The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1) (4 page)

Of course there was a lot of warning.
A lot of posturing.
A lot of screaming that the end was here, the end was here! Sure there were signs and not just the ones over the freeways and in the hands of loons on sidewalks. But that was pretty typical for Los Angeles.

This day was different. The clouds hung around like they were bored. They cast dark shadows over everyone who looked up and generally did a good job of depressing the fuck out of the heavily medicated population below.

Around noon, the clouds parted to let in a ray of sunshine, which was quickly replaced by a blast of darkness that left a heavy pallor over the city. A section of sky over Hollywood opened up, and a burst of flame leapt across the sky. Surfing this line of fire rode four figures on horseback.

Some looked up, but others trudged to their jobs and ignored it, figuring one of the studios was just making a new movie.
Gee, aren’t the special effects nowadays marvelous?

The four rode the flames down until they hit the freeway at a gallop. They leapt over cars and trucks, trailing smoke. The four riders stayed close together but managed to remain aloof, as if they were a family of dysfunctional siblings on vacation.

They left the freeway by leaping off the I-5 and hit the road in a cacophony of noise that resulted in car crashes and mayhem. A bus ran off the road and smashed into one of the pillars at thirty-five miles an hour. It struck a fire hydrant first, spun to the right, and wrapped around the long concrete pillar.

One of the H
orsemen, a man with a giant sword poking over his shoulder, pointed to the west. The others veered that way at his lead. They went pounding up the street, chasing screaming pedestrians into the alleys
along the way.

They came to a roaring stop at the gate to Sodomy Studios and waited impatiently for someone to let them in. When the gate didn’t immediately open, the man with the large sword ripped it off its hinges with one swing of his gleaming blade. They walked the rest of the way to the set.

“It’s the afternoon show with Kayla Mangabbler!” A hyper woman yells into the PA, voice rising and lowering until it punctuates the host’s name at a hundred and thirty-three decibels. The audience has been boisterous, but now they amp it up to a new level, the ones who don’t get immediate ear bleeds.

They milled around during the break. The crowd inhaled coffee, caffeinated water, and the goodies that advertisers left under their chairs. Little red bags with the studio name on them along with the logos from the forty-seven things crammed in the package. Chunks of high-fructose corn syrup, energy drinks, and even a batch of chocolates from the Ostergroup Corporation filled with a curious combination of guarana and high-grade cocaine.

The host perches on her seat demurely. Across from her sit four people dressed like vagabonds. The audience is crowing at the top of their lungs like they expect them to start beating the shit out of each other at any second.
Welcome to Hollywood. Welcome to the big show; have a nice fucking day—if you survive.

She
has questions for each of
her guests prepared from their submitted profiles, although War’s handwriting was hard to make out. He would have been better served by using a crayon on a large sheet of paper.

Death’s read like a serial killer’s.

Cue the camera. Cue the sound. Cue the ultra-bright but energy efficient LED lights that make the place as bright as daylight in the Caribbean. Cue Kayla to sit back and look hot.

“And we’re back. My next guests are the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Are they a motorcycle gang?
A rock band?
The beginning of the end?” She has to pause here, because the word on the teleprompter reads
harbinger,
and she is not about to unleash that intellectual bombshell on her audience. They might string her up and piss on her corpse Mussolini-style.

The camera pans across the four guests.
Two on a couch, large one on a padded seat, and the last on a metal chair.
They tried to put the girl in that one, but she unleashed a string of profanities so long it made the audience actually shut the hell up for a few seconds. Besides, if her wide ass took that seat, it would probably collapse like a house of cards hit by a
stiff wind.

The producer points, indicating she is back on camera. Kayla leans forward and takes a sip of her drink, then slowly sets it down. The camera takes this moment to pan across the robed figures. It stops on the one directly across from her.

He has a tattered cowl over his face. It hangs limply, and when he breathes, strings flutter from the sides. Strips of cloth dangle from his sleeves, and torn ends of his robe cover his black boots.

“So Mr. War. Or do I simply call you War?” Her smile is in full effect. It is mocking in its severity. Her lips curl up in a smirk. The viewers at home have seen this look a thousand times. She is about to start some shit.

“War is fine.” His lips are visible. One sneers down when he speaks, like half of his face has been left numb by a stroke. If he wore glasses, he would be the spitting image of Dick Cheney.

“What do you bring? Why are you here? Do you have a message for the viewers?”

“Prepare for the end, for we have arrived.”

“The end of what, exactly?” She stares at the madman and lets a hint of concern quirk up her tweezed eyebrows.

“The end of the world. We are here to beak the seals and usher in the Apocalypse. The Antichrist awaits the savior. When he arrives, you,” he points at the crowd and then at the cameras. He points and points, and at last his finger points directly at her nose, “are all kitty chow.”

He sits back with a smug look on his face. The crowd is going nuts, laughing at the madman in the cowl.

“You all know me! I’m War and I bring it!” He jumps to his feet and pumps his fist in the air as the crowd goes nuts. They scream and holler like he is a celebrity. Kayla shakes her head at the spectacle.

