell am I telling you all this?”

“I guess confession is good for the soul.” He grins.

“So what do you want? Just look at the little flyer there, and I’ll bring out some girls.”

She rings a little bell on her hand, and within seconds seven or eight women in various states of dress enter the room. Death looks them over and settles on a brunette dressed in a bright red latex top that hugs her skin so tightly he wonders how she can breathe in it.

“Her.”

“Terra? You got a death wish or something?” She smiles.

“Her.” He grins.

“Fine. Work out the details in the room.”

The woman smiles demurely at Death and takes his hand. She is about five foot five, but with her red stilettos she must be closer to six feet, because he can see the back of her neck straight ahead. He can also see her ass around the strip of plastic she wears as clothing.

“My name is Terra Fuckbunny. Mind telling me what you had in mind?”

“Something I have always wanted to try,” he almost whispers.

She draws him into a room filled with all manner of paraphernalia. Straps and chains hang from every wall along with whips and paddles of all sizes. He whistles appreciatively. Death knew a few Inquisition types that would get hard-ons at such a display.

She turns to regard him, and he holds out the flyer with his finger pointed at one of the options toward the bottom.

“That’ll cost you.” She grins as she looks him up and down.

Death gives her a few of the hundred-dollar bills he found in the woman’s purse at the talk show that morning. She had a whole pile of them rolled up along with pills and powders of all sorts.

“Now get on your knees!” she orders, face suddenly stern.

When he is down, she puts one stiletto heel on his back and leans over to whisper in his ear. Death tries not to grin. Then the world is turned upside down.

Cock Slapped!

Much later in the day and Charlie has watched the man in the robe for hours. He can’t figure the guy out. He orders enough vodka and Red Bulls to placate an army of alcoholics. He downs them, belches, scratches his ass. He shuffles from foot to foot, and every time he reaches into his robe he pulls out money. Where the hell does all that damn money come from?

Charlie returns. He has to learn about this guy. He is dying to know how he can hold in that much booze and not go to the bathroom. And where does he keep that fucking money stashed?

Weaving through traffic once again, he makes his way to the table. Past a newspaper stand where he spots The Daily Gab and its news of The End. Big headline that proclaims the Apocalypse has begun! Idiots, all of them. All of those assholes in the media. Anything to scare people into buying more trash mags.

Daily Gab. What kind of name is that? He glances at it again with a frown on his face and for just a moment he thinks it says The Daily Cunt. And what the hell does that headline say? Charlie rubs his eyes and snatches up a copy, but he must have been seeing things. It is still called The Daily Gab, and the cover story is still “The Beginning of the End!”

He tosses it aside and stomps over to the guy in the robe. The man who has blown him off, stood in one place for three days and spent a fortune on the table. He is wobbling now, moving from side to side like the booze is finally hitting his system.

People stop and watch him toss dice. They stare for a minute then shake their heads and walk away. Some leave. Others cash out their chips and go to the bar.

“How are you this bad at the game and yet you keep on playing?”

“Bored.”

“Oh.”

The guy has a stack of chips that can’t be more than ten or fifteen grand. The dealer keeps her eye on him as much as she does on the dice.

“Can I ask your name?” Charlie wonders why no one has thought about that.

“Sure.”

“Um, what’s your name?”

“I am that I am.”

“Sounds like some shit Charlton Heston would say,” Charlie chuckles.

“So that’s where Dad got it.”

A woman in a bright red dress that barely covers her voluptuous form steps up to the guy and runs her hand over his arm. He looks at her, at her cleavage and then at her legs, which are on display thanks to a slit that runs ALL the way up. Charlie even watches as she moves.

“High roller. I like your style,” she says. “Is this silk?”

“Samite.” He looks away from her to watch the dice as they crash against the back of the table. The ground shakes as they strike.

“ME!” the man yells when he tosses twelve for the second time in a row. The woman stares at him with suddenly adoring eyes.

“You can’t be serious!” Charlie yells just as another, larger quake shakes the place. This one is much stronger and almost pulls him off his feet.

“Can’t I?” the man whispers, and his voice, though quiet, is everywhere at once.

A trick of the building, the way sound carries. The place moves again, and this time the power flashes out. The room goes silent for a split second before people start shrieking.

“Ah crap.”

“Craps,” the dealer corrects just before an enormous red shape smashes through the middle of the building from the floor up. It tears apart tables and tosses people aside like they are kindling. A man in a suit, is smashed into the ceiling as the giant column tears it apart.

Massive. Charlie has seen water towers that aren’t this thick. It rises, slowly, curves over in its relentless path of destruction. The building is sheared in two around him, and all he can do is cringe. He finds himself cowering near the man in the robe and uttering the Lord’s Prayer by rote. The first thing that comes to his lips, even though he has not been near a church in at least two decades.

The man in the robe tosses back a drink but stands unyielding as the ceiling joins the floor. Daylight pours in for the first time since the place was in the early stages of planning. Massive chunks of concrete with lights still attached fall to the ground. Tables explode under the impact, and the unmistakable sounds of coins tinkle as slot machines fall over or are crushed.

A river of chips falls into the chasm that is left by the giant red thing. Charlie stares after them and counts thousands of dollars. His mind is doing stupid things like wondering how in the fuck they are going to recover the money.

Then the man pushes back his robe and utters words that seem to set the air on fire. He raises his hands, but before he can get his entire phrase out, the giant red column whips back over and smashes him to the ground.

Charlie tries to avoid the enormous red thing, but it is moving too fast and he is far too scared. As it descends and pulps his body to a mass of skin and blood, the last thought his mind manages is, “Is that a giant fucking cock?”

Pestilence Rides a White Pony

Despite the meager shade provided by his gray cowl, the sun burns his eyes. They have grown accustomed to the dark. The desert sun is brutal even with the massive plumes of smoke darkening the sky. He smells thousands of rotting corpses broiling in the sun and flash frying from hellfires below. The stench doesn’t bother him as much as the ride. He rocks back and forth, back and forth, back and fucking forth. His horse moves forward, trudging through deep ruts of tank tread. If it could whistle, he bet it would. Smug motherfucker. But then again, it didn’t need a fix.

Withdrawal tugs at his guts, and the constant rocking motion of his steed forces vomit up his throat. The rider pulls at the reins wrapped around his long slender fingers. The steed rears back on its hind legs, and the rider curses and clutches at its neck. He swings off the horse, his gray cloak billowing, and lands on his knees in the sand.

The notorious Pestilence of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse gags and spits out a mouthful of ash and vomit as his horse walks a slow, steady circle around him. He has nothing left in his stomach, but still the need twists and tugs and he dry heaves in response.

“Keeeerist, let me die,” he begs with drool and snot dangling from his slender face.

“Sir?” a frightened voice asks from behind his kneeling form.

Pestilence wonders to himself how long he spent in that last opium den. If people are already calling him “sir,” then War must be riding around on his hard-on raising an army of the dead and loosing the Dark Lord. War is a smug motherfucker too. War would be pissed that Pestilence is so far behind the plan.

As his chest heaves and burns, Pestilence doesn’t feel like hearing about it. It occurs to him somewhere deep in his ancient subconscious that zombies don’t normally talk. And it’s common knowledge that most demons speak with foreign accents. He is supposed to be the first Horseman to hit the scene but, damn it, there is great heroin in San Francisco. If War got impatient and did what Pestilence was supposed to do, then he might be out of a job. Screw it. The job has gone to shit anyway.

Every plan Satan has spent millennia planning has gone to shit.

The Antichrist is dead. Stabbed in the eye by an old lady. What a pussy.

The brilliant aphrodisiac and hallucinogenic Cockbugs Satan and Pestilence created together were too effective. And that was kind of his fault. Pestilence, on a six-decade runner of highballs, speedballs, heroin, meth, and sometimes straight dirty cotton, insisted that they should get people high. They got humans really high. And really horny. The orgy, always intended to be a slaughter, got wayyyyyy out of control. The fucking hole got plugged. Satan himself couldn’t push through all the rotting corpses. The Dark Lord went insane with anger and exploded on Las Vegas, leaving demons from all 147 circles of Hell pushing at the corpse plug for a chance at the Earth.

No word on Jesus.

He hasn’t heard about God.

An angel hasn’t fucked with him for as long as he can remember.

If War doesn’t get here soon, Pestilence will crawl back to an alley in Reno and fill his veins with something. Anything.

“Sir,” the small voice reminds him, “we are awaiting orders.”

Without standing, Pestilence focuses his sunken bloodshot eyes at the Army captain staring at him. Recognizing the man as living, Pestilence stands straight and notices the line of military vehicles and tanks. Hundreds of soldiers mill about; piled in the shade playing cards, napping, and a few cleaning their weapons.

“Who are you?” Pestilence hisses.

“Captain W.B. Firepot, United States Army,” the captain says with a snappy salute.

“How long have you been out here?”

“A few days. General O’Coddle got his brains splattered, and he never gave us our next orders.”

“Sooooo,” Pestilence says, the throb in his throat nearly choking him, “Where is the junk?”

“Sir?”

“The smack. The crack. The wack. Something to get me high!”

“Sorry, sir,” the captain frowns. “We dumped our supplies of drugs, recreational or otherwise, a few hours ago.”

“Bullshit,” Pestilence says in a terrible booming voice that draws all the soldiers’ attention. He sniffs the air and addresses the lot of them. “I know someone is holding. DO NOT hold out on ME!”

Apocalyptic Stank

Nathan Chuzzle picks up his keyboard and contemplates smashing the stupid thing against the desk. He’d tried to dig up some dirt online for the blog, but the connection kept dropping. He jiggled some cables and cursed a good bit. One minute he was on, and the next he got a blank screen. He tried to stay patient, but it was a long lonely walk up that road for Chuzz.

If he ever gets online, he will go double Chuzz on Chuzzles-guzzle.com ‘where the world can eat my shit.’ He might be a little nuts, but it’s all good, ‘cause his fans love it. All fourteen of them. They adore his ranting, and he tolerates them for it. Most of them. Some people don’t like him, and that isn’t good for them. Chuzz likes to be confrontational. He likes to get back at people, and he has the perfect tool for it.

He has a computer.

With just a name he can dig up stuff from everywhere. Facebook, Twitter, Myspace. He can hit them all. He can start posting against his enemies right away. Emailing their friends and telling them what bad people they are. He can start fake Twitter accounts with their names and have a field day.

He masks his IP by swinging through Sweden, hitting a proxy in Paris, then it’s back to the good ol’ USA where he can do his work and have his revenge.

Take the aptly named Travis Hole. Hole spoke out about Chuzz on his own forum. Said he was a loser, had a pathetic life. Oh he was going to show Hole what a pathetic life he had, all right. He’d already found out where the guy worked and even gotten an address.

The craigslist post was pretty easy. It read:

My name is Travis and I am suffering from a disease that leaves me crippled in a wheelchair. I like men but they are repulsed by me. Please send cock shots to my address because if I stare at a computer screen too long it causes pain from a rare form of eye disease. Call me names, show me cum shots. Please.

Chuzz logs onto his forum on Chuzzle’s Guzzle. He’s been warning people all week about the end of the world, and now they are all freaking the fuck out saying it isn’t going to happen. Some make fun of him with snide little comments that are slathered in butter. Like he won’t see through them. Like he won’t see what they are really saying.

He breaks out the banhammer and tosses the worst of them from his board like the little piggies they are. ‘Bye piggies. Have a nice loser piggie life.

Phil rolls over and tugs a blanket over his bare monkey ass with his one arm. He farts then sticks his finger up his ass, extracts it and sticks it in his mouth. Chuzz tosses him another Jenny Craig bar. “Suck on that, you gross bastard.”

RING RING. The phone detonates little bursts of color in his head. Pain pills haven't kicked in yet. Depakote hasn't wormed into his head. Buspar hasn't helped him chill out. Zoloft hasn't mellowed him yet. The Viagra sure as fuck has kicked in. Took that shit by accident because TransMedTard sent him the wrong thing. Took a few days to realize it, and now that he has stopped, he can't lose the hard-on. Probably explains why his vision is tinted blue as if he were wearing cyanotic sunglasses.

His felt posters look good in blue, and when he turns on the black lights, they really freak him out. He stared at one last night for almost an hour while drool ran down his chin. Blame the fucking Depakote. That shit would probably fix Phil if he got a few down his monkey throat.

RING RING, the phone sounds again and he goes to dig it out from under a pile of old army blankets that are quietly moldering away in a corner.

The phone is ancient. Seen better days. Hell, it saw better days when Nixon was in office.

RING RING the stupid ding-fuck-a-ling! What the hell! Hardly anyone ever calls him; he’s not even sure why he has a phone. He got a call from Father Fannery once, down at the Old Bitch Conception Church of Erecting. Thought it was a joke at first until the old fart asked if he knew where he could meet a nice young man and the way he said ‘young’ left no doubt that he meant altar boy age. Then he screamed at the old man, “Why the hell would I know? I hate men and the gays and the people who help gays!” and ended the call with a spectacular spit-blown FUCK YOU.

Grabs the headset of the phone and listens to a scratchy dial tone that warbles in and out. It fades and then speeds up, and he can’t help but wonder how a solid tone can go faster. Then static and a voice asks if he would like his skin laundered today.

“What?”

“I said. Would you. Like to have your. Skin laundered you. Stupid fucking. Monkey.”

“Phil, it’s for you.” He holds the phone up in the air. Phil gives him the finger for the second time today. The one that was up his ass.

“... the h double hockey sticks am I doing?” he whispers.

The monotone on the other end scratches at the phone like it is trying to get out. It stops and starts like an asthmatic trying to sound evil. It doesn’t sound evil. It sounds downright retarded.

“Leon, that you, you sonofabitch?”

“Not Leon. Not that easy. Not that easy at all. Not. Leon that lazy. Fuck. Er.”

“Are you the government?”

“Not quite. Not. Quite. Now I need. To talk to. You. Face to. Face.”

More warbling and the line goes dead. The phone line just drops like it fell off a cliff. Then a loud squelching sound rips into his already throbbing brain. He throws the phone down. It hits the pile of old blankets and doesn’t bounce, so he kicks it as hard as he can, which is a big mistake since he’s barefoot.

“Mother …”

A knock on the door upstairs cuts off his words. No one visits. Mother doesn’t like it when people visit, so they keep away. She used to keep a potato cannon by the front door that she would try to heft to scare away salesmen. A nice bright biohazard sign does the job now.

The knock comes again, louder this time. Then the house shakes and shudders, like something fell over outside. Something big.

