The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! Read online

  “Sir … what?” is all he manages before he has to turn away from the rail-thin, wrinkly, and nearly nude Sheriff Smoochole.

  “When in Rome, Officer Morks, when in Rome,” Sheriff Smoochole says as he walks past the man to get a closer look at the dirt asshole out of which the Cockbugs are climbing. Officer Morks turns back around just in time to see Sheriff Smoochole’s flat pale butt cheeks and the hand-shaped welts of various sizes rising on them. His cheeks snap and wiggle with each step, hypnotizing the young cop. He is still watching them, Sheriff Smoochole’s yells almost distantly lost in the odd rapture of the sheriff’s fabulously hideous ass cheeks, when Officer Dick Johnson bumps into him, stirring him from his trance.

  Morks looks from the overweight Officer Johnson, dressed in assless chaps, bright green nipple clamps, and an orange feather boa, to the leather g-stringed sheriff. The sheriff turns around and asks Officer Johnson, “What’s going on in camp?”

  Officer Johnson gives his nipple clamps a tweak, cringes with pleasure, and tells him, “There are Cockbugs everywhere! They tickle and they get you HIGH! Oh, Mother Earth loves us all!”

  “Hmmmph,” Sheriff Smoochole says, and he turns back to the dreadlocked kid next to the hole. The kid has kicked off his hemp shoes and is tugging at his hemp rope belt. As he shakes, Cockbugs dangle from him before dropping to the sand and skittering to someone else.

  “What in the dirty third knuckle fuck are you doing, kid?” Sheriff Smoochole asks the dreadlock, anger rising in his voice.

  “I told you, man, these little Cockbugs are gonna take our spunk to Earth Mother. She is thirsty for our love, man. Come, let us fuck on her love-hole!” The dreadlock holds his fist up to his cheek and slides his hand back and forth, moving his tongue against the inside of cheek as he does so.

  “I’d be all with ya’ if this here Earth Asshole was fifty feet that way,” Sheriff Smoochole tells the still-stripping hippy. “But as it is, there are rules, and you can’t just run around naked, eat drugs, and fuck anywhere in the desert! There is a camp right … there!”

  Sheriff Smoochole’s frame shudders as he wheezes from getting so upset.

  “Sorry then, Pops,” the dreadlock tells him with a wink as he drops his patchwork pants down around his ankles, “but we all gotta fuck on the hole so the Cockbugs can take our love spunk to Mother Earth. Ain’t no Earth hole over there; I’d just be blowing an old guy and I ain’t in college anymore and I ain’t blowing any old guys unless it helps MOTHER EARTH!”

  The small surrounding crowd cheers and whoops, attracting the attention of more people in the camp. The nuns are yelling, “Cockbugs for Earth!” and “Dump love-spunk here!”

  The dreadlock pumps his fist and gets an “Orgy on the Earth Asshole!” chant going.

  Officer Morks leans close to whisper into the sheriff’s ear and accidentally rubs his crotch against Sheriff Smoochole’s paddled fanny. “There are too many to shoot, Sheriff,” Morks tells him, panic resonating in his voice.

  Smoochole cracks a grin and says, “Yeah.”

  The sheriff reaches one hand back and gives his deputy’s ball sack a good firm tug. He reaches from the other side and pulls his deputy’s pistol from the holster. He points the .45 at the buck-naked hippy whose pubic hair is as tangled and dreadlocked as his head. The hippy throws his fists in the air along with the “Orgy on the Earth Asshole!” chant. He leans close to Sheriff Smoochole and tells him, “You can’t shoot us all, Kojack.”

  “Right you are,” Sheriff Smoochole replies. Then he cocks back the hammer and pulls the trigger. The bullet slams into the dreadlock’s forehead, forcing his eyes to cross. A tangle of blood and hair flies skyward behind the hippy, and gray brain matter spatters the two bearded nuns. The dead hippy falls face first onto the puckered asshole in the sand. His tongue rolls out of his mouth and dips tenderly at the rim of the Earth Asshole. All the other weirdoes scatter, some running back to camp and a few less fortunate running wild and free into the wide open desolate desert most likely never to be seen again.

  The two brain-splattered dick-swinging nuns are still yelling, “Cockbugs for EARTH,” “Dump love spunk in the Earth Asshole,” and now “Fuck in the memory of Dreadnuts Roberts!”

