The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1) (39 page)

The two men pour out the leftover blue sludge from their Slurpee cups and mix up a batch of Red Bull and vodkas. Then they are back on the road and headed for the desert. The smell of blood and death fades as they drive into the desert. It is replaced by dirt and a very dry sun.

The metal boxes clank purposefully off into the distance like they have a mission. Death is tempted to pick up his scythe and cut the things down, but Jesus ignored continues to ignore them, which isn’t really like him. He should be forgiving the things and blessing them, but he doesn’t seem to be in a blessing mood lately.

“We need some tunes!” the bearded son of God screams. He fiddles with the dials until he finds a station that is still broadcasting.

“Welcome back to Fuck You AD Radio, your source for the end of the world. I’m still here and I’m still rocking, so until the world crashes and burns around me, here is Motorhead with Ace of Spades! And don’t forget, folks, if you see a demon in the street, you better hide ‘cause he will eat you whole. I’m Louis Lamer, and here is your next half hour of nonstop butt rock! WAAAHOOOOOOO!”

Jesus leans over and cranks the stereo to head-pounding volume as the car blazes a trail through the sand. Massive subwoofers in the back of the car make it feel like it is going to break through the street surface before they arrive.

Death grins and breathes in the new world.

An hour later, they come to a massive parade of people.
People of all sorts.
Tall, thin, short, fat, walking, crawling, and being prodded. An army
of demons walks behind them, whips in hand as
the they
herd them toward some destination. They cry as they shuffle-step, wail, and scream. There is terror written on every face that as they glance back and beg for help.
Men, women, children, three-legged dogs.
They are an army of misery.

“What in the hell is this?” Death remembers to close his mouth after a few seconds.

“Hmmm.” Jesus squints around his busted eye.

A bulldozer rolls around the corner without a sound because it is being pushed by the biggest damn demon Death has ever seen. The barrel-chested monster is the same shade of purple as an engorged cock. Veins run up each arm and end at shoulders without a neck, just a tiny head that looks like someone dropped
an afterbirth
on a dickhead and gave it six eyes. It has squat legs that look like they would be at home on a T-rex. It’s dropping turds the size of subcompacts as it pushes the machine.

The demons herding the humans move aside so the massive machine can take their place. The demon groans as he rolls it against a column of people, goading them onto the freeway like cattle.

Death rolls to a stop and stares at the savior.
Is he about going to start doing his savior thing?

The man in the dirty white robe opens the door and slams it shut behind him. He drains the entire Slurpee cup of vodka and Red Bull and tosses the cup in the car. He stands on unsteady feet, his body waving back and forth. A breeze blows over him and lifts his straggly hair up and around his head.

Death grabs his scythe and joins him. If this is to be the end, so be it. He knows about War, about how he died with a ball of lead to the face. Not a great way to go out, not a great way at all. He knows the other Horsemen are vulnerable now that the rules are messed up. He doesn’t understand it, but he is pretty sure he is immune to whatever malarkey is going on. He is Death, after all, and he gets a free pass.

“Run!” One of the men in the back of the ranks yells in their direction. Death looks around. That is a pretty good fucking idea. He could call his horse and be out of here in a second, or he could just grab Jesus and they could make a U-turn. Head toward the coast, maybe see if Reno is a hellhole as well.

But Jesus seems to have other plans.

He marches, Death in tow, toward one of the whip-wielding demons. He tries to walk with purpose, but he isn’t fooling Death. The savior is snockered.

“‘Smeaning all this?!” he yells at the demon when they are a few feet apart.

The red thing is about nine feet tall and has hooks for hands and
pulsating slits that look like hairy vaginas all over his chest. When he takes a breath, they open and air rushes in and out.

“Just who the fuck knuckle are you?” the demon asks in a voice that sounds like his mouth is full of marbles.

“The fuck I am is fucking Jesus, the son of fucking God. And you are the fuck knuckle.” He stands unwavering before the massive creature.

Death takes the scythe from his shoulder and holds it in two hands. He’s ready to back Jesus’s move.

“Er. You’re kidding, right?”

“Do I fuck like I’m looking kidding?”

The demon lowers one of the whips and lets it unfold to the ground. It is covered in cruel barbs, spurs of metal and more than a few fingers. Most look human, although there appear to be a few demonoid ones as well.

“And who are you?” The demon points the handle at Death. “His daddy?”

“I’m Death.” The screams and sobs of misery go silent for a moment as every eye turns to regard him. “So, you know. You better fucking listen up to what I am bringing down.”

Jesus shoots a questioning look over his shoulder.

“I really suck at this. If War were here, he would be doing all the talking. I’m better at doing the reaping.” Death shrugs.

“You two petunias just became my new bitches. I’m gonna wear your asses out tonight and then tomorrow I’m still gonna toss you in the pit.”