Polite knock again, and Chuzz limps to the stairs. They are old and rickety, and he is pretty sure they will kill him one day. He spends enough time stumbling down them after getting fucked up on crème de menthe shooters. Washes those fuckers back with a Reese’s cup and calls it a day after noon. All that booze and all that sugar get him nice and lit up. Then he does his best work on the Web.

He stumbles against a computer monitor he used to swear he’d toss one day. One day has turned into one year. Pretty soon it’ll be one decade. He kicks that thing too and regrets it the moment he readies his leg. Regrets it again when he swings it and really fucking regrets it when his foot slams into the monitor and his toe curls back the wrong way.

A whole string of obscenities this time.

Knock knock.

“I’m cumming!” Chuzz thrusts his hips at the stairs like he is fucking them. When he finishes that, he plans to mess up whoever is banging on his door.

He tugs his sweat-stained shirt over his raging hard-on and walks up the stairs on his sore foot. Limps, staggers, tries not to put pressure on it, which is a bitch because he weighs two forty and change.

Pictures of the old days line the walls, the days when he and Mother dressed as clowns and went to work at a local fast food joint called The Circus Fat Burger. Most of the food they served went to feed Mother.

She was bigger then, and when she used to walk around upstairs, it didn’t just make the house groan, it made the poor thing break down in tears.

As though remembering those days, the house shudders as another earthquake hits. Chuzz holds onto the railing for dear life even though he is only on the third step. The polite double knock comes again, and he is tempted to go downstairs, get his gun, and shoot the knocker in the kneecap.

He puffs up the stairs and slams open the door. It swings back and hits the wall. This is the part where it normally smacks him in the face. But thanks to all the Viagra, it smacks him right in the cock, and that’s when he loses it.

“Mother fuck! Mother fuck! I am going to kill the fuck out of you if you are a mother fuck of a door-to-door salesman. I am going to kill you and feed you to Phil! You hear me?”

Phil picks that moment to let rip an explosive fart that probably leaves chunks on the wall. Fucking Phil!

Pestilence Rides a White Pony

Pestilence eyes roll wildly in their sockets, scanning the crowd of frightened sunburned faces and falling at length on the petrified captain.

“You?” Pestilence asks, his hiss shaking with need and his lower jaw moving back and forth.

The soldier shakes his head frantically and realizes too late he should be backing up. Pestilence leans forward and hacks thick orange goo all over Captain Firepot’s face and chest. Huge sizzling blisters rise where the acid hit, and the bubbles swell and convulse on his face as the panicked man runs toward his fellows. The other soldiers take aim at Pestilence, and he smiles, his rotted teeth looking like an ancient graveyard. He mimics a gun with his right hand and points it at the captain.

He pulls his thumb back, and the blisters on the captain’s face and chest pop, spewing putrid acid down the soldier’s body.

Pestilence follows the man, looking down his finger, until his run becomes a stagger. A split second before the captain collapses into the crowd of his fellow soldiers, Pestilence slams his thumb forward and says “bang.” Captain Firepot explodes, spewing the orange goo on dozens of soldiers. The soldiers scream as the painful burning blisters rise, and they turn and run at other soldiers. The uninfected open fire on the infected, which only quickens the spray of blood. This helps, because only the initial carrier explodes.

Pestilence doesn’t wait for the screams or gunfire to stop before rifling through the first of the dead soldiers’ uniforms looking for something to get high on. He hears the heavy breathing of two different beasts, and he knows Famine is approaching.

He rolls his red eyes and squints into the morning sun at the fat Horsewoman on her eternally starved horse.

“What the fuck, Pestilence?” she asks in her half-muffled voice, which is very whiney for such a large woman.

“What the fuck yourself, fat ass,” he tells her without looking up from the soldier he is ransacking. She huffs while he digs in the back pockets and comes up empty. Pestilence rolls to his knees and crawls to the next body to continue his search.

“Ummmmmm,” she says, and he does a fine job ignoring her.

“Where is War?” Famine asks as her horse’s legs finally give out, dropping her to the sand with a thud. Pestilence snickers under his hood. She rolls to one knee and stands to face him, face flushed and breathing heavy. “Where is Death?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Pestilence tells her, moving on to the next corpse. His cloak sticks to his slender frame with sweat.

Dark hair clings to Famine’s flabby cheeks, and she peels it off while whining at him, “I can’t believe you are the first Horseman. Once War gets here we can get started, I assume. That is, if you can stop rolling around fondling dead guys long enough.”

“What’s to start?” Pestilence asks, sighing as yet another pocket turns up empty.

“Uh, hello? The Apocalypse.”

“Where have you been? In a fucking cheeseburger cave?” Pestilence pauses his search to look at Famine. His own long greasy hair is plastered to his sweaty face, and his bloodshot eyes squint in the morning sun.

“The Antichrist is dead, you fat twat. An old Betty got him right in the eye.”

He jerks a thumb at the heaving, smoking mass of stinking corpses, “That’s not your Dark Lord down there fighting to get up. Nope, his boy died, and he split to Vegas. That, you stupid fat whore, is all the demons in Hell fighting to get out.”

Famine crosses her chubby arms across her gigantic bosom and tells him, “You are such a rude junkie fuck. I have no idea what you are talking about. Other than that you are a rude junkie fuck!”

She screams the last, and Pestilence whimpers as the sound echoes in his already ringing head. He covers his ears and then looks at her as if to ask if she is done.

“I’m saying Satan rose without us.”

She stares at him with impatient and confused eyes.

“WE were supposed to bring the world to its knees before Satan rose and the great battle, yada, yada, who really gives a shit …” He trails off as the need cracks through him like electricity, making his body twitch. He doesn’t care to wait for her to understand, so he goes back to rifling through pockets. She watches him search the soldiers, and then she watches him curl up in the fetal position for twenty minutes, kicking and screaming at various intervals.

“Soooooo …” she starts, but he interrupts her.

“So fucking nothing, Butterface, waddle off …” he pauses and dry heaves before continuing, “Back to the cheeseburger cave.”

She thunders to his kneeling form and kicks him with her tree trunk of a leg. He doubles over and rolls ass over ankles a full ten feet away. She stomps to him, her entire body jiggling, and wraps her thick hands around his neck.

“Enough fat jokes,” she screams in his face, showering him with warm spittle. “I’ll fucking squash you!”

“Then you stop first,” he wheezes. “Stop threatening me with your fucking fat if you want me to stop making fun of your fat fucking ass!”

She slams his head into the ground, screaming unintelligible curse words and head butting him after every few slams. After a minute, she sobs and stands up, leaving him sprawled and semiconscious. “It’s easy for a junkie to stay so fucking skinny,” she whines.

Pestilence turns his head to the side and spits a mouthful of blood across the sand. “It’s easy for a fat bitch to represent gluttony during the Apocalypse.”

She heaves him up off the ground by the back of his hood and hurls him through the air before he can crack smart again. He flies through the air, propelled by her super strength, past a number of tanks and trucks. He lands with a series of crunches and cracks next to the corpse of a general. He rolls over, realizing he has left one body unchecked. His long, narrow finger disappears into the man’s dirty green slacks, and a smile worms its way across his face.

“Ha!” he shouts through chapped lips. He pulls a tiny baggie from the general’s pocket. The need is warping into anticipation, and his dry mouth begins to salivate. Almost as an afterthought, he leans forward and looks at the general’s nametag. “General O’Coddle. So you’re the reason these boys were just hanging out.” The skin pulled tight on the general’s face is grayish green, and his head is open like a half pipe with chunks of sundried brain caked to the sand above it. “Well, General O’Fondle, time for you to wake up, and time for me to nod out.”

Pestilence spots a Cockbug hiding in the shade of the General’s corpse. He holds his finger down in front of the dick-shaped critter, and it wiggles into his hand. Pestilence leans in as if for a closer look, and with a smirk he exhales a black puff of smoke. The cute little Cockbug twitches and turns gray. The veins that run along it blacken, and it hisses at Pestilence.

He sets the diseased Cockbug on the sand, where it immediately stabs another normal Cockbug. Within seconds, the second Cockbug has taken on the same ashen color. Pestilence points at the general’s open head, and the two bugs crawl through the sand and begin carrying half-decayed brain matter back into the skull. Three more Cockbugs wiggle over to see what’s going on, and all three get pricked and turn gray. One joins his fellows in stuffing General O’Coddle’s brains back in, one scuttles towards the two hundred soldiers Pestilence killed, and the last wiggles into the throbbing corpse hole, where it infects thousands of others.

By the time Pestilence pulls his tightly wrapped kit out of his robes, the corpses are swimming around one another as the diseased Cockbugs reanimate every relatively intact human body they find.

Pestilence unrolls his kit with a grin and removes his needle and spoon. He leans on the general and dumps the entire contents of the baggie onto the well-worn spoon. The Cockbugs tuck all of the general’s brains back in his skull and use strands of his own bushy white hair to sew the wound shut. As Pestilence fills his needle, General O’Coddle begins to twitch.

The ground rumbles as Famine stomps over to them. “So now you’re just gonna tie off and …” Any further words are lost when Pestilence pulls up the sleeve of his robe with his teeth, revealing his pale arm. Thick veins and arteries run the length of the visible arm, each swollen and discolored and stretching hard against the milky skin. He winks at Famine and jabs the needle deep into a dark orange vein. His skin tints yellow, and his bloodshot eyes roll back in his head. The need and the anticipation within him give way to the needle full of bliss.

Famine recovers from the shock of Pestilence’s disgusting arm and resumes yelling at him, “You junkie piece of shit! YOU fucked up everything! The only reason we exist and YOU fucked it off for all of us! War will kill you, and I will hold Death’s hand as he reaps your sorry-ass soul!”

Her massive chest heaves with each shout, and a vengeful grin spreads across her fat face, making her eyes squint and the corners of her mouth turn up. Pestilence closes his eyes and tells her, “You are so fat your horse is trying to kill itself.”

The smile dissolves under the flesh of her cheeks, and she raises a foot above his head. “Enough of your mouth, you junkie asshole. If Satan has already risen, we don’t need you.”

Pestilence smiles his graveyard grin without opening his eyes and tells her, “I’m not playing.”

Famine turns to see her emaciated horse climbing on the ever-shifting corpse hole. It screams as the reanimated bodies below shift and give. Large jets of hellfire shoot through the bodies, sending smoke and gore into the air. Famine shrieks and follows her weakened steed. Pestilence squints and sees her dark shape stomping through the mob of corpses.

“Careful, fatso,” he mumbles. “All the demons in hell are under there … including the wicked things from hell 133 … oh, fuck us, hell 78 is gonna set loose …”

She continues screeching even as a reanimated hippy wraps his filthy arms around the horse’s neck and starts chewing on its throat. Famine jumps and tackles the dead man. A jet of hellfire explodes nearby, weakening the clog. Famine, her dying horse, and the tackled zombie fall down through the corpse hole and into Hell. A colossal jet of fire erupts, sending loose limbs and gore skyward. Behind the fire come legions of winged demons darkening the sky, laughing and shrieking at their long-awaited freedom.

“Shit,” Pestilence mumbles as he strains to sit up, “there goes the neighborhood.”

He does his best to snap his fingers. The most he can manage is a weak rub, but his steed understands and walks from the shade of a transport truck, drawing the hungry eyes of the hundreds of risen soldiers, to Pestilence’s side. Pestilence reaches up for his reins. He misses the first few times, but finally catches them. Once he has a firm grip, the horse tosses its head and tugs him to his feet. Pestilence throws his body onto its back.

“Come on, dead guys,” he tells General O’Coddle and his troops, “Let’s go find more shit.”

He leads his half-rotten caravan through the desert toward Reno. Above them, demons fly in wide circles, shrieking, screaming, and looking to raise Hell.

“No Antichrist and no Christ!” Pestilence yells at the circling horde above. They shriek and whoop, all flying in different directions.

Pestilence smiles his rotten smile and nods off as he and his zombies trudge slowly through the sand. No one to stop him. Or War. Or Death. Or Satan. Time to party. But still, deep in his warped junkie’s mind he wonders, “How fucked can one Apocalypse get?”

Of Shitfaced and Angels

The kitchen is a mess. Mom hasn’t been around the last few days. Probably shacked up with those guys again. The Malore Twins. He shudders at the thought of those former wrestlers tag-teaming his mother. Those poor poor little men.

The kitchen table is littered with popsicle sticks, and it appears Mother has been hard at work building a new clock. The massive timepiece covers most of the surface area. Mom always did have crafty fingers. There is a pack of Platinum Lung Busters on the table. Big cigarettes without the filter. About the size of cigars but intended for inhalation. He tried one once and puked for half a day. Learned his lesson, because Mom laced them with Pine-Sol.

The ratty blinds don’t open anymore, so he slips his finger between their greasy slats and peers out. There is a shape in the shade of the porch, but all he can make out is brown.

“Oh a delivery!” he says and opens the door wide to greet the UPS driver. He is pretty sure he hasn’t ordered anything recently, but maybe they are bringing him something anyway, maybe something he ordered years ago that had slipped through the cracks until now.

He puts a smile on his face to greet the driver. A big smile that says “Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m glad I don’t have to kill you.”

The shape doesn’t move so much as unfold. Two talons uncurl where the feet should be. They scratch at the old concrete patio as the shape shifts. Chuzz’s gaze moves up the skinny legs, which end at a brown overcoat.

Long fingers fall from sleeves that are torn and burned in spots. Black smudges streak along the jacket as though it had caught fire and its owner rolled to put it out. Through the coat’s many holes, Chuzz can see something like smudged gray ash on feathers.

The man’s face is painfully handsome. Rugged, like a model or a baseball pitcher on the edge of retirement. He looks built, too, like he’s hiding an Ah-nold body under that thing. Not much of a neck, but what does show is thick and ripped with muscles.

Blue eyes sit under blond hair held back by a thin gold band. He doesn’t have a lick of facial hair, and one side of his perfect face is black and blue.

“Help you?” Chuzz asks. Voice stupid in his head because the thing on his porch should not be. He has the urge to tug his sweatshirt down again to make sure it covers his erection in case this guy is after his cock. Stupid faggots. Can’t ever tell where they’ll turn up!

“Hello, Chuzz. I got a delivery for you.” The man’s voice is ridiculous. While he speaks slowly with a sense of vibrato that hums across the tiny space, he sounds like he just inhaled a huge hit of helium. He sounds like a fucking chipmunk about to break into a Christmas song.

“You do?”

“Yep. Got a beer?”

“No. And I think you should …”

The massive man shoulders past Chuzz like he isn’t even there. He grabs Chuzz’s hand as he passes and shakes it vigorously. Nathan returns the shake automatically, then wipes his hand on his shirt. The guy with the talon feet has very cold hands. Cold and clammy. Gross.