  Sheriff Smoochole tucks the still-smoking pistol into the front of his g-string. It sizzles and he smiles. He turns to Officers Morks and Johnson and screams, “Stay here and keep the dirty lawless fuckers from fucking each other like sweaty feces-covered monkeys!”

  “Where are you going, sir?” the two oppositely dressed cops ask at the exact same time.

  “To call the goddamned Army. They can kill more hippies than we can,” he tells them as he turns and walks back toward camp. He says more, but both Johnson and Morks are hypnotized by his pale flabby ass flaps, and his voice is muffled. So is the rushing crowd of stripping hippies headed for the Earth Asshole behind them.

  So is the strange high-pitched giggling rising from the slowly expanding Earth Asshole. It puckers more and more, growing so wide that the dead dreadlock’s head drops in. Blood runs like a crimson stream from the man’s massive exit wound, and the laughter rises up into the dry Nevada day.

  Officer Morks feels something slithering across his crotch, and it draws his attention from Sheriff Smoochole’s horribly hypnotizing ass. A small Cockbug is tugging at his zipper and kicking its dozens of tiny legs against the thin khaki fabric of his uniform pants. The bulge in Morks’s crotch grows involuntarily, and the little Cockbug squeals in delight. Panic forces Officer Morks’s shaky hand, and he drives his nightstick into his own swollen package in an effort to kill the happy little Cockbug.

  It stabs Morks in his balls with its tiny barbed horns before it falls to the sand. Officer Morks’s nuts throb painfully in response to the two deep pinprick stab wounds, making his stomach twist and knot. He squints behind his sunglasses and watches the death twitches of the nasty little bug.

  “Cocksucker,” he spits.

  “No, Fenton,” Officer Johnson answers, still distracted by Sheriff Smoochole’s leathery ass cheeks, “they are called Cockbugs.” He sighs and continues, “they get you sooooo high.”

  “What? That’s not what I’m talking about, you asshole,” Morks snaps while tenderly rubbing his bloody ball sack.

  “Yeah,” Officer Johnson says, “I can see Sheriff Smoochole. He is on the solar phone. I’m guessing he’s talking to them, because he’s waving his hands a lot. He has skinny little arms, but they make great tracers. His ass is like a car crash of fucking ugly, but I can’t take my eyes off it. I’ve worked with Sheriff Smoochole for going on fifteen years, and I never knew that pale atrocity followed him everywhere he went. You think you know a son of a bitch after fifteen years …”

  “What the fuck ever,” Officer Morks says as his fat co-worker mumbles off into silence.

  Officer Morks looks back to the ground where a live Cockbug is poking its horns at its fallen brethren. It whistles and then rubs its shaft body against the Cockbug corpse until the dead bug is covered in sticky white goo. Officer Morks’s jaw drops when the once-smashed Cockbug twitches back to life. It rolls over onto its dozens of black legs and stares at Officer Morks. The little zombie Cockbug howls, a thin whispery sound, and charges Officer Morks’s foot. His eyes wide with terror and amazement behind his shades, Morks brings his foot down with a satisfying crunch. He smiles wide and maniacally at the smeared Cockbug with one horn still thrashing softly from the small pink puddle in his boot print. He looks up from the Cockbug stain, and the smile slips from his face like a limp dick in silk boxers. The rushing crowd of naked hippies is nearly upon them.

  The massive movement of horny, decadent people stirs the sand, creating a dry storm in their wake. The ground rumbles and shakes at their advance.

  Morks yells at Officer Johnson, but the assless-chap-wearing cop doesn’t hear him. Frustrated, Morks seizes the bright green clip pinching Dick Johnson’s nipple. He tugs as hard as he can, and Officer Johnson turns to him
, fluffing his bright orange feather boa and squealing in delight—much as the Cockbug did when its feet tickled his throbbing unit. Officer Morks slaps Officer Johnson hard across his bearded face. Then he points to the oncoming rush of nasty giggling naked hippies.

  “SHERIFF,” Officer Morks screams into the walkie on his shoulder. Morks doesn’t wait for an answer; he just springs into action, clubbing the nearest nudie hard across his pimply forehead. At his side, Officer Johnson reaches to his bare ass, tucks his hands inside hidden thigh pockets sewn into his assless chaps, and pulls out a .45 pistol with each hand. He steps in a wide arc around his smaller, more conventionally dressed compatriot, firing rounds into the rushing crowd.

