The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1) (5 page)

“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 are the ones who commit genocide. We are 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 says.

“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 f
loor, 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 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 u
p 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 - FUC
KING 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.

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.