“I bet you think a bunch of stuff, buddy. I bet you think I’m here to do bad things to you.” He stops and spins around to confront Chuzz, who comes up short. The man’s eyes are wide open like he knows a secret.

“Uh.”

“Whole lot of that today. Whole lot. I’m Gabriel, by the by.”

“Uh.”

“Right. Archangel, warrior, representative of the Almighty hisdamnself. Praise Jesus and shit.” He opens the refrigerator and extracts one of Chuzz’s PBRs. He pokes a hole in the side with one clawed finger. He puts the hole to his mouth and in one smooth motion pops the top and shotguns the entire thing in two point four seconds.

“Uh.”

The man … angel … lets out a loud burp. He wipes the back of his mouth with his hand, leaving black smudge marks behind. A look of discomfort troubles his flawless features, and he reaches in his pocket and pulls out what appears to be a small finger. It wiggles around until he drops it.

Was that a little dick?

“Stupid Cockbugs.” The big man smashes it with his boot and grinds it into a pulp.

“Cockbug? Am I losing it?”

“Probably. I came, well the boys and I did. We came to give battle, to protect the world. Only one problem, bud. Know what that is?”

“Uh.”

“I like you, Chuzz. You’re simple, and I can respect that. Anyway. The problem is simple, like you, as I just mentioned. We got our collective asses kicked six ways from Sunday. Boss man never showed up to help out or to collect for the rapture. All those people sitting around, being good, thinking they were on the way up. They are so screwed.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I bet you don’t, but time is short and you are all I have. Well, you and perhaps one other. I’m leaving you with some gifts. Have a nice life, Chuzz.”

He takes off his overcoat and drops a bunch of doodads and toys on the floor. His skin is covered in feathers that were probably white at one time but have crisped around the edges to a nice golden brown.

“Uh.”

“Not everything is what it seems, and stuff will change out there, which will affect these things. They may be good and they may be evil. I have no control over that. I just grabbed a handful of them on my way down.” Chuzz can’t stop staring at the big wings that bulge up over the guy’s shoulders when he talks. A small pile of feathers is collecting underneath his angelic visitor, and that isn’t good. Chuzz sneezes just looking at them.

“I don’t really …” He wipes his running nose.

“Right. As I was saying. If you try hard enough, you may be able to warp one or two. Just think of what you want them to do and they may do it. It’s not some innate gift you have. It’s the toys. I mean, you are kind of a scumbag, but yours was the closest house to where I crashed.”

“Who are you calling a scumbag, you godless son of a whore?!” Chuzz blurts before he realizes that his lips are forming the shapes for words and his vocal cords are following suit.

“Nice one, buddy! I wish I could stay and hang you by your balls, but I need to run. Need to go find some help or something. Enjoy your last days, or day. Maybe hours. Hard to say at this stage of the Apocalypse.” The man takes another PBR from the fridge and drinks this one more slowly, from the pop top. “You might be able to use some of that shit as weapons. Hard to say. Have fun saving the world. Later.”

“Uh. Why me?”

“Why not? Do you see anyone else around? Anyone? Besides, I like an underdog, and I don’t think I have ever seen a bigger one in my life.”

“Uh.”

“That’s a good shtick, man. Keep it up. Later, fucker.” The angel sweeps out his wings in an arc that smashes Mother’s clock to pieces. He looks up and raises one hand like he is Superman or some shit. Then he rises from the ground and rockets out of the house with a whoosh that tosses Chuzz on his ass.

“Uh … fuck.”

Chuzz covers his face to protect it from the falling debris, but some hits him anyway. Through the hole in the roof, he sees a missile streaking across the sky and the angel hauling ass to get away from it. Then another streak as one more missile joins the party and the angel disappears in a feathery explosion.

Dirty fallen feathers swirl around the kitchen. This is really going to play hell with his allergies.

Chuzz gets up and brushes himself off. Stares down at the mess and wants to cry. Mom is going to be so pissed! He pulls a curtain back from a side window and gasps because the world is on fire.

“Dammit! I had shit to do today!” He glances back and forth between the fire and his ridiculous hard-on. Now what?

War Gets a Load in the Face

The semi trundles down the winding road at a good clip. The problem with the big rigs is they need a lot of room to stop. So it isn’t exactly rocket science that they need to be driven around the speed limit and never too fast when going downhill. Most truckers adhere to that rule, especially when there are a lot of cars around.

The difference between most semis on the road and this particular truck is the person at the wheel. She’s got the cabin filled with angry faces that match her own furious glare. Every few minutes she shakes her head and stares daggers at the road like it is her own personal enemy. Edwina looks at her darling love and reaches over to pat her knee. Darla covers her hand with her own large palm and pats back. Then it is back to staring at the road. The only thing missing is a pulsing soundtrack to get the girls even more worked up.

Edwina lowers the window a notch and sniffs the warm air that rushes in. She holds a map in her lap because the stupid GPS is on the fritz. It had them on the right path for the first hour, but then it started going crazy, showing them maps of other states. At one point it zoomed all the way out and she could have sworn it showed them a giant erect penis with a pair of hairy balls to match, covering up what should have been Nevada.

Then it started flickering and jumping around like it was possessed. Darla scowled even harder than she had when they started this little road trip. She grabbed the thing, bashed it against her thigh a few times. Checked it again and then slammed it against the dash. The GPS bounced back but hit the floor. Edwina dug it out, and when she flipped it over the screen was cracked and there was the unmistakable image of a big middle finger on it.

“Piece of shit,” she said and rolled down the window to toss it.

The ground bucks under the truck like they’ve hit a massive pothole. They bounce so hard that Edwina is afraid Marcel will fly right out of her thigh-high leather boots. The boots stay on, but she hits her head on the roof and then plops back into her seat with a curse.

“Take it easy, Darla!” Marcel snaps at the driver.

“I didn’t even see anything. What the hell just happened?”

Pounding from the back of the semi indicates that the other girls aren’t too impressed with Darla’s driving either. She leans over the top of the steering wheel to get a look at the road as it whisks by.

“What the fuck was that? I swear there was nothing on the road,” Darla insists.

“I didn’t see anything either, honey,” Edwina reassures her girlfriend.

Then another jolt shakes the truck, this time harder than before. It feels like they hit a large animal. Or a person. Darla doesn’t waste time after this one. She downshifts and brings the big rig to a shuddering stop.

The side door slides open, and a couple of angry faces appear in Darla’s side window. Shylah Rae, with her waist-length blond hair in a long ponytail, is the first to approach the side of the cab.

“What in the world are you driving over?” she shouts.

“Keep your panties on. I didn’t hit anything.” Darla says. “I think.”

She jumps out of the truck and walks around the front to check for damage. She has on her no-shit-taking blue jeans and a big flannel shirt opened over a sheer white tank top. Her one perfect tit is displayed through the soft cloth.

“I don’t see any damage.” Edwina stands behind her and stares down the long road, but there is no sign of whatever they just hit. All she can see is black asphalt.

Darla looks over the grill for damage, but the metal is just as clean and silver as the minute they left the compound, with the exception of a few splattered bugs. The big bulldog over the grill grins down at her, and for a second she thinks he turns into a squirming little dick. She does a double take, and the dog is back. She shakes her head but can’t get the picture out of her mind.

The ground jumps underneath them. Marcel falls on her ass, spitting curses like a viper as she smacks into the ground. Darla falls against the side of the truck and grabs hold of a hand rung to keep from being flung to the ground. Edwina rides the quake, shifting from foot to foot in her sensible sneakers. Then the ground thumps one more time and everyone goes down.

“What in the gin-soaked fuck was that?” Darla yells.

A couple of the girls squirrel out of the side of the semi, guns cocked and ready for action. They are prepared to shoot the face off the first man who looks at them in the wrong tone of voice. Edwina isn’t sure what they plan to do against an earthquake.

Maggie and Linda are an odd pair—short Asian women who argue all the time except when they hold weapons. Then they are more wicked than a pair of buddy cops with rocket launchers. Their shoulder-length hair flies around their faces as they exit the vehicle. With tight military precision they assemble, followed by two other girls, one with a giant chain-gun in hand and the other with a shotgun.

“What’s going on?” Maggie asks no one in particular. Edwina always imagines her in one of those movies about the Vietnam War. She would be one of the young women who are sick of being whores and take up weapons. Maggie is just a badass from the word ‘Ho Chi Motherfucking Min.’ She can strip, clean, and put together a 9mm so fast it is a Guinness world record waiting to happen.

Explosions erupt in the distance. Really big explosions. Like the world is on fire explosions. Chunks of earth rise into the air and fall with thunks so loud that the sound waves engulf them a half minute later, bringing them to their knees again.

The sound waves wash over the hillside and shake the ground and the trees that line the side of the road. They rattle the rocks on the ground, blast some weeds around like they got hit by a big blower. Dust flies and Darla gets a nose full, which makes her want to sneeze.

They dust themselves off before dashing for the truck. They crouch down by the side and hold on for dear life. Marcel has a dangerous look on her face, but when the world is shaking around you, there isn’t much sense in getting mad at it—or so Edwina reckons. Edwina clings to the ladder on the side of the truck. Darla hangs on behind her, a cocktail of sweat and fear permeating the air. They all reek of it, and she can’t remember ever smelling this particular mixture before.

There is a fresh rumbling, something that seems intent on making their already fucked-up day worse. The sky darkens, and balls of fire streak across the cloud layer and land in the distance. Usually Edwina feels safe with Darla by her side, but now all she wants to do is find a closet to hide in. Or a bunker about five hundred feet underground.

One of the fireballs breaks off from the pack headed into the distance and tears a path of destruction through the ocean of trees. It falls short of the women and their semi and smashes into the ground with a shudder Edwina can feel in her teeth.

Edwina cowers behind her wall of woman flesh, but most of the debris flies overhead. When the ground stops moving, the women turn, dazed, to face the massive hole that has been smashed into the ground about a hundred yards away. From within it comes a shape. A thing of beauty that shimmers and shifts like a dancing tissue. As it emerges, it takes on the form of a dreadful apparition with four legs.

Tattered clothing hangs around its body. Shifts and glows first bright, then dull like it isn’t even there. The air around it shimmers and grows cold. It’s like a freezer door opened and the thing stepped through.

Edwina shakes her head because the thing can’t be real. It’s got a head, sure. One encased in a big hood. She expects it to lower the cowl and look around as if lost. It doesn’t so much as flinch as it breaks into a gallop. That is a horse underneath its body, and the creature looks worse than the thing riding it.

Edwina steps back toward the truck. She doesn’t trust her eyes, but she does trust the handgun at her side. It’s a lovely dull black and when she draws and shoots, hunks of lead fly out in the general shape of the 9mm variety. The thing kicks up, but she is so used to the recoil that she can fire and steady in a split second.

Other shapes rise around the horrendous thing as it trots over the scorched field. Forms resembling humans extract themselves from the earth. Puffs of the ash that is all that’s left of the fallen swath of trees shimmer in the air as hundreds of the creatures pull themselves free of the ground. Edwina checks her second pistol even though she already knows it is loaded with one in the chamber and the safety on. She comforts herself with the thought that she has another clip at her side and one tucked in a tiny holster around her ankle.

The girls back up as one. The air is alive with something Edwina can’t put her finger on. Pain and suffering should hang over this place, but there is only the vibration of excitement. Edwina looks around for Marcel, who appears to have retreated into the semi. For a split second, Edwina wonders if she is hiding. Then she giggles at the silly thought.

The rear door opens, and out pours an army. They have guns, assault rifles, hunting rifles—one even has a sniper rifle. That would be Sue, who trained in the military to take out targets from a distance. She was never allowed in the field; she was told she had been simply a ‘pet project.’ The man who delivered the news said it was because she was a girl and would crack under pressure. She punched him right in the nose, which shut him the fuck up. She loves to tell that story. Loves to talk about the expression on his face as he fell on his ass.

Sue climbs up the side of the semi and takes up position. A pair of girls with modified AK-47s join her. It’s not legal to own an automatic, but they were able to make the change for about ten bucks a gun.

Darla is at her girl’s side, just sidles right up and runs her hand over Edwina’s ass. Edwina looks at her lover and smiles. Darla smirks and raises the big Remington shotgun. She checks the load and then jacks a shell in. Others move behind what cover there is. Larger rocks on the other side of the road provide some protection for those with longer-range guns.

Then the big shape is on the move with the things creeping out of the ground just behind him.

Where the horse steps, things wither and turn to dust. There is an aura around the monster. It hangs dark and ominous. Edwina doesn’t really want to die, but if she is going to bite it today, at least it will be with her family.

Marcel is dressed in her full leathers. Black boots that lick up her thighs and leave a tiny amount of bronzed flesh exposed beneath a skintight black leather skirt. Her tits pop out of her equally tight top, displaying enough cleavage to be just as hot as hell.

She carries an assault rifle over her shoulder in place of a purse. It’s a pretty little AR-15 with a short barrel and a place to slide her arm into the stock. She keeps it slung over her back and walks to the edge of the road. The creature grows close, the massive steed puffing dark steam as it gallops toward them.

It doesn’t seem interested in stopping, and Marcel doesn’t seem interested in moving out of the way. She reaches for the holster at her side and draws an enormous handgun. She raises it in the air and fires one warning shot. The noise is a boom that echoes up the hillside, rolls away like thunder. The figure stops before her, but Marcel doesn’t budge.

Edwina shoots a look over her shoulder and is reassured as every gun in the arsenal is lowered at the man. Maggie lies flat, but the big barrel hangs over the side of the semi and at this range, there is no way she can miss.

The horse puffs and snorts, and black horse-slobbery shit falls in a puddle. The figure drops its cowl, and reveals not the skeletal face with fangs and blood dripping from its eyes that Edwina expected, but the visage of an older man. He has a large bald head and glasses, and when he attempts to smile only one side of his face quirks up.

“I am War,” the man rasps. He extends one hand and gestures behind him. An army of dead is clawing its way free of the grass and dirt. The corpses moan and howl as their heads turn to find their leader.

“I am Marcel.”

“Stand aside, woman, I bring death and destruction. You shall not hinder me.” His voice vibrates inside Edwina’s brain as though someone were drilling inside her skull. Each time he speaks, she wants to bite her tongue in half to stop the pain.

“Fuck you. You fucking pig.” Marcel lowers the Magnum and holds it in one steady hand.

“You have no idea of the power I possess. If I so desire, I will lower my hand and the army behind me will eat the souls of those who stand behind you. I will take your head and use it to piss in. I will …” He cuts off with a surprised look as a hole appears in his forehead.

