The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1) (29 page)

Just before they hit, there is a fresh “AHHHHHHHH!” followed by a quick “FUCK!”

Chuzz falls about a second and a half behind the road. It could be worse. Stretch Bangstrom twists and tugs Chuzz down by the seat of his pants so that he lands on the toy instead of on his face. Stretch takes a breath that expands his bendy body beneath Chuzz like a life vest. The toy cushions the fall somewhat, but the impact still drives the breath out of Chuzz’s body.

Chuzz pushes himself to his hands and knees and gasps like a fish out of water. He can’t get a breath in. His head rings, and his body feels like it’s been spun in an industrial-size dryer for half an hour, then spit out on the ground and stomped on by a pair of size fifteen boots. Just to add insult to injury, and oh mother fucker how he is injured, he realizes that the impact popped his pants open, and his persistent hard-on is hanging out.

“Ow, bitch!” Bangstrom hisses in his ear.

“Ugh,” is all Chuzzle can manage.

“I guess that’s one way to take out a demon. The easier way would be to hit the right damn button!”

“How the hell am I supposed to know which button does what? That angel guy didn’t exactly give me a manual. Did he? Did he? No he did not, and I’m not really up on magic toys, so why don’t you just suck it?”

Chuzz wants to sulk. Then again, he just took out a big red demon, so he also wants to feel proud. He wants to feel happy for a change, but his blue-tinged world is still on fire. The Apocalypse is still happening, and he still needs to figure out how the hell he is getting to Vegas to meet up with Leon.

The house is a wreck. Door hanging off the hinge, windows smashed. Side caved in, roof falling off,
lawn
looking like it was tossed by a bulldozer. And there is red goop everywhere.
Red demon crap that smells worse than the shit water.

“That sucks!”

Phil picks that moment to slide carefully out from under the hanging roof and punch Chuzz in the ass. Again.

“Fucking Phil!” Chuzz screams and limps off to retrieve the heroin kit.

“We need a ride,” the toy hisses. They creep down the street trying not to be spotted by the demons patrolling the area.

Stupid red bastards are going from house to house, knocking politely before kicking in the doors and hauling screaming families out by the hair. Most make it to the street, but some are eaten right on the spot. They seem to like the young girls the most.

“How about that gold Volvo?” Chuzz crouches behind a little
convertible that is missing the roof and more than a few seats. In a large orange purse that was his mother’s, he carries the toys, his medications, and fifteen cans of sardines. There was nothing else to eat in the house.
The soured milk.
Some leftovers from a month ago.
The burritos that should have been frozen but were only partially so, with their stale tortilla skins and squishy bean guts.

There was a half-empty bottle of old flat soda in the back. It was some generic brand, but it was loaded with sugar and it helped him pop his pills. He was still hard as a rock thanks to the damn Viagra, but his vision was a bit less blue. He still had a pounding headache. More than anything, he would love to go dig out his midget porn and rub one out, but not with Stretch hanging around.

He washed down a few extra pills and some vitamins as Stretch Bangstrom tittered in his ear about how the Apocalypse was here and they needed to get to Vegas. Chuzz ignored the idiot and went about his morning like it was any other day.

Until a neighbor’s house flew by. Literally. Then it was a mad rush to get out, lest his be the next house tossed.

They slide along the street like commandoes.
Really bad commandoes.
Chuzz is shit at sneaking. He stumbles into a gutter, falls over when he steps in a pothole. Bangs his knees on the side of the road and curses. They move from house to house, trying to stay out of the line of sight of the marauding monsters. Some of the demons have taken to wearing heads on their horns. Others play a game of kickball with them.

They slide from behind a fence and make it to an ice cream truck.
Big son of a bitch with giant back doors.
There is a sliding side window from which the ice cream is presumably dispensed. The vehicle sits at a slight angle thanks to one wheel being stuck in a giant pothole. When Chuzz reaches up to try the side door, he finds it locked.

And now there is the sound of demons going at some new game.

Chuzz peeks out around the truck’s bumper. He can see the corner of First and Jestler, but the street sign now reads First in Jizzler. On the corner,
a pair of demons fuck
the shit out of each other. Both have long tits that hang past their waists, but both also sport impressive cocks.

A vending machine clanks by, one of the Daily Gab boxes, but now it reads The Daily Cunt. Chuzz does a double take. He remembers imagining those words on the newspaper he picked up the other day. Did all this bullshit start happening back then? Stretch Bangstrom’s head peeks around the corner of Chuzzle’s neck, and the toy whistles under its breath at the coupling demons.

One of them lies on a pile of bodies that still leak blood. The other is on top and rocking back and forth. The one on top has a giant yellow cock, which the first one bats back and forth like a cat playing with a toy.

“Stop that shit! Just stroke it, Alice,” the one on top says in a voice that sounds like shards of glass grinding together. It bounces up and down on the other demon’s cock, which is a putrid green with warts all over it.

“The name is Malice, you fuck stick!” the one below bellows in a voice that sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard.

Chuzz considers asking them to bite his head off just so he can get the voices to stop.

“You’re shit at this, you know that, right?”

“Been locked up for over a hundred thousand years. Of course I am. What’s your excuse?”

“I know what I’m fucking doing!”

“You didn’t even get it in the right hole the first time.”

“You didn’t complain.”

“That’s because it’s your turn next.”

Chuzz shakes his head and considers his options. He can try to escape and stop the Apocalypse. Or he can go back to the house, swallow the barrel of his pistol and give the world the finger.

