The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1) (31 page)

As he finishes his sentence, he reads a small box on the front page of The Daily Cunt. “Who’s Who and Who’s Dead.”

Directly under the title is the sentence, “William Grimhole, actor 45, starred in Action Zone 1 through 4 and was dismembered by Bihferdar and Wildahgreadd during the happy couple’s honeymoon.”

“I love the Action Zone flicks,”
 
Myron says sadly.

“Yeah,”
 
Azzehemadheadzqueerz nods.

Myron looks back at the paper and sees that the sentence in the box now reads, “Chauncey Blipeppers, actor 34, former childhood star of Both Hands on my Shoulders, was feasted upon by a dozen undead inmates in the Hollywood County jail where he has been housed since an April 2009 indecent exposure arrest.”
 

“It … it … changed,”
 
Myron says, amazed.

“Keep reading,”
 
Azzehemadheadzqueerz orders.
 

Myron holds up his hands, looks back to the paper, and continues reading. “Former editor of The Daily Gab, Myron Bottomfeeder, slept on a cot in the basement of the Marvin J. Fartseinheimer Building last night. His wife was at home getting banged out by Mark Corhhole, former reporter for The Daily Gab. What?”

Directly below the paragraph is a picture of Myron standing in the lobby talking to the small green demon. He looks short and fat, and the expression on his face is one of utter stupidity. Below that picture is one of his
wife
, Mildred, on her hands and knees with her floppy tits swaying while Mark Corhhole fucks her from behind.

Mark’s glasses are fogged up.

Myron feels heat rising under his collar. His neck turns red, and the flush eases up to his ears and face. He shakes with rage as he continues, “Mrs. Bottomfeeder and Mr. Corhhole were both offered up as sacrifices for AssStretch the Inhumane of Hell 121 about an hour ago. All that Mrs. Bottomfeeder leaves behind for her overworked husband is a pillow covered in Corhhole’s pecker tracks. When alerted to the facts that he had no job and that his wife was fucking his employee and then was eventually fist-fucked to death by the large-handed minions of AssStretch the Inhumane, Mr. Bottomfeeder replied, ‘Arghhhhhh!’
 
before being torn apart by the paper’s new editor in his former office.”
 

“What …” Myron looks up from the
paper.
He doesn’t even have time to move before Azzehemadheadzqueerz’s clawed hand wraps around his throat and pulls him to his feet. The demon squeezes Myron’s neck until blood spurts from his ears and nose. With a snot-dripping grunt, Azzehemadheadzqueerz holds Myron above him.

“Nooooooo,”
 
Myron bellows weakly before Azzehemadheadzqueerz tears him cleanly in half. Blood splatters the glass walls and drips slowly to the floor. Azzehemadheadzqueerz holds Myron’s torso in the air, greedily drinking the free-flowing blood, and then he tosses both halves of Myron aside like wrappers from a fast food meal.

“Fix that misquote,” he tells the green demon, who is now covered in blood
and
snot. “He said “‘Nooooooo,’ not ‘Arghhhhhh.’”

Only the
Special
Secret Agents Get to Drive the Humscalade and Pack Nukes

Agent Clearance Lickspittle is completely focused on the mission. He manages to tune out the constant whispered flirtations between his longtime partner, Fred Gallstone, and Gary back at ‘Control’
 
in the earpiece. Nope, Agent Lickspittle is a goddamned
special
secret agent, and a little bit of man-on-man dirty talk won’t cost him his chance to drive the Humscalade. Not now, not when it is within his reach, just down the block in an empty warehouse surrounded by stumbling, ravenous dead folks and shifty, howling demons. So far none of the dead or the demons has paid the three agents any mind. A fact that Agent Lickspittle recognizes as incredibly lucky considering the three agents are parked in the middle of the street in their secret agent double sidecar motorcycle.

Fred sits opposite Lickspittle’s sidecar, and a giant of a man drives the secret agent cycle. This giant is Manfred Manface. People never call him Manfred or Mr. Manface, oh no. He doesn’t exist. His friends, who are few since he’s preferred to be a lone wolf ever since losing his K9 partner his rookie year, call him Meat. Everyone else who meets him, also very few as well as very fucking unlucky, as such meetings usually happen at the wrong end of his oversized Uzi converted to the size of an AK-47, calls him Agent M.

Right now, Agent Lickspittle is going over every possible angle of the surrounded building that holds the most fashionable weapon of mass destruction ever: the United States government’s one and only Humscalade. The comfort and style of an Escalade with the ruggedness and .50 caliber mounted machine gun, state-of-the-art guided missile systems, and ten-inch-thick bomb-proof windshield, body, and frame of an extraordinarily advanced military Hummer.

Agent Lickspittle became a secret agent just for the chance to rub against the vehicle once in his lifetime. Now that he has a chance to drive it, he will leave a river of blood and gore in his wake. He smiles because
he gets to keep his perfectly manicured nails around the Humscalade’s steering wheel. His eyes dart back and forth behind his dark sunglasses as his brain frantically scrambles for a strategy for evading the zombies and demons and getting into the fucking warehouse. He has been taught not to worry about a body count when there is a mission to be completed. So they fire up the mini-chain-guns attached to
either sidecar and
plow straight down the street.

On the bike next to him, Agent M ties one boot very fiercely. He cocks one eyebrow, and his large flat forehead wrinkles clear up into his generic flattop. He eyes the surrounded warehouse ahead and leans over to tie his other boot. When he leans back, the big man starts humming something by Rammstein and dropping the clips out of one of his many guns. He double and triple checks them, slamming the chambers back in and then replacing them in their holsters.