Marcel has heard enough. The thunderous boom of her gun rings across the field again. The man whips back out of the saddle and falls to the ground in a pile of tattered black cloth. Then he turns to dust before their eyes. His robe puffs into ash and is swept along by the wind. The horse screams, and little jets of fire snort from its nose … and it falls over. Its flesh takes on a stony appearance and crumbles when it strikes the ground.

In This Town We Spell “Law” S-M-O-O-C-H-O-L-E

After finally escaping the constant horrific soul-violating multi-partner fucking of the orgy in the desert, Sheriff Smoochole and his lone surviving deputy, Fenton Morks, stole General O’Coddle’s personal Hummer and fled back to Reno and the sheriff station. Only they were too exhausted to make the entire drive.

Instead, and due only to his cop-subconscious, Sheriff Smoochole pulled the Hummer into a roadside rest area. He turned off the ignition and passed out for approximately seventy-two hours straight. Deputy Morks was fast asleep and sucking on the back of his red-balled gag like a toddler sucks its thumb before Smoochole pulled the massive vehicle to a stop.

Now, as demons whoop and screech in the air above them, Sheriff Smoochole stirs in his sleep. Behind his eyelids, he sees Hell.

Once the first drop of blood soaked down into the earth, Satan shook off his great shackles and began pushing against the mass of copulating dying hippies. Smoochole saw the bastard Devil; he made eye contact with the Father of Lies. The Devil’s eyes sparkled with malice, and he shook an unbelievably thick red prick at the struggling Sheriff Smoochole while two more flaccid peckers watched from either side and laughed in a thousand voices. Smoochole fought through the pile of human flesh to escape the cock-stroking Master of Evil and still, days later, it haunts his dreams.

In his dream, Satan’s bright red cock throbs and grows with each obscene stroke until it is just inches from the sheriff’s face. Flames erupt from the foot-thick shaft of the Devil’s dick and dance up and down the length of it. Sweat beads and falls from the sheriff’s face. He turns back and forth, trying in vain to avoid the colossal cock that inches toward him. He realizes suddenly, and strangely, that he has the twin walrus tusk handled .357s he took from the meathead general.

In his dream, Sheriff Smoochole reaches for the pistols, unaware that his slumbering body is also reaching for them in real life. He fires. The thunder of close-range gunshots wakes both officers. Temporally disoriented, the two look around, confusion on their faces. They both turn to the demon standing next to Deputy Morks. Twin holes are blown through the bright purple skin of his chest, and Deputy Morks’s wallet falls from the demon’s claw into Morks’s lap as the monster collapses, dead. Deputy Morks reaches over and slams the door closed. He turns back and nods at the sheriff, who starts the Hummer and nods back.

Sheriff Smoochole pulls back onto the freeway and slams the pedal to the floor. The massive Army vehicle groans and whines as it careens across the hot asphalt. As they round the last bend before Reno, they spot black pillars of smoke reaching for the sky from all over the cityscape. Winged creatures, great and small, soar around the tall fingers of smoke, whooping and screeching demon songs.

Deputy Morks moans, “Smmmphh wmph FWPH!”

“Yeah, I know, Deputy,” Smoochole tells him without taking his eyes off the smoldering city.

Morks’s eyes glisten with tears. “Tmmmph kmmmph’d Dmmmphh Jmmmphh! Tmmmphh fmmmphh uph mmhph ammph! Tmmmphh smmmpph’d tmmph bmmph gmmph im mmp mmmphh! Fmmmphh tmmph!”

Visions of Satan’s giant throbbing wang flash before Sheriff Smoochole’s eyes, and he tightens his grip on the steering wheel until his bony knuckles pop and go white. His muscles clench, and he grinds his teeth to force the phantom prick from his mind. Deputy Morks’s muffled tirade continues, but Sheriff Smoochole can hardly hear him over the pounding of his own heartbeat pulsing in his ears. The sheriff takes the exit to the station.

Smoochole pulls the Hummer to a screeching halt in front of the building, and both officers stare in awe at their beloved station and the giant skinny demon in sheriff khakis scowling at them from atop the small stone staircase. The tall creature flaps leathery wings peppered with rips and holes. It takes a stiff step forward. The sun gleams off a dozen sheriff badges that are pinned up and down its thin chest.

“Wmmph tmmph, Smmmmph?”

“Don’t worry, Deputy. I’m the law in this motherfucking city,” Sheriff Smoochole tells Morks as he slides out of the Hummer and into the path of the lurching demon.

The demon halts his advance and roars with high girlish laughter when the diminutive, leather-g-string-wearing Smoochole slams his door and points one bony finger at it.

“Listen here, you cocksucker,” Smoochole shouts at him, “that khaki is sacred to me, and I’ll be mother fucked if I’ll see a son of a shit like you desecrate it!”

“Yeah?” the demon snarls. “I’m the sheriff in this town. Sheriff Runnydrawers. If you choose to argue the fact,” he rolls his head to the side so Smoochole can see the skinned corpses hung around the top of the sheriff station, “I’ll hang you with the rest!”

Sheriff Smoochole chokes back his building rage as it turns his vision bright white. His eyes scan the skinned men, and he blinks to hold back tears of fury.

Deputy Morks spots the men, all hung by their feet so blood drips from their dangling hands. Morks leaps from the Hummer in a frenzy. He unsheathes his nightstick and shouts to Smoochole, “Lmmph kmmphh tmmph gmmmph fmmph’r, Smmmphh!”

Sheriff Runnydrawers snarls and leans over the Hummer’s hood to get in Deputy Morks’s ball-gagged face. “I’m the fucking sheriff in this town, boy!”

From the other side of the Hummer, in a voice as calm and dry as the desert before a sandstorm, Smoochole warns Runnydrawers, “Say that bullshit again and I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

Sheriff Runnydrawers scoffs and leans back over the Hummer toward Smoochole. His snarling face is as long as Sheriff Smoochole’s torso. Smoochole stares at his stoic reflection in the demon’s sunglasses as Runnydrawers opens his mouth and says, “I’m … the … fucking … sher …”

Sheriff Smoochole draws both pistols and shatters his reflection with two well-placed shots. Thick yellow gunk explodes out of the back of the demon’s head, and it howls in pain. It recoils, and Smoochole fires four more shots at its neck as it tries blindly to retreat. Each bullet tears away thick chunks of red flesh until the demon’s head hangs by a strand of green sinew. Deputy Morks yells a muffled battle cry and swings his trusty nightstick at the flopping head like a kid assailing the world’s ugliest piñata. It connects with a wet thud, and the sinew snaps, sending the head rolling across the parking lot. The slender demon body sways and then falls at Smoochole’s feet.

“I’m the law in this fucking city,” Smoochole smirks to the headless body.

He turns to Deputy Morks and orders, “Pull the Hummer around back, then cut our brothers down and hang that son of a shit up there.”

“Ymph smmph, Smmmphh,” Morks nods in response. He walks around to the driver’s side, stops once to beat the decapitated demon head a few times, then hops in and fires the Hummer to life.

Sheriff Smoochole watches Morks disappear around the corner before he starts for the front doors.

“I’m the fucking law,” he mumbles over and over as he walks into his station.

Cleanup on Aisle Nine, Horseman Down

“Holy shit!” Edwina exclaims.

“Holy fucking shit!” Darla outdoes her.

The girls holler their approval as Marcel turns and gives a bow. She strides back to the truck.

“Darla, wanna get out of here or do you want to do some target practice?”

“I feel like shooting stuff,” she calls back, her eyes on the slowly advancing army.

“Right. Well those fuckers look kinda like zombies to me. Like the stupid movies. So I say we shoot them all in the head. Seemed to do well enough by the big guy on the horse.”

More calls erupt from the ladies, and one even fires, dropping a corpse with a shot to the brainpan. Dirt and bone fly in every direction as its head explodes. Grinning, Marcel holsters her handgun, brings up the rifle and starts shooting at a steady pace. Fire, one drops. Fire, another head explodes.

Edwina pulls her own rifle off her back and takes a few steps toward the rotting army. The foul things move like they are walking through mud. She takes aim at a man dressed in the tatters of an old red flannel shirt. Big beer gut hangs in front as he waddles along with the others.

She fires and blows off one of his arms. It spins him around, but his only reaction is to pause as though remembering something he’d forgotten, then slowly turn to face her again. Maggots swarm around his nose and eyes, and big worms drop out of his mouth along with dirt and clumps of shit she doesn’t even want to think about identifying.

The next shot blows half his head to the side, and he falls forward with a thump.

The ladies open up. Guns chatter all along the hasty firing line, and wherever they aim, bodies fall and crumble. Edwina tugs her own handgun out and walks to the edge of the desolated land and opens up. She aims, steadies, takes a breath and drops one. Then another. She empties the clip and at least five or six of the things fall.

The ground crackles and rolls around them. The women laugh at the slow, awkward ghouls shambling toward them. There are hundreds, maybe a thousand, but they move so sluggishly that they can be picked off with ease.

“How come it isn’t this easy in the movies?” Edwina glances at Darla, who has a big fucking shotgun in the crook of her arm and is shooting the things in the head if they get too close.

“Hell if I know. These fuckers are easy to kill. Easy peasy.” BLAM! One of them falls over. He might have worn a business suit at one time, but now the damn thing is covered in rot, and one of his sleeves hangs loose from a missing arm.

“Found it!” one of the Asian twins calls out. She struts out of the side of the truck with a bandolier slung around her chest, its giant explosive green eggs nestled between her boobs. She pulls out a grenade, yanks the pin out, then takes two big steps and lobs it right into a group of four deadies.

The explosion isn’t as loud as Edwina anticipates. It shakes the ground, sure. And puffs of smoke pour around the blast, check. Of course body parts fly. One of the dead things, a little girl of about twelve, is tossed into the air and cartwheels over and over until she smashes into two grown-up corpses.

“And the dead shall walk the earth.”

“Not that one.” Marcel mutters and then opens up with her sweet-ass machine gun again. Edwina has wanted to test fire it forever but hasn’t found the guts to ask. Marcel spits out two shots per corpse. Gets each one right in the head, for the most part. If they are lurching too much, it becomes more of a challenge. Sometimes they get it in the neck or the chest. But they get it.

The ground is covered in the things. A few retain enough brain matter to crawl around, but the girls put them out of their misery. The women hoot and catcall as they challenge each other. So far Tonia seems to be in the lead; she has an AK-47, and that fucker never jams. She is on her fourth clip and it’s still rattling away like an old Maytag.

When none of the bodies moves anymore, the women pack it in. Darla walks around her baby, checking the tires, the sides, the grill. She looks over her shoulder a few times, but none of the zombies comes after her.

A shape flits across the sky, and Edwina stops in her tracks to stare up at it. The thing glides through a series of graceful acrobatic maneuvers. She wonders if it is some kind of giant hawk or eagle on the hunt.

It drops, weaves as it falls and settles into a long circular pattern as it draws closer and closer to the ground. Edwina stares for so long her neck aches when she looks back toward the ground.

“What the fuck?” Marcel asks the question that has to be on everyone’s mind. It is certainly banging around in Edwina’s. A lot of shit is banging around up there. Like the zombies and the guy on the weird horse. None of it can be real. It’s as if she’s on drugs, but if someone drugged her, she wonders who in the hell she just shot.

The thing loops here and there, and as it falls ever closer, Edwina realizes just how large it is. It’s far too big to be a bird. In fact, it almost looks like someone wearing a big pair of bird wings.

The shape darts toward the earth and hovers above them. A soft glow emanates from the shape as it descends, feet pointed down, arms at its sides. Edwina gasps at its beauty and wonders if it is God come to take them away.

It drops ever so slowly, and Edwina can make out more details. A woman’s face, beautiful beyond measure. She has blond hair that sweeps from her brow to fall in soft waves across her back. She is dressed in a skintight suit of some white material that shimmers as it catches the morning sun. A gold circlet is around her waist and another around her head.

She smiles, and the place of death is illuminated as though someone has switched on a light of peace over the field. Edwina falls under her spell immediately and wants nothing more than to be loved by the apparition. She wants to fall to her knees and worship the beautiful creature with the ten-foot wingspan.

The moment is interrupted by the chatter of automatic fire. Marcel hefts her rifle up and fires eight rounds at the celestial being. Feathers fly. Blood splatters. A scream tears at the air and makes Edwina want to cover her ears and join in the shrieking. Then the apparition crashes to earth.

Darla turns to regard Marcel in shock.

The tall woman has the gun on her hip, barrel sticking up to the side. Smoke still pours out of the hole.

“That was unexpected,” Marcel shrugs.

“What the hell have you done, Marcel?”

“Shot an angel, I think.”

It is only in the sudden silence that Edwina realizes the music of Heaven had just filled the morning air with its subtle grace.

“You couldn’t wait and ask a few questions like who and what are you? Or what is going on? Fucking Christ!” Edwina is pissed. She wanted to touch that beautiful creature. She wanted to worship it.

“I didn’t think I could hurt it.”

“So you shot it anyway? Couldn’t take a minute to say ‘hey angel chick, are you immune to lead?’”

“Oh stop your whining. We just killed a fuckload of zombies and you’re freaking out about this? Really? We have bigger things to worry about. Like how we’re going to hunt down those assholes who tried to kill us. Or why the world’s gone all to shit.”

The women circle the motionless figure on the ground, but none of them dares to touch her. Edwina bends down and peers at the woman’s face. The angelic features move. Eyes open to stare at her. Mouth opens to take a stuttering breath. Edwina drops beside the creature and tugs her head into her lap. She strokes the being’s beautiful hair back and whispers that everything will be all right.

“Bloody idiots,” the girl whispers, then her eyes roll up in the back of her head and her last breath passes like a spring day. Her hair loses its luster and then falls away in a puff of gray ash. Her face collapses inward, and her body deflates like a molested balloon.

Edwina scoots backwards, away from the puddle of bubbling green ooze where the body used to be. Darla reaches down to help her up.

“What the hell is going on?” she gasps as she comes to her feet.

“Doesn’t matter, we got stuff to do. Men to track. And we need to get a move on,” Marcel says. The stock of the assault rifle rests jauntily against her hip and she looks like she is more prepared for a fashion show than a hunt.

“It does matter! There are people coming out of the ground. Dead people. Zombies! And we just shot a crapload of them. What the hell is going on?”

“Those weren’t zombies,” Marcel snaps. “Those were … I don’t know what, but there’s no such thing as zombies.”

“And I suppose there’s no such thing as angels either?”

“Not since I shot it down!”

The bubbling green goo that is the ex-angel smells like sewage, and the girls take a step back, pinching their noses.

