The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1) (43 page)

“Can I go then?” Foley asks in a trembling voice.

“Yep. Soon as we get in. So get us in and we are all good.
Square, you and us.
You walk right on up that ramp and embrace the new world.”

“You can’t get in. The door is shut from the other side.”

The two demons look back and forth. Then the smaller one drops the claw and walks toward Foley, who wants to cower behind something. But the only thing to hide behind is a big pile of nothing.
Nowhere to even cower, what a way to die.
Once upon a time Foley was the pride of the Pentagon. He was going places. He has an unlimited budget as long as he worked on larger and more powerful bombs. He had one of his babies right here, just about finished. Ready to move into an ICBM casing.

Years of research went into it, and when he was done he had the mother fucker of all explosions at his hand. It could take out a pair of cities with a single blast. New York wouldn’t stand a chance. The weapon was never supposed to see use, it was merely a deterrent. Enough leaked information to ensure that the right parties knew the US of fucking A had it.

“You gonna help us get in?”

“I can’t. I hope you understand. I’m just a scientist. I don’t know anything except how to work the computers. I just do research, that’s all!” His voice rises to a shrill scream as he begs to be heard.

“OK. We do things the hard way. Move over here so you don’t get hurt.”

“You aren’t going to kill me?” Foley looks on in disbelief.

“You are no threat to us, my friend. No threat at all.”

“Wow. You guys are cool. I thought for sure you were gonna do me in.” he says, walking forward. The demon steps aside and gestures. He could run up the passageway and maybe get away, but they would probably cut him down before he got twenty feet.

The demon shifts its back feet up and over its body so they act like
hands as the beast stands up.
 
It takes a chunk of metal out of one of the gaping holes in its side that look like big pus-covered vaginas.
Or, as his ex-wife used to say, vajayjays.
Not that hers got much use in their marriage.

The thing glistens in the dull light and gleams with whatever juice covers it. Makes the room reek of formaldehyde and acid. Foley puts his hand over his mouth and tries not to vomit.

“Watch this. It’s a pretty clever trick.”

The demon tosses the object at the giant metal door. It sticks and then melts in a circle over the surface. It shifts as it spreads outward, forming a pentagram with the image of a demon holding up its middle finger stretched between the points.

“Abraca-fucking-dabra” the big demon says.

The door sizzles where the shape sits. A river of molten metal pours out from the edges of the shape and onto the floor. The demon takes a step back and waits patiently. After a half minute, the giant pentagram has burned itself all the way through the door. A giant upside-down star remains in the eighteen inches of steel.

Gunfire blasts through the door and splatters against the demon’s skin.

“Fuckers!” he screams and dashes inside. He slithers through the hole in the door, and screams echo from the other side. A head sails through the pentagram and bounces off Foley’s chest. He stares down at it dumbly,
then
kicks it away. The features of John Slith, the asshole who made him stay outside with a gun, stare up at him.

“All clear!” the demon calls.

“Come on, we got some stuff you can help us with,”
 
the
other demon snorts.

“That is a fine idea!” Foley follows him into the nightmare.

Half an hour later, he cackles at a computer screen as he enters the codes he was handed by the skinny demon. Then he looks down, shocked, to see a burning hand push through his chest from behind. It reaches up and clutches his heart, and Foley bursts into flame.

Agent Fred Gallstone walks up the broken and bent section of freeway hanging above Satan’s spread ass cheeks. People stagger before and behind him as demons give the slower ones a poke with their pitchforks. Agent Gallstone sees fear in those humans near him, but he is content. Men and women are crying and begging for their lives at the edge of the road. The demons laugh and push them over the edge. He hugs his heavy silver briefcase to his chest the way a child hugs a teddy bear. More
people drop into Satan’s steaming stink-hole, and the line moves forward.
 
He won’t beg and he won’t cry when it’s his turn; he’ll just plug his nose and jump.

Everyone is dead. His president. His team. His lover. All dead.

Revenge will be his. He pats the briefcase, moves up the concrete folds and leans toward the long drop.
 

“Please,”
 
the man right in front of him begs, “I’ll suck your dick!”
 

“Yeah?”
 
the demon says. “All right!”

The demon pulls aside its loincloth to reveal not a dick, but a swollen purple demon twat. The begging man’s eyes bulge, and a small pitchfork erupts from the demon’s pussy with a slurping sound and stabs the man in his face. He stumbles backwards and falls into Satan’s waiting ass. The small pitchfork slowly and noisily retreats back whence it came.

