The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole

We’ve Come for Your Codes, Asshole

Thomas S. Phimpham, the president of the United States of America, the commander in chief, the man to whom the military reports, the person who wields more power than anyone in the world, is crouched under his desk in the Oval Office with a bottle of Lone Star in one hand and a Bible in the other.

A whole case of ice-cold goodness teeters atop a massive stack of papers. It sweats condensate on briefs and treaties. Piles of papers that were waiting to be signed are shuffled out of order, covered in spilled beer and the roaches from smoked joints. Bottles lie here and there like downed bowling pins, and when his advisors come into the office, they must take care to step over them or risk ending up on their asses.

The Oval Office smells like a brewery. And sex. Ass, to be exact.

The first lady is curled up under the massive desk next to him. He’s just finished fucking her silly over the desk, something he has wanted to do for years. He finally talked her into something different. It took a six pack and enough pot to choke a lifetime stoner, but she finally dropped her silk chastity belt.

“Bera, get yer ass up. The joint chiefs wanna shit down.” He smacks her butt. She rolls away from him and jabs him in the side with a very sharp shoe.

“Fuck off and let me sleep, Tommy.” She doesn’t sound sleepy; she sounds pissed off. Can’t blame her. He has always wanted to try the old Sodom and Gomorrah, but she never liked the idea and told him to go find some sheep if he wanted to butt fuck something.

“You said you’d be more careful.” She kicks him again.

“I didn’t mean ta, I swear! And don’t call me Tommy in my place of bidness. I told you about that.” He stifles a laugh. Didn’t mean to my ass. Or her ass. Haven’t heard her squeal like that in a good long time.

“Jerk.” She tugs her skirt down her legs with a wince.

“Get yer ass up. I got stuff to take care of. Got the damn Russians wantin’ to go nuklar, got the Chinese wantin’ to bring in a buttload of little slant-eyed bastards to help us. More like take over if I give ’em half a chance.” He takes a long pull on the beer bottle, smacks his lips loudly and belches. “Sorry about the buttload comment.”

She kicks him again and pulls a joint out of the little cubbyhole under the desk. One of the forefathers may have used it to hide a weapon or a bottle, but Tommy Boy keeps a stash of weed and coke for rainy days.

The smell of ganja fills the Oval Office again.

The chatter of gunfire and explosions fills the streets outside. Grunts and screams filter into the room. Something slams into the side of the White House, but she can take it. Over the years, the old bricks and mortars were replaced by steel and a composite plastic that can stand up to a rocket-propelled grenade. A direct hit from one of those seek and destroy missiles would probably take her out. They told him that the first day in office. But the chances of one getting anywhere near the White House are about as slim as an anorexic donkey.

Something else hits the building and shakes it all the way down to the foundation.

“Holy shit balls! That dog had some bite!”

Bera scoots a little farther under the desk and pulls at the joint before handing it to her husband. He takes a deep lungful of the Carolina Pete blend that his cousin Johnny-Lee-Boy Phimpham grows in a trailer park. It’s good shit, the kind that makes you all happy, makes you care about fuck all. Just what he needs. Fuck all.

There is a polite knock at the door. The president peeks over the top of the desk and calls out a tentative “Yepper?”

“Sir.” A head pokes in. It’s Sinclair, one of his top secret service agents. Tommy likes him because he can drink like a fish and still tell decent racial jokes. But he once confided in the president that he likes to wear a diaper and a saddle while his boy toy Jethro rides him and tells him to head for the Alamo.

“What do you know, Sinclair?”

“Got a couple of emissaries to see you.”

“Emi-who? I’m fucking busy right now, buddy. Can they come back when the world ain’t going to shit?”

“Sir. They say they know why the world is going to shit. They have come to negotiate.”

“Monkey balls. Well who are they?”

“Sir. These guys are unusual. They appear to be demons like the ones we have seen on TV. One is named Quixotol and the other is named Mark.”

“Why the hell is one of them named Mark? If I were a demon I’d have a cool name like Assmurder or some shit.”

Sinclair sticks his head back out into the hallway and whispers something. Then he is yanked out of the doorframe, and the door slams behind him. There is a loud crash from the hallway, followed by a few seconds of silence, during which the president of the United States takes a long pull from his beer.

“I hope he’s all right. He’s a good man, that Sinclair is.” He punctuates his sentence with a lusty belch.

“Excuse you!” Bera looks shocked.

“Relax, baby. It’s the end of the world. I can burp and git away with it.”

She rolls her eyes and takes the joint back. She puts it to her lips and is about to take another hit when the door slams open again. A pair of figures walks into the room. They glow bright orange and red and drip fire with every step. One is taller than the other and walks on cloven feet. The other has a face where its ass should be and walks on four legs. Each leg ends in a pair of sharp knives, so he has to pull his digits out of everything he steps on.

The hooved demon has a body like a cow’s, complete with udders and nips that look like big swinging black dildos. He has a long beak about the size of a banana.

The president starts the Lord’s Prayer. With one hand, he wields the Bible like a weapon. With the other, he clutches his beer.