“That ain’t no fucking angel.” Marcel touches Edwina’s shoulder softly.

“What the hell is going on?!” Edwina screams.

Apocalyptic Stank

Chuzz sits at the dinner table for a few minutes. He puts his head on his crossed arms and closes his eyes. Stuff rains down from the shattered roof, but he tunes it out for a few minutes. Save the world? That is just ri-goddamn-diculous.

After dozing for a quarter of an hour, he lifts his head and takes a deep breath.

“Should at least see what the crazy guy left,” he mutters to the room.

The angel’s gifts turn out to be children’s toys and gadgets. There’s a Stretch Bangstrom that he pulls at for a while. The world may be burning around him, but he hasn’t seen one of these in over twenty years, and he intends to enjoy it. Stretch here, stretch there. Stretch Bangstrom stretches Evvvverywhere.

The old commercial is fresh in his mind. He always wanted one, but Mom said men don’t play with dolls. They don’t play with their cocks either, but Chuzz had spent an awful lot of time sticking his into various things about the house.

There is a toy with demonic images on it. A lever on the side resembles a big red dick. He pulls it, and an arrow in the center spins around and around until it stops over a pair of demons engaged in anal sex. A high-pitched voice comes out the back. “Fuck you too!”

He almost drops the thing.

He pulls it again and it rumbles. Then the earth shakes, and a bright red beam shoots out and rips another hole in the ceiling. Then the next floor, and at last the roof. He moves it, and the beam obliges by incinerating whatever it touches. And not quietly. The sound is immense, like a million bees all chattering with their buzzing wings.

He hits the lever again, and this time it clunks. Emits a smell like ammonia and goes silent. He carefully sets it down.

He picks up a short microphone that looks like it came from an American Idiot game. There are little red and green buttons all over the side, and when he pushes them, crazy things happens, things that freak him out. One makes the house shift sideways. He can feel the foundation pick itself up and just move. He hits the button and the house moves again.

He shakes his head and hits another button. A pink string appears under his feet and snaps from the ground to the bottom of the mike. He almost drops the thing again. Instead he hurries back downstairs, and kicks Phil on his way to the bathroom. The pink string follows, and even when he puts it in his pocket, the stupid thing loops out the side of his pants and into the ground.

A whole day of weird, and this is the freakiest yet.

He chugs back a pair of Ativan and washes them down with water. Old faucet creaks and groans when he turns the handle. He leans over and takes a big old swallow, then another. Clean and cold. Just right. He opens his mouth wide and chugs more before a lump gets stuck in his throat.

He backpedals and falls on his ass. Phil jumps up and down and does his monkey screech, which is the equivalent of a big fuck you laugh.

The hell? He spits and belches and spits again. Tasted like piss and shit. Sure did, and when he stands up and looks at the faucet, he is horrified to see sewage running out of it. Guess the shifting house caused that. The shifting house? The shitting house!

Nathan P. Chuzzle wants to go back to bed. He wants to hide under the covers and wait for all of this to pass as surely it must. It’s probably all the pills catching up with him. He tried to warn Mom that it was too much, but she insisted. He isn’t bipolar, doesn’t even know what the word means. He also doesn’t have posttraumatic stress disorder from the clown days, no matter what she says. He can look a clown in the eye just as well as anyone else.

He took too much and is over the edge. That must be it. He looks at the wreckage of the room, at the smashed furniture and at the ripped-open walls and ceiling. He looks down at his pants where his hard cock sticks out like a tent.

He closes his eyes and takes the microphone out of his pocket. He holds it up and opens his eyes, sure that when he does the string will be gone and it will be a toy again.

But it’s not.

“SHIT AND COCKBUGS!” he screams. Phil bounces around behind him again, shrieking at the ceiling.

The microphone starts talking about Cockbugs. Starts singing about them all bouncy and peppy like it’s a kids song. It drives Chuzz right up against his last shred of sanity and twangs it like a loose guitar string. Twang twang. Twang! Shine your ebony guitar neck for a dollar Twang twang TWANG! Chuzz shakes his head and resists the urge to impale himself on a sharpened kitchen broom jammed in the bathroom drain. Tried to dig out a turd after Phil thought he could take a bath in the tub. Filled it all the way to the top and forgot to turn off the water. Stuff went everywhere like a mini flood. Took Chuzz days to clean up, but the turds stayed deep in the drain. He pretty much gave up on showers after that. Fucking Phil.

He checks his computer, but it is dead. Won’t boot up. Won’t even flicker. Weird, because the lights in the house are on. He hits the power button again, and the vacuum flies out of the closet. It smashes against the wall, and a little red creature falls off and rolls over a couple of times. It comes to a rest, and a fire starts around it. Chuzz looks around for something with which to put out the flames.

He snatches the glass off the bathroom counter and fills it with shit water, trying—unsuccessfully—not to get any on his hand, and then runs at the fire and tosses the stuff on it. The sludge splatters against the wall, the floor. It goes everywhere and smells like shit. Just like shit.

“‘Cause it is shit,” he says.

“Cockbugs!” the little demon screams and spits out a finger, no, a little penis that wriggles around. “Had to be water! Two thousand years old and I get taken out by shit water. What a fucking waste.” And the little thing shakes, compresses like a balloon out of air, and bursts into hunks of meat that smell worse than the shit water.

Nathan P. Chuzzle has had some weird stuff happen in his life, and maybe he goes about the glory hole thing a little oddly, maybe a lot oddly. But he is not used to angels and demons popping up around him.

Nor is he used to teleporting microphones that speak to him in a weird, stilted computer voice.

“Chuzz … that you?”

“What?”

“Chuzz? You on a microphone or something?”

Chuzz looks at the thing and hits the little green knob on the side. A blast of reverb nearly deafens him and rearranges his hair. His ears ring, and the microphone dances in his grip. He speaks into it.

“Leon?”

“Chuzz? That you?”

“Leon?”

“Chuzz, what in the blue vision fuck is going on? Are you trapped inside the pussy?”

“Am I trapped inside the what? Are you out of your mind? How did you know about the blue shit?”

“Blue fucking what? Never mind! I don't want to alarm you, Chuzz, but your voice is booming from something I fucked last night. The strange thing is, it doesn't really shock me. I think the world is ending, Chuzz.”

“It’s not ending. It’s over. The craziest shit is going on.”

“You’re telling me, Brother.”

“I just had an angel visit me. He came inside and drank a beer, gave me a bunch of weird weapons and then flew off and was shot down by a missile. Oh man, Leon, it is good to hear your voice after the morning I'm having.”

“No shit. What the hell is happening, Chuzz? Is this really the end, or does the government just want us to think it is the end?”

“The end. It's the end! I just killed a demon with shit water, Leon, and this gadget makes the place move, and if this is the government fucking with us, it’s a damn good trick. Everything is blue right now. BLUE! But that might be from the half bottle of Viagra I took on accident. BLUE! FUCKING BLUE!”

“Okay, Chuzz, you have to calm down. If shit water kills them, then we can fight back! As someone constantly pushed around and fucked with, I refuse to die at the hands of some damn demon!”

“You're right. Calm down. Phew. But what the hell do we do now? What do we DO? I can’t take shit water with me. It’s, like, this stuff that comes out of my faucet.”

“Figure it out, Brother. We have to stop it! We can band together and attack the Apocalypse before it attacks us! Where are you, Chuzz? Are the Four Horsemen upon us already? I have to talk to Bud and the three priests at the church I clean; they can fill me in. It was insanely busy yesterday. I guess everyone else knew the world was ending.”

“Attack the Apocalypse! Are you insane?”

The old TV in the corner clicks on, and a beautiful woman stands on screen. She is dressed in a sharp business suit complete with a collar around her neck. Her eyes are darkened, surrounded by something so red it has to be blood. She holds a microphone shaped like a dildo.

“Hang on. Something’s on the screen.”

“Huh?”

“Hang the fuck on!”

Silence from the irritating device. Then it starts click click clicking. Twang twang, there goes his sanity again. No, hold on! Hold on! He shakes his head and turns his attention to the screen.

The woman stands in front of a giant sign made out of body parts and flashing red and green lights. They spell out two words. SIN CITY.

The landscape is changing. Shifting, altering. Sand is tossed in the air, and then the ground buckles. A giant hole opens up and everything around it turns red. A pair of hills rise out of the ground.

“We’re standing live before the greatest spectacle the world has ever seen. He is back and he is pissed. So hold on to your butts, ladies and gentlemen. The end is here and so is he. I present to you. At last. The tower of power, the greatest gift to humanity ever. Even better than sex. Really. TRUST me on this one.” And she leans in to leer at the screen. She licks her blood-red lips and pants and huffs and puffs like she is having an orgasm.

“Just kidding. It’s him! The Father of Lies. Oh my …” then the screen goes blank and Chuzz thinks about the sharpened stick in his bathroom again.

“Let’s do it, Leon. Meet in Vegas. That’s where this is all going down! We can handle it. And Gabriel left me some stuff to use. Stuff we can fight back with. I'll bring everything!”

“Sweet! We will beat the Apocalypse for every turned-up nose and every turned-down loan. We will decide our fates, Chuzz, instead of being tools for the Devil! We can meet somewhere between us. If we need a home base, Bud has a bomb shelter in the basement of Jerome's shop. We need to know where the Devil has risen. Washington DC? Hollywood? Or Las Vegas?”

“Trust me, it’s Vegas. I just saw it on TV. I'd get on the net if I could, but my computer just took a shit. I want to beat the Devil. You want to beat the Devil and ... wait, who the fuck is Bud?”

“Bud lives in a bomb shelter under the sex shop. Gray-haired fella, drives a spaceship. He knows more than me. He was telling me about the Devil rising and shit. We need guns! I'll go to the sheriff station and see if anybody’s left alive. Hopefully not, because then I can grab some of them sweet fucking shotguns!”

“Okay, you bring guns and I’ll bring these crazy toys.”

“And Chuzz, is Phil off the heroin yet? We may need him at the top of his one-armed monkey game.”

“Fucking Phil hasn't had a clean day in years. Maybe I should leave him. I'll think about that. I'm heading your way. Vegas, here I come. I’ll be the guy flying a house or something. See you on the other side mutha fuckaaaaa …”

“Flying? Uh OK. We'll be in touch! Stay fucking safe out there, Chuzz!”

Foolish Weaver of Intricate Insults

Father Maniwhore rants and raves at the increasingly large crowd of people seeking atonement in the face of the coming Apocalypse. He pounds his fist and screams so loud, his spit flies seven rows. It splatters across pale scared faces. Sweat drips down his long goatish face. His booming voice increases in volume when the sound of demons descending on the town creates a wave of panic that grips the enthralled throng.

The sound of clawed feet scratching at the old brick building echoes down on them. Father Maniwhore raises his arms and tells the gathering of frightened flesh that doom is upon them!

Finally, after all this time, he will attract his demon father with the ancient symbols he has studied over the years. The elaborate images he has carved into the building’s stone roof and outer walls, all to call his demon father home during the end days.

Father Maniwhore is only half demon; his father a full-blooded badass big-dicked demon and his mother a full-blooded white trash crack whore. Dad went back to Hell, and Mom dropped him off at the church in accordance with Dad’s instructions. Maniwhore’s father built the church, but he couldn’t handle wearing the human suit that was required to run it. The human suit itched and pinched his prick when he walked. So he ditched the suit and the hooker and left the church to the young Maniwhore. As little Maniwhore grew, he adopted the title of Father, though he had not been trained for the priesthood. That’s what Father Michaels was for. Father Maniwhore had lived his whole life for the moment that was now upon him and those unlucky enough to find themselves in his half-unholy presence.

Great chunks of the stone ceiling crack from the force of the hellborn creatures pounding on it from above. Father Michaels and Father O’Coddle fight through the panicked gridlock surrounding the confession booths. They are just in time to see a large section of roof fall and crush two pews filled with last-minute worshipers. Rays of sunlight, dirty with soot and ash, shine through the massive hole in the ceiling. Several horned heads appear at the rim of the hole to peer down at the speechless crowd.

Once the majority of the dust settles, one of the demons leans down into the church. Its long goatish face quivers with unbridled fury as it speaks, “Who amongst you is the foolish weaver of intricate insults in stone?”

Father O’Coddle looks from the demon to Father Maniwhore, standing behind his pulpit with his arms in the air and a look on his face like he just shat himself. Even Father O’Coddle’s meth-addled brain recognizes the family resemblance.

After a minute of awkward silence, Father Michaels crosses himself and shouts up at the goat-faced creature, “Leave here, foul demon!”

The demon scoffs, tears a chunk from the ceiling and throws it down at Father Michaels. It misses the priest, but brains the young lady standing next to him with a sick thud. Father Michaels scoots a few steps from the dead girl, who remains on her feet because it is too crowded for her body to fall. He shouts again, “Leave here, foul demon!”

“Okay,” the demon says tearing loose another chunk of brick. “I get it. It wasn’t you. But you make me sick anyway.”

With that he hurls his missile, again missing his target. This time, it caves in the skull of a fat man, and the crowd can’t hold his dead weight. He tips over, crushing people under his girth and against one wall of the church. Upon seeing the chaos caused by the brick, the other demons begin ripping away bricks and stones and throwing them down at the crowd. Father Michaels pushes his way through the mob, screaming his refrain of “Leave here, foul demon!” Soon the crowd is decimated as the demons tear the church down brick by brick and stone the congregation to death. Midway through the slaughter, Father Maniwhore slinks dejectedly out of the church and Father O’Coddle follows, dodging falling bricks as he runs.

Eventually, the six goat-faced demons stand perched on the remnants of the walls catching their infernal breath while Father Michaels, streaked with the gore of others but still very much alive, runs back and forth across the half-buried crowd screaming, “Leave here, foul demons!”

The six demons exchange indignant looks, then dive in and disembowel Father Michaels the old-school way. Through his ass.

Junk Monkey Perfector

Nathan Chuzzle is going out of his fucking mind.

He holds the toy and contemplates the conversation he just had with Leon. The crazy shit he just said. The crazier shit his friend said. He wants to grab Phil and run away, find a nice underground shelter and wait for the world to end, but the flying dude told him he would save the world. He can’t save the world; he can’t even save his own monkey from what is going down.

The house shakes, and Phil rouses his hairy body from his pillow in the corner. He looks around with big eyes and then focuses on Chuzz. Phil smacks his arm and looks at his owner like the addict he is.

“Ah sorry, Phil! I forgot!” He dashes back to the bathroom, which is threatening to secede from the rest of the house. A deep fissure opens up as the bathroom slides away. Chuzz jumps and lands on the linoleum floor then falls to his knees as the impact of his bulk on his sore foot makes him holler. He tucks the little microphone into the back pocket of his pants so he doesn’t lose the crazy thing. The pink string obligingly disappears when he turns the microphone off.