Agent Gallstone steps to the edge, ready to complete his mission.

He looks down into Satan’s asshole, and his mind snaps. The Devil’s cheeks spread wide open to reveal rows of teeth that make Gallstone think of the Sarlacc from Star Wars. Boils leak gray ooze on the cheeks, and angry-looking beetles skitter over and between the floppy bloody spikes that surround the hole. Agent Fred Gallstone grips the nuclear weapon to his chest, takes a deep breath, and dives headfirst into the seething beast that is Satan’s furious asshole.

The instant before he sinks into the sharp and painful darkness, he realizes he left the
bomb’s
remote on the dash of the Humscalade.

Chuzz paces to the front of the ice cream truck, leaving the crazies in the back. Idiots, morons, fucking double dipshits. He should pick up the microphone and toss them out the back. Especially the damn goat that stands up and talks like a spy in from a James Bond movie. Who the hell talks like that?

Nathan Chuzzle kicks the seat with the back of his foot and sinks back into the chair.

“Easy there, bub,” Stretch Bangstrom hisses in his ear. Chuzz leans back harder, which makes the toy squeak.

“You gonna start on me too?”

“No way, bud. No way. I wouldn’t dream of it. Are we supposed to be somewhere?”

“Sick of this shit. Sick of it.” Chuzz stares out the window at the expanse of land.
At the trees that cover the hills and stretch up into the mountains.
At the horizon where massive creatures are sailing up into the air.
Are they more angels? They look more like the anti-aircraft missiles that chased down Gabriel.

He leans forward and sets his head on the wheel and then bangs it a few times until his brain rattles around. Then he reaches into his pants and massages his dick, which has been as hard as a rock for three days. If that stupid chick would just get him off, maybe a little thank you. He could stand behind one of the cabinet doors and pretend like she is on the other side of the wall. Yeah, just like Leon might do if they ever …

NO! He ain’t
no
faggoty fag! NO!

“Dammit I need a fucking glory hole,” he hisses.

“Wossit?” the goat calls from the back and clomps forward on his cloven feet.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
 
Chuzz stares at the sky again and wonders which way to Vegas.

“Say boss, see all those metal boxes bouncing off into the distance?” The toy points over his shoulder.

“Yeah.”

“Follow them and you will get to Vegas.”

“Fine, whatever.” He sneezes a big wad of snot onto the seat next to him. Stupid dirt and crap on the ground. He has a hundred drugs with him and not a single antihistamine in the lot.

He pulls the microphone out of his pocket and pulls it back to his head. He should give his passengers some warning. Or take it easy and not go too fast. He glances back and gets a dirty look from the chick.

“Fine,” he mutters under his breath. “You don’t want to be nice, I don’t have to be nice. That’s how the world works. Damn diddly damn, bitch. That’s how it works, and if you don’t know that then you are just a stupid cunt after all.” He jerks the microphone straight out in front of his face. A clash of people and animal screams erupts in the back followed by a few thumps as the truck is propelled forward at lightning speed.

Chuzz grins, mainly because he has no choice. His body is pressed into the big seat, squishing the toy against his back. It gasps and then giggles in his ear. Chuzz’s lips peel back in a G-force-induced leer. He howls with glee.

Sheriff Smoochole stops his stolen Hummer next to the abandoned Humscalade, which is parked in the space between Satan’s ass and his enormous face. Bud and Leon climb out after the sheriff.
 

“That’s pretty fucking lucky,”
 
Bud remarks as they slam their doors and arm the ground-to-air missiles.
 

“About fucking time we get some luck,”
 
Sheriff Smoochole grumbles behind his shades. He misses his dedicated deputies. He adjusts the rearview mirror and focuses on a cloud of dust behind them. A skinny
hooded man on a horse is leading what looks like a platoon of zombies. Then General O’Coddle comes into view, and the blood in Smoochole’s veins turns to fire.

“Change of plans, boys,”
 
Smoochole says, climbing back out of the Humscalade.

Leon follows and asks, “Nipple bite demon suck face?”
 
 

“Don’t worry about me, Leon,”
 
Smoochole says as he turns back to the general’s Hummer. “I got some unfinished business with that barrel-chested dead guy behind us. Go on now, Leon, and take care of that Devil face sticking up out of the desert. I’ve been waiting for this.”
 
 
 

“Devil cock sin shit shower, Bud,”
 
Leon says as he slams on the gas leaving Smoochole alone to face the approaching zombie horde.