In the other sidecar, Agent Gallstone has one hand cupping his earpiece and one tucked into his cramped sidecar. He glances with furtive looks between his fellow secret agents and the zombies milling back and forth in their path. His attention is on the deep, gravelly voice tickling inside his ear. Every time Gary whispers a directive or asks for a status report, tiny tingles resonate from his ear all the way down to his dick, where they mature into throbs. Agent Gallstone is feeling randy, but there is no way he can rub out a quickie with his fellow secret agents so close. He figures he’ll settle for the next best thing and kill something.

“Control, we are awaiting orders,”
 
he breathes heavily into the microphone on his jacket cuff.

“As am I,”
 
answers the gravelly-voiced Gary from the white van two hundred yards behind them. “Why don’t you give me a status update while we wait?”

“We are sitting here in the spy-cycle and watching a bunch of dead folks stumble back and forth.”
 
Agent Gallstone glances at Agent M and tells his cuff, “Meat is humming Du Hast for the seventeenth time. He has already reloaded his personal arsenal and is now rezipping all his zippers. I can’t see Agent Lickspittle, but I imagine he is staring at the target, plotting the path to his goal. He is so dedicated, Control, a good solid leader.”

“Oh, you are a fine
solid
agent yourself, Agent Gallstone,” Gary purrs, and the tingles start dancing down Gallstone’s neck toward his crotch. “How many stiffs are out there?”

“I count thirty-four in the street and one right here,”
 
Agent Gallstone sighs back.

In the other sidecar, something snaps in Agent Lickspittle’s head, and he shouts into his cuff microphone, “Enough! I’m no longer waiting on orders we already received. We aren’t waiting for someone else to decide
how to deal with this. We’ll report our progress and blog it down if we have to. But damn it, they said pick up the Humscalade and take it to Las Vegas and await orders, and that’s what I plan on doing!”
 

As he finishes, he looks up to Agent M who is checking out his reflection in his thirteen-inch survival knife, and slaps the big man’s leg. Agent M’s head snaps to his left, and he twists the large blade so it is mere inches from Agent Lickspittle’s throat. Agent Lickspittle sees Agent M’s earpiece swinging from his ear, and he realizes the big man has heard nothing he said over his own humming.

“Easy, Meat,”
 
Agent Lickspittle tells him, “save it for the enemy.”

“Everyone is mine enemy,”
 
Agent M growls, and he tickles the back of the blade on Lickspittle’s throat.

“Well, I’m your friend. And Fred is your friend,”
 
Agent Lickspittle nods toward Agent Gallstone, who has taken full advantage of his fellow agents’ distracted state and commenced rubbing out a quick one. Agent M doesn’t follow Lickspittle’s nod, so Lickspittle continues. “We are sick of waiting, Meat, let’s go get that Humscalade!”

“Da,”
 
Agent M grins. “Rules
is
only made for being brokened!”
 

Agent M sparks his Zippo lighter to life and lights a massive cigar, then jumps in the air and kicks the bike’s ignition on the way down. His large frame rattles the motorcycle and forces it to swerve as it squeals toward the warehouse. Every zombie in the street turns to face the spy-cycle. They moan and drool at the sight of living flesh, and they stagger toward the approaching machine.

“We are GO,”
 
Agent Gallstone reports to his cuff.

His lover fires the chain-guns mounted on the side of the cars, spitting hot lead at the loitering dead. The heavy bullets tear through rotting flesh, pulverizing the walking corpses to goo before they hit the pavement. Agent M reaches into his heavy leather jacket and pulls out a stick of dynamite that looks like it was made in the 1940s. He takes both hands off the handlebars to light the long dusty fuse on the stick, and throws it into the crowd of zombies. As it explodes, he chews on his cigar and observes, “No better crowd control than dynamite!”
 

Between the heavy gunfire and the use of old-school explosives, a workable path has been cleared through the dead. Brackish yellow goo and dismembered body parts form a sticky creek of gore through which the remaining zombies stumble. The spy cycle swerves to hit every shambler as it careens towards the warehouse, leaving no one standing in its wake.

A big white van speeds around the far corner, pursued by winged goat-faced demons. All three agents turn to see the driver and passenger screaming in terror at their hellborn assailants. A demon grips the roof of the van and slams a gnarled fist through the driver’s-side window. It claws at the driver’s hairy face; tearing away
fuzz
and flesh with its talons. The
van swerves and tips onto its side, sliding straight at the spy-cycle and the three secret agents.

Agent M reaches down and grabs Agent Gallstone under one arm and Agent Lickspittle under the other. He dives away from the motorcycle, slamming his fellow agents into the closed door of the warehouse a split second before the van crashes into the spy-cycle in a squeal of metal and sparks. The demons tear at the van’s panels as it slows to a stop, peeling up the side of the van like a giant can of sardines. The terrified passenger screams in a guttural foreign tongue. The demons growl back, accusing the man of inappropriate sexual congress with their full goat brethren as they tear his limbs from his body.

“We are at target, Control,”
 
an out-of-breath Agent Gallstone reports. “Making entrance and securing Humscalade, Control.”

“Well done, agents,”
 
Gary purrs. “Think maybe once the Humscalade is secure, one of you can drive this shitty van for a while and I can ride in the Humscalade?”

Agent Lickspittle looks at Agent Gallstone and shakes his head slowly back and forth.

Agent Gallstone slumps his shoulders and asks Agent Lickspittle, “Really? What can it hurt?”
 

Agent Lickspittle only shakes his head in response.