He goes for the lock box and realizes he’s left his keys in the other room, so he’ll have to carry the damn thing. With a groan, he tears it off the wall and hobbles to the door. The fissure is deeper than he thought possible. It stretches away, and deep deep down in the hole he sees flamelike flashes of orange and red. Could that be the center of the Earth?

On the other side of the fissure, Phil jumps up and down when he spots Chuzz. Ah Phil, you do love me after all. Phil is going crazy. He flips over and lands on his feet and then gestures for Chuzz to jump.

After a repeat performance, he realizes the monkey is telling him to toss the drug box.

“Fucking Phil!”

The room shakes, and there is a nasty second when Chuzz is convinced he will fall into the pit. He hangs there, looking at the rough earthen sides into which he will smash on his way down. The sides of the chasm are teeming with little things like the one that came out of the little red demon. What did it say? Cockbugs? If he falls, he will die, but the even greater insult will be when those little bastards follow him down and try to penetrate every orifice in his body. He likes his orifices un-penetrated, thank you very fucking much!

Phil is going crazy, but that’s just Phil. He wants his fix. Hell, Chuzz has sworn the shit off, but he could really use a hit right about now.

He tosses the box across the chasm, and Phil catches it. Now Chuzz is no Indiana Jones; there is no way he can make the leap, which is now at least six feet and growing. He doesn’t have the hat for it, anyway. Nor does he have a whip. Hell, he doesn’t even have a clue.

He runs at the door and stops short. Not much of a run. He makes two steps before realizing if he attempts to jump he might not make it. His fingers won’t even touch the other side.

The window above the toilet is tiny. Even if he could manage to get up there, ain’t no way he is wiggling through. Shit-balls!

He snaps his finger at the air and looks around. “Yes yes yes!” The little microphone is in hand before he knows it, and he studies the buttons. Which one was it? He hits the red one and the room shifts. It lifts up and slams down like a crane picked it up and dropped it. He staggers and tries not to fall. Doesn’t succeed and lands on his ass. Ow.

The room is farther away now, and the chasm is much wider. He hits the button again. He slams into the back wall and bounces onto the floor, flinging his hands out to stop his slide. They close over air, and he is almost tossed over the edge and into the chasm.

Back on his feet. Bruised. Aching. Dirt and dust in his mouth, clogging his nose. He leans to the side and evacuates both nostrils by blowing huge streamers of snot into the corner. Spits, dreams of water from his sink, not shit water but real water that is cool and refreshing. Maybe if he makes it upstairs, he can find something to drink.

He wraps his arms around the base of the sink and holds on for dear life. He holds the little microphone out and tilts the head forward. Triggers the button, and the room bounces up and over. Chasm closing. Space diminishing. This might work.

He hits the button again, and this time he flicks the head of the microphone like a flyswatter. The room shifts again, more violently, which tosses Chuzz free of the sink and across the room. If the chasm hadn’t closed, he would fly into it face first. Instead he goes face first into Phil’s ass as the creature dances around, banging the locked box against the walls and floor in an attempt to open it.

“Stupid monkey!” Chuzz grabs his best friend’s hand, and they flee up the stairs before any more crazy shit can happen.

Phil has the case in hand, and with each step he takes, the lock clangs against the metal wall. The monkey hoots and screams in primate, and Chuzz is pretty sure he’s just spewing gibberish. Hard to say; maybe the one-armed bastard is telling him the secret to life. Maybe he is just babbling. Chuzz won’t ever know, and he doesn’t really care.

The toys are piled where he left them. Chuzz picks up the stretchy doll and flops it around. The face comes to life. Mouth cracks into a grin and nose wrinkles up as if to indicate the thing’s disapproval of Chuzz’s personal odor.

“Put me down, fucker.”

The voice is tinny and sounds like it is coming from far away. It has a harsh edge to it like the toy is a heavy smoker. Hah. A cigarette-puffing toy, now ain’t that just the shit. He drops the stupid talking doll, lifts his foot and slams it down on the annoying little shit. His foot slips across the soft toy, and he slides forward, inadvertently triggering the microphone, which lifts the house in the air and slams him against the floor. He goes down screaming curses until he takes his finger off the button. The house falls and smashes him into the wall.

Everything in the room falls. Every fucking thing. The armoire. The pictures of the circus folks including Tweedledee and Dee-fucking-dum. As they fall, Chuzz realizes that they now sport demon faces. Oh well. They’re on the ground now; he won’t have to look at them.

Smoke and dust settle, and a tribe of weird ant-beetles pours into the room. They have vicious little heads and nasty little legs. They take to the air and buzz around on sharp black wings. Chuzz bats one of the creatures that buzzes too close. Pain slams into his hand and races up his arm.

He stares at his palm, where the little beetle is dancing on the end of a stinger. It has an angry face like a miniature bulldog. Chuzz positions the thumb and forefinger of his other hand over the thing and rips its head off. Then he yanks the stinger out and stares at the wound. His hand puffs up around the sore. It looks angry and red, and he wonders if he is going to die.

“Not today, I don’t think. You ain’t dead yet, so they must have plans for you.” Stretch Bangstrom is walking around flexing his arms. He whips them into the air, catches a little beetle and slaps the squealing thing into his mouth. Chew, chew chew. Belches orange dust and repeats.

Before long, the toy is strutting around like he owns the place. Tiny little hooks protrude all over his rubbery skin. Little wasp stingers. Chuzz looks at his own hand, at the wound, and realizes it doesn’t even hurt. The sting is red, but when he touches it, the place feels numb. Not numb, it feels ... good. In fact, if he weren’t already packing a full cord of wood, he would be standing at attention just from poking the sore.

He drags himself out of the kitchen and collapses. It’s too much. The angel, the end of the world. The half bottle of Viagra he took. He needs to go bang one out, but he is too scared to drop his pants.

Stretch Bangstrom walks toward him on rubber legs, his hands going up and down like he is doing some weird Egyptian dance. Chuzz stands, and the toy stops before him. All manner of disturbing thoughts hop around in his noggin. Will his mother be okay? Where is he going to get dinner? How is he going to get to Vegas, and how is he going to stop the Apocalypse?

Phil wanders up beside him and punches him in the ass. He may have one arm, but it is a strong mother fucker. Chuzz goes down like a sack of potatoes, lands on his hands and knees. He wants to roll on his back and grab his bruised cheek, but the little plastic toy jumps on his back, landing soft as a butterfly fart.

“What the hell?” He tries to stand up, but the toy lives up to its name, stretching to its full length, diving under his sweatshirt and sinking the barbs into Chuzz’s skin. They jab into his back first, then cold barbs slither along his arms and sink in there too. He screams and jumps to his feet. He’s had shots aplenty, and that is exactly what this feels like. A bunch of needles entering his body from every angle.

He falls over again, this time on purpose, in an attempt to shake the toy. Phil jumps out of the way, but when Chuzz flops on his stomach, the monkey punches him in the ass again.

“Fucking Phil!”

The monkey leaps away and chatters at him. Picks up the lock box and shakes it over his head.

Chuzz flops back over and smashes his back into the floor. The barbs sink in deeper, and Chuzz screams. Stretch’s head is near his ear and it chatters at him, sounds like laughter. “You wanna laugh at me? You wanna laugh, asshole?”

Chuzz rises to his feet and backs up as fast as he can, smashing into the wall at full speed. Bangstrom holds on, doesn’t even scream. But Chuzzle does. He howls at the top of his lungs. Then he spins to look at the thing, first one way then the next. He jerks his head around, trying to see what is going on back there.

The toy laughs, hoots and chatters like a loon. Chuzzle feels like joining him.

Warmth seeps into his body. It starts where the cold barbs pierce his skin. The cold gets warmer and then grows hot. He feels flushed all over. He feels like he is about to leap out of his skin, it is so warm.

But it feels good. It feels so good, he blows a load right in his pants. Doesn’t help the hard-on, though. He bounces to the front door and throws it open. His euphoria is just about to bubble to the surface but the damn toy squelches it before it can really get going.

“Settle down, bub. I’m your new helper. Lucky you and gosh golly, lucky fuck me!” Stretch giggles in one ear.

“Get off me!”

“I can’t, bub, I can’t. I was chosen just like you, and now I have to get involved. I liked it better when I was in a donation box. It smelled like despair. I like that.” The toy sighs and titters in his ear.

“Get the fuck off me!” Chuzz yells and slams himself into the wall. The toy exhales a deep breath as they make contact and then giggles.

“You got that itch that’s been driving me nuts all day. Thanks, bud!”

Chuzz falls on his back and rolls around a few times. He bounces up and down, but the toy chuckles and rides him out. Chuzz reaches behind himself and grabs the thing’s neck, prepared to rip it off. The toy does something that makes every barb in his body feel like it is connected to an electrical outlet. ZAP!

“Get off me!”

“No way, bub. Just settle down and listen to me. Just listen! You need me and I need you. We are like two peas in an apocalyptic pod. You wanna fight back? You stick with me, and I will keep my eyes open. I got your back. Get it? I GOT YOUR BACK!”

Chuzz shakes his head. He goes to the cupboard and takes out a bottle of Jym Beaner and a really big glass. Milk is next. He has to dig the warm carton out of the back of the fridge.

He doesn’t speak, just mixes up a double dose of memory eraser and tosses it back in one long swallow.

Phil is passed out. His monkey ass sticking up in the air, his one good arm under his body. Chuzz grabs a ratty blanket from what’s left of the hallway closet and covers his companion. Phil doesn’t move except for one eye that opens slowly. It fixes on Chuzz, then his lips pull back from his teeth in a satisfied grin.

“Swear to God, Phil, I’m going to take you to rehab one of these days. Stupid monkey.”

“Better hurry. The days are all growing to a close.” The toy on his back snickers. “You know your buddy is from the genus Pongo, right? He’s a great ape, not a monkey.”

“I know that, you idiot! Don’t you think I know my best friend is an ape?” Chuzz takes a seat at the remains of the dinner table. He hunches forward so Bangstrom doesn’t get squished. When he turns his head to the side, he can see those sharp grinning teeth. Like a bunch of tiny razor blades. His head is buzzing from the drink, but he still feels on edge. “So. Which way is Vegas?”

“Fuckaroni, I don’t know! If I gotta explain everything to you, our partnership is going to be a long and trying one.”

“So why are you here then?”

“I don’t know. I was fine until one of those flying fuckers gave me life. Breathed it right into me like I was a CPR doll.”

“Oh.” Chuzz slumps forward onto the dinner table, which reminds him that he should be eating now. He is hungry enough. He takes a half-thawed bean burrito out of the freezer and munches on it. Thing is stringy and tough. Tastes terrible cold. Despite the shards of tortilla stuck in his teeth, the food goes a long way toward making him feel more human. He lets a big juicy fart rip across the silence of the room.

“I’m not sure what is worse. The smell of that burrito or your ass.” Stretch Bangstrom mumbles.

Nathan P. Chuzzle ignores the thing. His mind is spent. There is literally nothing going on up there. For the first time in his life, not a single thought intrudes on the nothingness. Twang twang? Nope, the guitar string must have broken. Nothing. Just a haze of nothing.

He sits for some time and stares at the wall. The ceiling. The fading light of day. He listens to the screams in the night, howls and cries of pain. Cries of ecstasy. He should get up and check out the excitement, but he can’t muster up the energy.

“Fuck this. I’m going to bed. In the morning everything will be fine. I know it.”

“No it won’t.”

“Yes it will.”

“How are you going to sleep with me back here?”

Chuzz is already heading downstairs. The roof hangs over the dimly lit passageway and threatens to give in at every step.

“Easy. I’m gonna pop a couple of Ambien, and when I wake up, everything will be fine and dandy.”

Chuzz dry-swallows the pills like they are going out of style. He tries to slip his jeans off but doesn’t quite manage the feat before collapsing on his sweat-stained sheets, pants around his ankles, raging hard-on standing at attention. The toy groans and shifts under Chuzz as he passes gas like a locomotive chugging up a hill.

“Fucking asshole,” he sighs and then closes his eyes. Chuzz farts again.

The Ladies Hate the Cock

Back in the truck. Loaded and ready for war. Guns sprout out of every window and door like the big rig is a giant moving porcupine. The graveyard they leave behind looks like an army rolled over it. Corpses everywhere like a lost battlefield. Nothing moves when they move on.

Nothing.

They shoot every godforsaken thing they see on their way down the winding hillside, and there are some very fucking godforsaken things out there. It started to get dark a half hour ago, and then the moon made an appearance. A moon that was drenched in blood. The air took on a sultry feel, like they stepped into a sauna that smelled of piss. The reek is everywhere, and even the open windows blowing air in at over seventy miles per hour can’t suck the smell out.

Conversation is impossible. They tried to yell back and forth, but it was just irritating, and Darla told them to shut the fuck up. Music blares through the cab. It’s almost as loud as the wind, and it does help to cheer everyone up. Missus ManHole is one of the angriest femme bands on the planet, and they play them constantly. The current hit, I Smacked up a Tranny Bitch is rooting around in their brains, making them think happy thoughts.

Another hour goes by, and the sky is lit by fire as more red streaks flare across it. Dark at first, then bright red, now orange as the things rip at the atmosphere. Concussions rock the truck, and every once in a while Edwina wonders if they are in another earthquake.

“How much longer?” Marcel shouts.

Edwina has the map plastered to her legs, and she is pretty sure they are on the right road. The Sons of Satan’s Redeeming Cock are about to get a wakeup call. Apocalypse or not, there is going to be blood spilled. Screw the end of the world. No one breaks into their camp and tries to kill them like some kind of bad slasher flick. Leave that shit for the big screen.

“Soon. If we’re on the road I think we’re on, then you are going to take a left in about five minutes.”

“I’m on the lookout for it.” Darla hits a button, and lights on top of the big rig illuminate the night like it is midday.

“How are we on gas?”

“Fine. As long as we keep it steady. We won’t be able to run the engines when we rest, but I’m sure we can all cuddle up in the back.”

Edwina smiles and leans over to pats Darla on the leg. When she pulls her hand back, Marcel slips a leg toward the console, and she ends up brushing the tall woman’s thigh. Edwina looks at her, an apology on her face, but Marcel smiles at her. Eyes teasing. She leans back in her seat and swallows, thankful for the noise in the cabin, which covers her nervous actions.