“What pit?” Jesus stands on his tiptoes.

“The one over there. The one we’re shoving every one into.
The pit of Satan.
Where have you two fuck sticks been?”

“Busy. Now unleash aside before I move some holiness on you.” Jesus hiccups.

He looks over at Death. Death shrugs.

“I ain’t moving for either of you fuck sticks!”

“Say fuck stick one more time,” Jesus says so quietly Death isn’t even sure he heard the words.

The demon sure heard them. He takes two massive steps forward to leer over the man in the robe. He leans over and smiles a nightmare grin.

“FUCK STICK!” he roars so loud the hair on Jesus’s head ruffles as if in a strong breeze.

“I bless you,” Jesus says just loud enough to be heard. But his words are hurled like a spear at high speed.

The demon spontaneously turns inside out. His viscera spill out of his ass before he is torn limb from limb and then smeared at high speed across the pavement. What is left isn’t fit to piss on. It’s just green ooze and a couple of eyeballs.

“Any of you other fuck sticks want to play?” Jesus yells. He is met
with silence.

He glares around from face to face.
Demon and man alike.
Some fall to their knees; others rise up on tiptoes to see what all the commotion is about.

“Save us. Please save us!” the cries come in earnest as the crowd begs for mercy.

A couple of the demons drop their whips and back away. The giant demon with a tiny dick for a head stops pushing the bulldozer and turns to face the man in dirty white. He takes one massive step toward him, and then another. With each stride, the highway feels like it is going to fall apart around them.

“I bless you.” Jesus smiles, and the demon is treated to the same exit. He is much larger than the first demon, and the mess he leaves behind will take a week to clean up. His little dick head flies across the crowd, bouncing off the heads of the herded humans before falling into the pit.

Jesus strides to the car with a swagger. He puts one hand on the side of the door and leaps over it to land with a soft
whomp
in the passenger seat. Death stows his scythe and jumps in beside him.

“That was fun!” Jesus smiles like a kid with a new toy.

“Are we just going to leave them?”

“Should I help and
stop
,
*hiccup*
every single crybaby? Did they ever do me for that?” He squints at Death.

“Good point, dude.”

“Let’s find a way down to the desert. I still want to have a little chat with that fother mucker down there.”

The car starts with a roar and the sound of Guns and Roses blares out. As they peel away from the herd of people, Death gets a look over the cliff at an enormous red shape half stuck in the sand. The highway might have been a long strip of road over flat ground, but now it drops off a few hundred feet. There are other things dropping as well. Columns of people fall as the pushing resumes. Hundreds of them drop like flailing rocks, arms and legs flapping as they cartwheel straight into the asshole of Satan himself.

“I wish I had a video camera,” Death whispers.

“We got any more Red Bull?”

Cease and Desist,
You Evil Bastard

“We are nearing the target, Control,”
 
Agent Fred Gallstone tells the microphone in his cuff sleeve as the Humscalade speeds through the desert toward the Lord of Darkness himself. Beelzebub.

Agent Clarence Lickspittle says nothing. He knows there is no one at Control. They passed the white van Gary used to drive, smeared with crimson and brown, as they pulled the Humscalade out of the warehouse. Fred stared in the opposite direction, but Agent M and Lickspittle both saw the thick pink chunks of Gary the demon left behind.
Control is dead
, Lickspittle thinks to himself and cracks a smile.
Control is dead and I’m in charge.
Mrs. Lickspittle’s baby boy is going to save the world, and as fucked up as the world is, that still has to count for something.

Agent Lickspittle looks at his longtime friend and partner Agent Gallstone and shakes his head softly. He knows his man is hurting, but he needs him to be at one hundred percent for the mission ahead. It’s not every day that you and your team of crack secret agents serve Lucifer a Cease and Desist notice in the middle of the Las Vegas desert. Especially while surrounded by seething hordes of howling demons and ravenous dead.

Agent M is sitting in the backseat, reloading all of his weapons and re-zipping all of his zippers when the Devil’s giant half-buried red ass comes into view.
 
The earth around the massive ass cheeks has heaved and split, leaving the ground and highway uneven and broken. Hundreds of the undead stumble around the desert looking for any living flesh they can find. A stretch of highway has been twisted into the air where it hangs above the Devil’s asshole. A line of humans is moving slowly up the twisted path of asphalt and over the edge, prodded on by misshapen demons with pitchforks and swords.
 

Agent M screams, “Not again!”

The muscle-bound agent crawls up to the .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the top of the Humscalade. Agent M grabs the gun and opens
fire on the hordes of the dead. Rotted body parts fly as the fifty cal rips the decaying bodies to shreds. Agent Gallstone stares out the opposite window and whispers into his cuff, “Visual confirmation of target, Control, well the ass end of the target.”
 
He chokes a little. “The desert is dead and beautiful in its own way, Control, like you.”