The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1) (24 page)

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 b
ubble 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 gos
h 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.

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.

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.