“So what’s the plan?” Darla looks in the rearview mirror. Eyes on Marcel, who is cleaning her automatic. Edwina glances back. Marcel has the gun stripped and is checking the barrel. She peers down it, and when she seems satisfied, she snaps it back onto the stock of the gun.

“Shoot first.”

“Because that worked out so well with the angel.”

“It did. Didn’t it?” Marcel smiles a tight little grin that makes Edwina want to punch her in the face.

“No it did not! I can’t believe you shot before it could even say a word.”

“You know how I know it’s not an angel, Ed? Because I was able to shoot it. I don’t know if you are up on the Bible, but angels are these nasty things that show up when there is trouble. Big trouble. They kill firstborn by the boatload. Forget all that angelic shit. You see these guys and you run. It’s that simple. Don’t ask questions; don’t ask for help or directions to an orgy. You turn the fuck around and run!”

“You don’t know.”

“Marcel. Edwina’s right. We should have asked questions at the very least,” Darla interjects.

Edwina frowns at the memory of the beautiful bird that came to visit them. The woman with the wide white wings who fell to Earth. Darla, who was raised a devout Christian for the first fifteen years of her life, knew it was an angel. She had seen hundreds of pictures; there was no mistaking them. None at all.

Christianity hadn’t really worked out for Edwina. Too often she found herself looking for ways to skirt the rules. To bend one or two in her pursuit of feelings. She also had a problem with the whole waiting until marriage crap. She got laid at seventeen and then again the next day. Marcus Walker had been crap in and out of bed, so she dumped him for a big dumb guy who did what she asked. Did it the way she liked, and if he was good she would reward him with something special like a nice long visit inside her.

She had always been extreme, never really exploring the softer side of her femininity. When she drank at eighteen, she drank a lot. She drank until she couldn’t see straight, and she did it fast. She and her friends would sneak tequila and wine whenever they could. She would hold her nose and drink from the bottle of hard liquor until she thought she was going to gag. The others laughed, but she got buzzed faster than those crows.

She sighs and looks out the windshield and regrets it as a pair of bugs smash into the glass. Big bastards, each wing the size of a whole butterfly. They have bulbous nasty bodies that look like little fuzzy black pigs. One of the mushed creatures sticks on the windshield, glued there by its own bloody goo. Above the thorax, they can all see, quite clearly, the face of a bearded man whose obvious pain gives way to obvious death.

“Oh my fucking God!” Darla gasps.

The women roll up the windows as fast as they can, but a few more of the things fly in.

“Shit! I can’t see!” Darla applies the brakes, and the rig slows. A cloud of bugs sweeps by and nearly covers the rig in black.

Marcel screams and bats at the little pig-men-bugs. They flitter in front of the ladies and make obscene gestures with tiny fingers. They stroke themselves with wicked little grins on their wicked little faces. But the only fluid release occurs when Marcel slaps them against the windows or dash. Then they explode in a spray of red and white.

“Gross!” Edwina cries but smashes one more just the same. She looks all over, finds a wadded-up clump of old towels on the floor, and uses it to wipe up the bug guts. She vaguely remembers that she and Darla may have used the towels a few days ago when they stole a little alone time in the truck cabin. Edwina tends to squirt all over the damn place. Something she was NOT aware of before meeting her lover.

Darla fucking loves it.

Darla swats at a pair of bugs with one hand while the other remains glued to the wheel as the truck slows to a stop. She is a pro; she would drive through a hurricane just to spite the damn thing.

“I got ‘em!” and Marcel does. She has a wicked knife in one hand, and when the pair flashes by, the blade lashes out in short, sharp, lightning-fast strokes that slice the things in half.

“Gross! You got dick chunks all over my cab!” Darla says, her eyes livid. Now that she says it, Edwina realizes the pig boys do have a certain phallic quality.

“We need to find somewhere to hole up for the night.” Marcel says.

“That is the best damn idea I have heard all day.” Edwina smiles as she smacks another little cock man against the dash.

Three Angels, a Demon, and a Priest Walk into a Sex Shop

Leon sets the Jamie St. Pucker Pocket Pussy back on his nightstand as he starts kicking through the mess strewn about his bedroom. He finds his faded JanSport backpack under a pile of heavy metal tee shirts. He dumps the contents (a stack of flyers for Jerome’s Sex Shop, two empty whiskey bottles, and a few old Taco Bell bags) on his bed and stuffs the pocket pussy and a handful of shirts into the backpack. He reaches for the doorknob at the same moment Bud swings his door open. The door cracks against Leon’s forehead, and he falls back into his room on his ass.

“Shit, sorry, Leon,” Bud says as he helps him up off his cluttered floor.

Leon holds his hand to his throbbing forehead and nods his forgiveness. “Cock Mary cock,” he mumbles.

Bud shushes Leon and pushes the door closed quietly. He stares at Leon over his thin-rimmed glasses, “You might jus’ want to keep your mouth closed. I know this sounds crazy … there are three fucking angels downstairs.”

“Whoa,” Leon starts, meaning to explain to Bud how he and Chuzzle just had this conversation and maybe the angels can help them, but Bud holds up his hand and frowns at Leon, cutting him off before he even starts.

“Them boys downstairs appear to be battle angels, if you can believe such a thing, and I don’t think you would want to anger them, Leon. And seeing as how you can’t help but blaspheme about cocks, gods, and twats, maybe you should just stay up here and keep yourself quiet.” He nods at Leon and, not wanting to hurt his friend’s feelings, adds, “you understand, don’t you?”

Leon understands, but he doesn’t really care. There are plans set in motion. Sitting in his room while the world dies around him isn’t among them. He needs to tell Bud that he has to go to the sheriff station. Leon closes his eyes and tries to concentrate. He focuses on the words, “Bud, I know it’s the Apocalypse. Me and Chuzzle are going to Vegas to kick some Devil butt. I want to ask the three battle angels downstairs to join me on my holy quest of ass-kicking. And I need a ride to the sheriff station for some of them kick-ass shotguns.”

In his head, he hears his voice say the words, slow and well enunciated. For good measure, he repeats it slowly a few times to himself, so deep in concentration he nods and his lips move. He ignores Bud, who stands with his arms folded looking at him as if Leon has lost his damn mind. Leon only sees the phrase. He sees it as big balloon letters sitting on a nerve still half-attached to his pulsating brain. He hears his voice echo the phrase over and over as he visualizes a bright green spark from his brain, which tears the balloon letters loose and sends them toward his mouth. He says them in his head once more as they hit his slightly spread lips, “Bud, I know it’s the Apocalypse. Me and Chuzzle are going to Vegas to kick some Devil ass. I want to ask the three battle angels downstairs to join me on my holy quest of ass-kicking. And I need a ride to the sheriff station for some of them kick-ass shotguns.”

Leon is so confident he will speak the correct words and dazzle Bud and his little faith that he opens his eyes. He looks Bud in the eye and tells him, “Slippery jism pleasure doom. Joseph dangle Noah idol foot fuck. Fisting blondes forgive anal trespasses. And Mother Mary sweet puckered pillar of salt.”

Bud puts his arm around Leon and tells him in the nicest, most calming voice he can muster, “Leon, buddy, if you go downstairs talking about Jesus cock and Mother Mary’s sweet puckered pillar of salt, they will most likely rip your guts out yer ass.”

Leon looks at the floor, frustrated and overwhelmed. “Butt plug, Bud,” he tells his friend. He holds two fingers up and uses them to zip an imaginary zipper across his lips.

“Okay, well, Jerome is arguing with one of them, but I bet we can sneak right past.”

Bud pushes Leon and his backpack out the door and down the first couple of stairs. Leon turns and whispers offensive words of protest. Bud’s eyes grow wide and he whispers sharply into Leon’s ear, “Leon, I’m serious, just shut the fuck up.”

Leon gives up for the moment, knowing there will be a notebook in Bud’s bomb shelter. He can write it all out. Before they reach the bottom stair, they hear Jerome’s fat, deep voice, “Listen, you winged mother fucker, you don’t just come into a man’s place of business accusing him of grievous acts of false advertising!”

A smile cracks across Bud’s face. It is such an uncommon phenomenon that Leon grins and stumbles the last few steps. A second voice booms out, “Listen to me, you disgusting example of a human, or I will fucking smite ye!” The thunderous voice frightens Leon so much that he trips and falls into a petite winged man who is looking at the All Gay Amateur display. The two land in a clutter of bright white feathers and greasy green overalls. The small angel flops against Leon, grinding his pelvis against Leon’s side. “Whoa, denial suck-job Jesus balls,” Leon mumbles loudly as he pushes himself up off the floor.

The small angel winks at Leon and suggestively flutters his thick wings against the filthy porn shop floor. Leon’s eyes are wide and terrified as he asks Bud, “Bang hole savior, Bud?” easily translated to “Battle angels, Bud?”

Jerome shouts, “You’ll smite no one but your fucking self in my joint! That’s just not classy, you motherless fuck!” before Bud can respond to Leon or the small flirty angel on the floor.

“What?” The much larger and more intimidating angel demands. This angel looks like a battle-ready son of a god; he stands over seven feet tall with muscles that look as if they are molded in solid steel. His wings are bloody and bandaged, and they stand a full foot taller than he when folded across his wide back. His jaw is thick and square, too angular to be considered handsome. His hair reflects the cheap fluorescent bulbs overhead as he tosses it softly while grinding his perfect white teeth at Jerome. As he tosses his hair, Leon, Bud, and the smallest angel all sigh, overcome with a feeling of God’s love.

“Godly,” the little angel says.

“What’s God like?” Bud asks, still lost in the rapture of the big angel’s hair.

“Fat,” the small angel replies flatly.

“Really?”

“Yup, really, really fat. In fact, that old saying ‘cleanliness is next to godliness’ has been raped and pillaged as many times as the Bible. It was originally ‘chubbiness is next to godliness.’”

Leon chuckles. Bud scowls at him. Jerome makes a raspberry sound with his lips at the big angel, and everyone turns back to face them.

Jerome follows up his raspberry with a scoff and he jerks off the air in front of him while he tells the angel towering over him, “NO … smiting … anyone … but … yourself … in my motha’ fuggin’ … sex shop.”

He grins, very pleased with himself for putting such a giant in his place. The massive angel frowns and slaps Jerome hard across the face like a pimp swinging a cricket bat.

“That’s a fucking smite, you piece of shit,” the angel shouts.

Jerome falls behind the counter in a heap and yells, “BUD! Get the fucking shotgun and kill this crazy winged piece of shit!”

Suzy’s Got A New Hole

The women pull off the road and find an old hotel back in the woods. It is abandoned, and some of the rooms are flooded with water. But they find a pair right next to each other that are in pretty good shape. The carpet is shag, gross, and probably crawling with stuff. They drag in cots and spend some time airing the place out. The little dick men are long gone, but they lock up the rooms as soon as they can.

Darla and Edwina wander down to the office. Darla plants her boot right in the center of the door, and it bursts open. She steps through, a hand cannon gripped tight. Edwina follows with her assault rifle slung low. No sense in getting excited and blasting the room if something or someone pops out. She is amped up, ready to deal lead, but the room is completely deserted.

The counter, couch, chairs and small card table are covered in dust and debris. Old newspapers are stacked everywhere. They check the date of the Daily Gab. Five years out of date.

Edwina half expects to see a pair of legs sticking out from behind the counter or in the back room. Why would someone leave this place, just lock up and call it a day? If she had more of a domestic bent, she might like to run a hotel.

“What the hell?” Darla shakes her head.

“What?”

“For a minute I thought it said The Daily Cunt.”

“That’s funny. Maybe later I can show you the real daily cunt.”

Darla smiles and pecks her cheek with a sweet little kiss. Edwina feels a familiar thrill race through her abdomen at the prospect of jumping into bed with her lover. They grin at each other like a pair of loons and then get back to business.

The back room is almost as bare. There is a television, but it is just as dead as the rest of the place. The cover hangs off the circuit breaker. Neither one thought to bring a flashlight, but a little reddish moonlight shines through the windows.

“Spooky in here. Like a slasher movie.” Edwina says.

“Booga booga!” Darla laughs.

“If I were a killer, I would wait until we were flipping the switches and then jump out.”

“Eek!” Edwina squeals. She grabs Darla and hugs her close. Then kisses her for real. They stand together in the dark for a while before breaking apart and going to try the switches.

“You were great out there. I loved how you had that shotgun and went to town on those stupid zombie things.” Edwina flips a few switches, but nothing happens. She feels around the box until she finds a larger one.

“What the hell was that all about? I still can’t believe those things came out of the ground.”

“I think the news is right. It’s the end of the world.” Edwina can’t help but think about the angel Marcel shot. What was she thinking? That winged creature may have had answers. She flips the big switch, and the breakers snap. Then a humming starts in the background.

“Shit!”

“Shit yeah!”

She pops breakers so fast it sounds like popcorn. The lights come on in the room and in the lobby. The vibration of a large fan shakes the place. She glances around the tiny room and squeals. From a chair in the corner of the room, a figure is watching them.

Darla pulls her handgun in one smooth motion and fires. The explosion whisks away Edwina’s hearing. She feels like she just had her head stuffed with cotton.

There is a pop and then the whistle of air escaping plastic. Darla lowers the gun and laughs. She just shot an inflatable sex toy with big plastic tits and a brown spot where her bush would be.

“You killed Suzy fucks-a-lot.” Edwina laughs as she reads the name on the back of the toy.

“I’m sorry, Suzy!” Darla cries. She is laughing so hard that tears streak down her face. Suzy doesn’t answer, just continues to lose air. It sounds like a long loud fart.

Three Angels, a Demon, and a Priest Walk into a Sex Shop

The big angel looks at Bud with a dare glowing in his eyes. Bud holds up his hands in surrender and shakes his head. “Fuck you, Jerome. I quit!”

The angel smiles and reaches over the counter. He helps Jerome to his feet with one hand.

Bud and Leon follow suit, helping the small angel back up. While everyone is thus distracted, Father Maniwhore uses his super demon speed to enter the shop and dash past them all to the row of video booths, down the small dark hallway, and into booth 15. The big angel sniffs the air and turns away, letting go of the still-unsteady Jerome, who bounces off the glass counter, cracking it, before falling back to the floor.

“What the …” Jerome grumbles, but the big angel interrupts him with a shush.

The angel sniffs again and turns back to Jerome, “Sorry. Thought I smelled a demon. Where was I?” He scratches his head with a big finger and remembers. “Oh, yeah, I watched this All Anal Angels All Stars, and there isn’t one fucking angel in the whole video!”

“And I told you that every girl in AX4S is an angel in my eyes. I don’t cater to freaks with wings who have anal fixations!”

Bud shakes his head. “He’s gonna get himself slapped again.”