  The Cockbugs have had time to spread around camp, and the hippies look as though they are feeling the full boner-inducing hallucinogenic effects. Even as the crowd surrounds the law officers, it begins the orgy of the century. The front row of the encroaching mob are all running on their hands while their legs are held by the second row (who happen to be pounding the shit out of them with the sexual position commonly referred to as “The Wheelbarrow.”) Behind them are muscular guys carrying small men and women upside down in a running “69.”

  Sheriff Smoochole throws the phone after one last inaudible screech and runs toward his men, shouldering a shotgun he pulls from somewhere. He hits the double trigger, and flames spit out both barrels propelling buckshot through dirty hippy flesh in bright gory splashes of crimson and gray. The screams and moans of ecstasy reverberating from the hundreds of people fucking and sucking in that nasty Nevada desert completely muffle the sound of the shotgun blast and the one immediately following it. The crowd of sex and grime takes on a life of its own; twisting and pulsing and rolling forward at the sheriff and his deputies.

  Officer Morks clubs a potbellied man in the face, and the woman whose ankles the man was holding scampers off his still-hard prick and onto the first swinging dong she can find. As soon as she grabs the dick, which belongs to one of the bearded nuns, a bullet from one of Officer Johnson’s .45s rips through her face. The nun yells at Officer Johnson, but Officer Morks interrupts him with a nightstick to the teeth. Sheriff Smoochole is blasting the shotgun into the crowd and popping caps with the revolver he stole from Officer Morks while he reloads the shotgun one-handed.

  Spurts of blood fly skyward along with drops of sweat and gobs of jizz as the crowd rolls and moans around them like a wave. Sheriff Smoochole dives forward in an effort to beat the wave of dirt-crusted flesh to his men’s position. His scrawny, mostly nude form silhouettes in front of the blazing Nevada sun as he twists in midair and fires both barrels of the shotgun into the smiling faces behind him. A rooster tail of gore flies over the crowd but doesn’t slow its advance. Sheriff Smoochole tucks into a tight little ball as he lands, but he springs to his feet firing rounds with the revolver in one hand and snapping the shotgun shut with his other.

  Officer Morks doesn’t even get a chance to see the sheriff as the mad orgy swallows him, but he is still swinging his nightstick. Small hippies have climbed on Officer Johnson’s back and legs. A short dirty man pokes the much larger Officer Johnson in the eye and then starts dry fucking the side of his head.

  Sheriff Smoochole yells in frustration as he lets loose both barrels of his shotgun on the small man vigorously screwing Officer Johnson’s head, turning him to a still-humping mound of pulp. Officer Johnson shrugs the corpse off his shoulders, but the motion tips him off balance and he falls to the ground. Instantly, bare feet stomp and kick the fallen deputy as the mob bucks and sways. He bellows, and a skinny Mexican fella stuffs his dong down the cop’s gullet, muffling him with a wet groan. Officer Johnson disappears behind brown butt cheeks.

  Sheriff Smoochole runs up the nearest hippy as though he were some greasy ramp and vaults to the top of the wild orgy. He scans the ground, but he can’t see either of his men in the brief glimpses of earth he can spot between the rolling flesh of hundreds of naked bodies. One strong hand reaches up and grabs one of the leather straps from his g-string, then another hand joins it. Sheriff Smoochole screeches and claws at the heads and asses on which he is standing, but more hands reach up from the sex and pull the skinny sheriff down and under.

  The entire camp continues tripping off Cockbug acid while fucking their brains out. The ground moans along with the massive orgy. Smack in the middle of the bacchanal, the receiver to the solar phone is getting kicked and smacked, and it’s bouncing off of ass flesh and tits alike. An irritated voice is screaming on the other end, “I told you we will get there when we can! Now hang the fuck up!”

  A pear-shaped man hears the crackling voice, and he reaches over and shoves the headset up his ass in one smooth motion. He groans as the voice from the phone screams more muffled words, which vibrate up his tailpipe, and he falls back in ecstasy and is swept away in the sea of sex.

  Shit You Won’t See on Oprah

  The end of the world started on a weekday, which was really inconvenient for a lot of people.

  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 Horsemen, 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.