“We are the four baddest mother fuckers to ever step onto the Earth. We are going to break the seals and trigger Armageddon. Where we go, cities fall and nations crumble. People die by the million. We bring pain, we bring misery, and we bring death.”

“I bring death,” the man in the hoodie interjects. He doesn’t speak loudly, but his voice cuts through the air like a twelve-inch razor-sharp knife.

Kayla shifts her gaze to the man in the hoodie and considers the apparition. He is just as scary as the others, but his face is a nightmare of tattoos that form some sort of spiral patterns. She feels … drawn to him like she is being sucked inside the shadows around his eyes.

“We all bring death. Just because you are Death doesn’t mean you get all the credit.” War yells while turning, hands in the air. The crowd of men and women scream louder at the circus performers.

“Without me, there is no death.”

“Look, Death old pal. If I take this fucking chair and bash this pretty lady into the fucking ground, she WILL fucking
die
.”

“Not if I don’t take her soul.”

Kayla looks between the two and then at the massive chair. For a split second, she considers bolting from the room.

“War, if you could take your seat we … “

“Don’t listen to that pussy. He’s losing his nerve. Doesn’t want to reap the slaughter like the old days.” Death turns his sneer on the man next to him. “Come on, Death. We used to follow the angels and paint the cities red with blood! We used to rile up the armies of the world. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I will do what is necessary when the time comes,” Death says and tugs the
hoodie
over his face so it is hidden in shadow. “It doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Dude! Once upon a time we took down most of the world. Remember all the water? People screaming? How many on that one day?”

“Two million, six hundred and seventy-two, give or take.”

Kayla watches the strange exchange. This can’t turn into a philosophical debate at the loony bin. She needs to regain control. The big one does the job for her by jumping to her feet.

“I’ll change your mind. Why don’t you hop on me, and I’ll help you find your balls!” she screams in a voice that sounds like glass breaking.

“Sounds like there is some tension between you and this woman. Care to elaborate on your relationship?” Kayla seizes control once again. She is on her feet, hands out as if she were shrugging.

“There is no relationship, you stupid twit! I am Death. I bring death. I kill, not just a few, but scores. When I lower my scythe, cities tremble and fall. I have taken entire countries and leveled them. I have no time for women or love.
Especially not with her skank ass.
You mock me at your own peril!” He stares daggers at the big girl.

“Some temper you have there. Do you talk to your wife like that?” Kayla puts her hands on her hips to admonish him. The audience loves it and roars their approval.

“Are you fucking stupid?” Death shakes his head and folds his hands across his chest.

“No wife? Did she leave you because of your temper?” Kayla presses.

Her head buzzes with pleasure again. It’s the drink that does it. Makes her feel like she can take on the world. But something is off today, and she can’t help but wonder if they didn’t tell her everything before they brought these four mental
hospital
rejects in. People are freaking out about the end of the world, but it is all bullshit. She also can’t help but think about the massive sword War carried when he entered the room. The producer had
to come out and ask him to leave the big blade off to the side. They wanted to lock it up at first, but he said in a very deep voice, “That would be a bad idea.” And everyone in the room nodded like they knew it was a bad fucking idea. After a look from Death, War relented and stowed it offstage where he could see it but the cameras could not.

War sits after a moment of catcalls. There are two other ‘Horsemen,’ so she shifts her attention to them. Directly to War’s left is the hefty woman in a dark brown robe. Her hair is curly and wild
,
and it frames her round face. Her cheeks are so chubby they make her angry brown eyes seem like beads, and they force her small mouth into a frown. She scowls at the host with no effort to hide her disdain.

“His pair are all shriveled up like raisins because he never uses them!” the woman screams.

Kayla smiles at the woman nonetheless and introduces her. "As you just heard, this is the only female of the crew, Fatmine!"

The crowd claps and catcalls.
 

"It's FAMINE! Get your facts straight, you scrawny mattress of a girl," Famine shouts over the roar of the crowd. She scans the still-clapping idiots and breathes deep. It sounds like sucking spit through a straw. The man next to her chuckles out loud. His face is completely hidden in the shadow of his gray hood.

Famine turns to him and growls, "Fuck you, Pestilence!"

He raises one hand, and his sleeve falls away, exposing a rail-thin wrist and a hand with long slender fingers. He gives her the bird and then scratches his unseen face. The hostess smiles at him and says, "Thank you, Fatmine, for introducing our next guest. Pestilence!"

 
Famine yells, "MY NAME IS FAMINE, YOU TINY LITTLE WHORE!"

 
Pestilence laughs at Famine again before waving his spindly fingers at the camera. He leans back a little, and his long chin and thin-lipped mouth become visible. He smiles, and the camera pans to the side after catching a close-up of his train wreck teeth.

 
“We will get back to you both. I have a few more questions for Death if that is okay.”

“Be my guest. And enjoy it while you can. Not many get to meet Death and talk about it.”

“Got that right. His nethers are so shriveled he has to ask the big guy for permission to take a piss,” Famine howls. The crowd gets a good laugh, but Death scowls at her without blinking.

“Tell us more about being Death.
Do you have a regular day job?
Do you go after every person who is about to die? I mean, people must be dying now, so why aren’t you there to collect their souls?” She smirks at her impeccable logic.