“Some guys like it,” the small angel says, staring at Leon with heavenly fuck-me eyes, “My name is Billie. B-I-L-L-I-E as in Billie Jean. What’s yours?”

Leon opens his mouth to talk, but Bud interjects, “I’m Bud and this here is Leon.”

“Ohhh,” Billie smiles. “I’m the medic for the big boys. The fella arguing with your friend is Frank, and Jake is down that dark hallway over there.”

He extends his hand like a lady, and both Leon and Bud give it a gentle shake.

“Are you two lovers?” Billie asks

Leon speaks before thinking. “No, Jesus bang hole Mother Mary stink gang!”

Bud’s eyes grow wide. Leon shrugs, and Billie tells him, “Wow, maybe you shouldn’t blaspheme in the presence of angels. Ya know? Just maybe.”

Bud leans close to Leon and whispers, “I told you to keep your mouth shut!” Then he turns to Billie and speaks only slightly louder. “I’m sorry about that. I think some signals are getting messed up in his head. He hasn’t been able to talk right for a while now. Kinda’ tragic really.”

Billie rummages in a bag at his feet and pulls out a headband with a metal disk attached to it. He fits it on his head and steps close to Leon. A light gleams from the center of the metal disk and shines on the side of Leon’s head.

“Well,” Billie says, “this is a mess!”

Overcome by curiosity, Bud walks around to stand next to Billie. “Shit,” is the only thing he can manage when he sees Leon’s brain in the light from the metal disk. Veins and arteries throb and pulse while Billie pokes and prods. Every now and then, Leon giggles or sobs as the medic angel pushes invisible buttons on his exposed brain.

“There,” Billie grins as he takes off his headband, “say something now, Studmuffin.”

Leon looks at Bud and then at Billie. “We ain’t gay for each other.”

“Hot damn,” Bud says, slapping his leg. “Hey, can you use that thing to hunt down a kidney stone?”

Billie blushes and puts the headband back on. “Okay, but don’t tell anyone.”

“Wait! Bud, wait!” Leon yells in his excitement over delivering the same words that form in his brain. “The Devil has risen in Las Vegas! Me and Chuzzle are gonna rally down and make our last fucking stand with some balls! What do you say, Bud?”

He pats Leon on the back and says, “Thanks, Billie! Everyone looks at you differently when you say ‘cock’ and ‘Jesus’ in almost every sentence.”

“Yeah,” Billie says, tugging Bud toward the dark hallway by his belt. “Your brain was fucked. Maybe no blaspheming around angels and lay off the acid, cutie.”

“I don’t do acid,” Leon scoffs at Billie before grabbing Bud’s shoulder and asking him, “Are you in, Bud? We need weapons, and quick. We need to go to the sheriff station and either get help or guns or both.”

All Bud can think about is the prospect of being rid of his kidney stone without squeezing it down his prick and out his piss hole. Leon sees the distraction in his eyes and turns to Billie instead, “What about you? You and your battle angels down to kick some evil ass?”

“Uh, maybe. Let me help your friend and then we’ll ask, okay?” All Billie can think about is the prospect of seeing Bud’s prick.

“Shit,” Leon says as they disappear into the dark hallway. Then he smiles when a breathless Father O’Coddle bursts through the door.

Down the dark hallway, an angel beats his celestial meat in booth 14 while a half-demon spanks his ugly monkey in booth 15. The angel has never seen porn or experienced jerking off, and he loves both. He moans at the top of his powerful lungs.

The dejected Father Maniwhore jerks off with tears rolling down his cheeks; every now and then he slugs himself in the nuts. He catches a glimpse of the angel in the next booth, and he sticks his big demon dick through the glory hole before he can stop himself.

In the doorway, Father O’Coddle asks Leon, “Have you seen Father Maniwhore? I could have sworn he was headed this way.”

Leon shakes his head and says, “Nope. But, Father, there are three angels in here right now.”

“Yeah, some demons tore apart the church … wait are you talking normally, Leon?”

Leon beams and tells him, “Yeah, Billie fixed me. You wanna come with me and Bud and Chuzzle to kick some Devil ass in Vegas?”

“What the hell is a Chuzzle?”

“He’s my friend,” Leon beams, proud to say the words, “and we are going to kick this Apocalypse’s ass!”

O’Coddle laughs and asks again, “Are you sure you didn’t see Father Maniwhore?”

Leon rolls his eyes and gestures at the store around them. “Father, how could a big creepy bastard like Father Maniwhore sneak past us all?”

As if in answer to his question, the wall to the peep booth hallway explodes, flinging leather gear across the store. Two shapes hit the ground in a fury, punching and kicking each other in a blur of white feathers and furry goat legs. Bud and Billie bolt from the hallway, Bud with his pants undone and Billie with a smile on his face. When Frank sees Jake fighting a demon, he growls and lunges forward.

Father Maniwhore stands over Jake, completely naked. From the waist down, he has the body of a goat, with the exception of his massive swinging dick. Maniwhore kicks Frank in the chest with both hooves, sending the big angel over the counter onto a pale Jerome. The angel’s battleaxe slides across the ground until it stops at Leon’s and Father O’Coddle’s feet.

Maniwhore leans in to pummel Jake, but the angel lands a punch on his long, wide, half-demonic nose. Maniwhore backs off for a second, but before Jake can get to his feet, he receives a hoof to the ass that sends him crashing into the Wall of Classic Porn.

Jake lands in a heap and is quickly battered by a landslide of ancient porn on VHS. Frank regains his senses and jumps the glass counter, landing on Maniwhore’s back. Frank’s wings open and flap as he lifts Maniwhore off the ground, pummeling him with his free fist. Blood drips to the floor, and stray white feathers float in a lazy arc behind them.

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 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.”

Satan is a Fucktard

Six of the women are gathered in the office. The rest are setting up camp in the two livable hotel rooms. It turned out there was a small kitchen in the back. Sue took to it with some supplies from the semi and prepared them a gourmet dinner of mac and cheese and powdered eggs. They washed it back with warm beer they had stashed in the semi. The stuff tasted like shit, but it was worth it to get a buzz, Edwina thought.

The television was the first thing they checked. After fiddling with the rabbit ears, they got a weak signal from a local channel that was running up-to-the minute updates on the madness. They even had a banner underneath that read, “First on the scene for all your apocalyptic needs.”

Marcel is next to Sue on the sofa, and the sex doll sits between them. Someone found a box of Hello Kitty Band-Aids and taped them in an X across the hole in her forehead. Darla grabbed a marker and wrote, “OW - FUCK!” across it.

The news is pretty dire, but they watch it just the same. Speaking now is a man in a sharp suit with a gun pressed to his head from off screen. All they see is a hand covered in scales. After the day they’ve had, it is the least of the crazy shit they’ve seen.

“This is Chet Toaster bringing you the latest news from the Apocalypse. Remember, folks. When you want to hear about the end of the world, turn to KCUM for all your apocalyptic news. We have a weather report coming up in a few minutes, but first we go live to our WDIK affiliate in Las Vegas where an interesting new feature has appeared along the outskirts of the city.”

The screen cuts away to a bird’s eye view of the ground. The camera focuses on a giant red mountain that has sprung up in the middle of the desert. Edwina is no expert on such things, but she is pretty sure there are no giant fucking red mountains in the desert. Big cacti, maybe. Big stretches of sand, sure. A pair of hills thousands of feet wide that are bright red and covered in scales? Not fucking likely.

The sand shifts as the hill moves. Then its twin moves as well. A giant cloud of green gas rises between them and ascends into the sky. The camera focuses on a frazzled-looking woman in a business suit. She is covered in ash and trying to talk over the helicopter’s rotors. Her hair hangs over her face like a grey cloud. She has big circles under her eyes and not one smear of makeup on her face. She might be twenty-five, but she looks twice that.

“What the hell is that?” Edwina asks the room.

“I’ll tell you what it is. It’s a giant ass,” Marcel says and stands up. She paces up and down the room while watching the screen. She keeps walking in front of the TV, but Edwina doesn’t complain because Marcel has a marvelous sway to her walk.

Darla laughs and then looks again.

“Holy fucking shit!” she says out loud.

“This is Kelly Pusboing, and we are live over the desert of Nevada about twenty miles from Las Vegas. A few days ago, there was a clash between the military and some protestors, but the scene today couldn’t be any more different. What ended in blood has turned the desert a shade of red that the world will never forget.” The sound of the chopper cuts in and out, distorting the sound of the reporter.

“She may look like hell, but she knows how to put on that concerned face in a hurry,” Edwina observes.

“I’d do her.” Marcel chuckles.

“She’s kind of skinny. She might not survive,” Darla observes.

“Oh sweet innocence. I bet she’s a hellcat.”

“Speaking of hell.” Edwina points at the screen.

A stream of people is either running away from the piles in the desert or being herded toward it. It’s hard to make out with all the red dust flying. The earth shifts again, and a giant red cloud engulfs the Army far below. The helicopter tilts and sways back. Other choppers hover in place, but they will also have to move or they will be swimming in the crap.

A pair of fighters rockets past the helicopter. The little speakers in the television crackle as the sound in the onscreen helicopter goes up a few decibels. The reporter flinches back, and the camera tilts at a crazy angle to follow the jets.

“As you can see, it is chaos outside today. We’ve seen the military on the move. Scores of fighters and even a few Cobra helicopters popping up here and there. Whatever the thing in the desert is, it is considered a danger to the … wait we are getting word from …” She pauses and pressed her headset tight around her head. She squints her eyes, and then they go wide. She leans over, almost falling on the floor of the chopper as she yells something at the pilots.

A thunderous wave passes overhead, shaking the already vibrating craft. The camera falls over, and for a split second there is a perfect view up young reporter Kelly Pusboing’s skirt.

“Someone forgot her big girl panties today,” Darla giggles.

“She also forgot to tape her cock up.” Marcel stares on.

The girls shift uncomfortably in their seats. Sue picks up the blow-up doll and looks between the thing’s legs. “This has girl parts.”

Something smacks into the front windshield of the helicopter as it tries to come around in a circle. Then something else hits, but it is too fast to make out.

“Was that a bird?”

Then a giant red flying thing that looks like a dragon from Hell slams the helicopter from the side. The pilot tried to avoid it, but the creature moves too fast. The camera catches the pilot’s terrified hands scrabbling at the controls. The sky is suddenly straight ahead, and warning sounds buzz and click. The reporter tries to push herself back up into her seat, but the helicopter lurches again and she has the misfortune of being near the sliding side door. She catches the handlebar as she attempts to get her balance. The metal portal slides open, and she tumbles away with a scream.

“Kelly!” a voice screams over the sound of the wind ripping into the tiny space.

“Ah fuck meeeeeeeee!” her voice howls.

The helicopter swings over, and the screen is filled with something that should not be. A giant horned face that looks like the bastard child that resulted when a nightmare fucked a giant lizard. Screams as the helicopter falls into it. Cries for help as the screen goes blank, then a tremendous crunching sound fills the room as the speakers overload in the tiny television.

“Special effects get better and better every day,” Darla says, breaking the shocked silence.

Edwina turns to her lover but closes her mouth. Having it open reminds her of the thing she just saw on the screen. The thing that cannot exist. Just like the angel. A thing that cannot exist. Just like the little flying cocks that flooded the semi earlier in the day.

“This is truly the end,” she says into the silent room.

“Well shit. I need to hurry up and get laid then.”

“Now we’re talking!” Marcel grins. “After that, we go after the fucktards that fucking fucked up our day!”

The ladies break into howls of approval.

This is not the end

The adventure continues in the second volume:

The Apocalypse Strikes Back

Prepare to be ass-fucked into eternity!

Mr. Long and Mr. Moon would like to thank:

Strobe lights in strip clubs, arm sized sex toys, D.A.R.E. programs, peppermint, candles that smell like peppermint, trees, trees that smell like peppermint sex, candles that smell like trees, guinea pigs, Samurais, Porta-Potties, Simon, but not Garfunkel, people that cover Moon's shifts at work...suckas, thumb wrestling, high riding thongs in-conjunction with low riding jeans, cell phone nudie pics, werewolves, but not vampires, tentacles, strip clubs that serve hard liquor, foreign accents, facebook trolls, anything on fire, sour diesel, whiskey sours, junkies and revolutionaries, all professional wrestlers from the 1980's, sex swings, revolutionary junkies, broad sides of barns, polar bears, ninjas, clowns, but not mimes – fuck those guys. Our family and friends, any rant by Mel Gibson, Dr. Douchingham, asparagus pee, tax returns, Fuckin’ Phil, commas and periods, rapture survivors everywhere, radish breath, Mr. Hand’s video, Richard Pryor, whoever fists Harold Camping to death, the makers of Viagra, everything that comes out of Sarah Palin’s mouth including my di .., Fringe, tequila and all the bad decisions it leads to, the lizards that run the government, Junk Monkey Marshall, chicks in short skirts, nose hair trimmers, Doc, alien death rays, Edward Lee, America – FUCK YEAH! Mark, George, Stewie, Stevie, Amy Pond, Lee, Carey, Carrie, Crystal, Ellie, Joe, Moe, Shmoe, Arnie, Maberry, Brown, Brown, Brown, Brown, and Brown, Derek, Patrick, Jacob, Michael, Stephanie, Louise, Zee Zak, Matt, Clyde, Chip, Chuck, Chloe, Netflix, blackjacks, camel toe, moose knuckles, zip ties, napkins, recorders, Amish kittens, strobe lights, Sony’s shitty security, Rob’s bigass head, Laura’s killer pimpage, EZ Glide, Michael Baysplosions, Charlie Sheen, the numbers 6, 6 and 6, smug douche-waffles dressed in red robes at conventions, Jack Bauer, Karl Malden and Yul Brenner’s love child, Joe Pesci, chicken lips, G-strings, El Fuckaroonie Airlines, King Leonidas and the other 299 idiots, anyone we may have missed.

…and FUCK THE ACADEMY!

Meet the Authors

(Hide your pets!)

After completing Wacktards of the Apocalypse, the authors, Timothy W. Long and Jonathan Moon, fled the country. They were last seen in Brazil, sipping Singapore Slings with Mescal on the side at the Cross-Eyed Donkey bar.

The men are wanted in connection with a string of bowling ball thefts, zombie resurrections, and miniature bulldog jell-o wrestling. If seen, the men are considered wacked and hyper. Caution is advised unless you have a fresh supply of nitrous oxide to share.

Clergy leaders have sworn that the two men will be brought to justice for crimes against the Church and literature in general.

Jonathan Moon

http://mrmoonblogs.blogspot.com/

Timothy W. Long

http://timothywlong.com