People are still being dragged into the streets and herded up or killed. Some protest, but they get smashed to a mush just the same. Some are beaten with their own severed limbs. Fire rages, and the ground is cracked and coughing up blood in places. Chuzzle had no idea the Apocalypse would be so damn … dirty. He always figured nukes would fall and he would see a bright flash and then nothing. Instead he has to see demons fucking in the street.

“Oh get off me, you stupid fuck stick!”

“You hurt me, Alice. Hurt me deep.”

The demon on top rolls off and grabs the bouncing Daily Cunt box. He rams his massive member, which looks like an elephant trunk with a mace head on the top, into the box and humps it like a giant leg.

“Oh yeah! Satan’s glory hole all the way, baby.”

Chuzz has seen enough. The gold Volvo looks inviting, but if they go after it they will have to contend with the pair of demons, and he isn’t sure he can get his shit together long enough to unleash the weapons. Not that he has a clear idea how to use them. He doesn’t even know what the hell he is going to do if he gets into one of the vehicles. Drive away across the broken road with demons and glory hole boxes in pursuit?

“Fuck that” is his opinion, thank you very much. God, he feels like he is filled with fail today. Where is the good stuff? Is the Apocalypse supposed to be all bad?

“Buddy. Hey buddy, hate to be a pest, but we got problems, bub,” the little head whispers in his ear.

Tear you to shreds and toss you in the fire, you fucking useless piece of shit,
is all Chuzz can think.

“Shh.” Chuzzle hisses.

“Buddy. Uh … you need to turn around and look.”

Chuzz wants to punch the thing in the goddamn face is what he wants to do. Maybe put a hole in the back so Phil can practice with his shriveled little monkey dick. Won’t that just make ol’ Phil’s day? He can get stoned on H and then twiddle the toy until he passes out.

Fucking Phil.

Chuzz glances over his shoulder and almost bites his tongue in half.

“Fucking shit!”

There is a nauseating army on the move, and it is headed right at Chuzz’s hiding spot. Skyscraper-sized demons lead a horde of shambling creatures that look dead. Or close to dead. Some are missing pieces. Others
are
pieces.

“I hate zombies,” the toy whispers and then jabs Chuzz in the back of the neck with his nose over and over again, a silent plea for them to get the hell out of there. Stuck between a pair of demons screwing walking boxes and an army of dead.

“Should have stayed in bed.”

Chuzz pants so hard he starts to hyperventilate. He is scared to death, shit-his-pants terrified. He does not like direct confrontation, not one little bit, and this is the mother fucker of all confrontations.
Demons ahead, demons behind.
He doesn’t want to end up as top ramen for one of those things.

“Get it together!” Stretch Bangstrom hisses.

A Daily Gab box flies past the ice cream truck and smashes into a white Toyota truck, which sets off the alarm. It’s like a beacon has been lit and now the lights are shining bright on Chuzz. The box rights itself and drops to the ground with a heavy clank. Then it bobs and hustles down the street toward the zombies.

“Ah fuck!” Chuzz starts to crawl under the truck.

Phil stares at the sky and then reaches his little monkey hand up to test the back door. It pops open with a groan that sounds to Chuzz like a man screaming at the top of his lungs. He is sure the noise will attract every demon on the street.

“What the fuck was that noise?” one of the demons rumbles.

“A dead man I am going to wear as a cock ring is my guess.”

“Malice, you are supposed to be the girl!”

Scrambling as the things move toward them.

“In the truck!” Stretch Bangstrom howls.

Who is Chuzz fooling? He is about as heroic as a used tampon. One of the giant demons passes overhead, and Chuzz makes the mistake of looking up. He finds himself gazing at a great big pair of balls that look like a couple of hairy elephants. He gags and tries not to throw up.

Gunfire from across the street adds to the chaos. One of Chuzz’s neighbors has thrown open his door and pounded onto the porch with a giant machine gun slung around his waist. Looks like someone ripped one off a helicopter and mounted it on the guy. It’s strapped to his neck with a couple of belts. He is dressed in a Hello Pussy tee shirt and a pair of dirty underwear. His hair is wild, unbrushed and as greasy as a bag of French fries.

The guy leans forward and fires. Bullets rip into the street, tearing a path of asphalt before smacking into the demon that tossed the Daily Cunt box. It flies back like it was slapped hard, then comes up pissed, streaming brown and yellow pus that looks like a sewage leak.

“Goddamn demon sons-a-bitches! Git off my motherfucking lawn!” the guy screams, his voice slurred. The giant gun opens up again, spraying both demons.

They don’t take too kindly to it.

The one that was on the bottom bounds to its
feet,
picks up the hood of a car and uses it as a shield. The other walks toward the guy.

“I’m gonna take that gun and fuck you with it!” the demon growls and gets a face full of lead for the effort.

“What you say to me, you freak of fucking nature?”

The demon stumbles to the side and gets a glimpse of Chuzz as he tries to wiggle into the back of the truck. Another blast of gunfire sends the demon reeling. It hits the side of the truck, falls to the side and rolls over Chuzz.

Chuzzle tries to duck out of the way, but he gets a big cheekful of cock for his effort. Big red dildo-looking thing slaps him silly. He sees stars, his face rings and he wonders for a minute if he is going to pass out.

“Shit balls!” the demon screams. Chuzz gets up on unsteady legs to find his hand holding the microphone toy. He didn’t tell his arm to reach into his pants for it. Must have been the stupid damn toy. Stupid Stretch Bangstrom!