“Prez here?” Banana-beak asks. The sound of his speech is nearly indistinguishable from the sound of burping.

The two demons stare around the round room like they are taking in the old architecture. The pictures, paintings that are a hundred years old. Massive desk, chairs and couches. The president looks around as well, takes in the place that has been his home for the last six years. He gets up and dusts off his suit, then calmly takes a seat at the desk.

“That’s me. Now who in the blue blaze fuck are you two losers?”

The hooved fellow looks down at his companion, who in turn spins his ass-head upward to exchange a wounded look with his tall friend.

“Just cuz we’re demons don’t mean we don’t got no feelings.”

“Oh… eh, I apologize then. I didn’t think…” The president trails off as the demons burst into laughter.

“We’re just fucking with ya, cuz.”

A half dozen secret service men pour into the room with weapons drawn. Three have large-caliber handguns; the others carry assault rifles. They all have do-not-fuck-with-me attitudes plastered to their faces behind dark sunglasses. It’s a good thing they are wearing the shades, too, given the drug they take every morning. It makes the men fast and trigger-happy. It also makes them see weird things. The drug is like a combination of speed and a psychotrope, and it is just about the bee’s knees as far as the president is concerned. He tried some once and thought the prime minister of Kazakhstan was half lion and half poodle. His eyes didn’t stop twitching the whole time.

“Take ’em down, boys!” the president calls. He waves his hand forward as if leading a charge himself, then dives behind his desk.

Gunfire echoes around the room followed by screams. Something sails past the desk and hits the window. Thomas S. Phimpham drops his Bible and hits the joint. He manages to hold the smoke in until the gunfire dies down, but he has to let it out before the screaming stops. Because it goes on and on.

He pokes his head out from under the desk and exhales a long cloud of white. The room is dim, but it could be because he is stoned out of his mind. Blood drips from every surface, as though someone took a water cannon and filled it with crimson goo. A piece of someone detaches from the ceiling and splats on the desk, throwing bits of gore over the president’s face. He shakes his head and ducks back down. Bera doesn’t even stir.

“Come out come out wherever you are,” one of the bastard demons calls. He has an accent that would be right at home in New York.

“I am the president of…“

“Shit!” The second demon cuts him off.

He dares another peek, this time coming face to face with a red kneecap covered with gigantic blisters. They undulate and moan, and the president can make out the features of a goat complete with horns pressing from the inside of each one.

“Lovely, ain’t dey? I’m from sixth circle, you know, the old down below, and I got me some hangers-on. I let ’em stay for the ride.” The thing speaks in Cockney English and puffs at a dangling cigar.

“Uh.”

“So look, you give us the launch codes and we will leave you in peace. Sound good, big guy?” the four-legged demon asks. His swinging dildo teats clank and clatter against one another.

“What in the Jim Parson’s fuck are you planning to do with the launch codes?”

“Son, look here. The Apocalypse is upon us, and we need to get those codes and guard them. Keep them safe. We need to make sure that no one else gets them and shoots missiles every which way. No one wants to die in a nuclear war. No one. Am I right here, Chuckles?”

“Right, mate, you should listen to me partner ’ere. He’s just full o’ good sense.”

The two demons maintain perfectly serene looks on their nightmarish faces. Maybe it’s the pot talking, but their calm expressions might almost inspire confidence… if the damn things didn’t smell like a sewer explosion.

“Well hell, son, if you’re going to protect them, I don’t see what the harm is,” the president’s drug-addled mouth says, much to his surprise. Sure it seems slightly insane, but strange times being upon him and all, Tommy finds himself reaching into his pocket and extracting the codes. He hands over the plastic envelope marked Top Secret.

“Now don’t do nothing stupid with ’em, hear me?”

“Sure thing. We’ll guard ’em with our very lives.”

The two demons glance at each other. The taller one breaks into a grin filled with broken teeth the shade of piss. Then one massive hand grabs the president and hauls him out from under the desk. The other demon rotates a knife-tipped appendage and grabs the first lady, dragging her out by her ankle. She squeals in anger and lashes out with her other foot.

“What are you doing?”

The demons ignore the cries of protest. The president is tossed into the air and caught by his ankles so he dangles upside down staring into his wife’s face.

“Sword fight?” the taller demon chuckles.

Thomas S. Phimpham, the president of the United States of America, is brought up in an en garde position and then smashed into his wife at high speed. The last thing he sees is her face howling in fear while flopping black dildos shift and twirl on the body of the demon that holds her. Then he crashes into her face for one final kiss that results in an explosion of light and a complete absence of thought.

Zombie with Soul

By the time Pestilence and his horde of diseased Army dead and Cockbug-risen hippy corpses hit Reno, the demons have thrown the town into total chaos. Cars and trucks of all sizes and sorts litter the freeway. Pestilence leads his gang from atop his steed with General O’Coddle staggering right behind. They wind through the maze of abandoned automobiles, passing under two overpasses. After the second, the sounds of screams echo off the tall casinos and the dead start staggering more slowly, distracted and hungry.

Pestilence is beginning to sober up.

“Those fucking demons had better not start bogarting the dope in this town,” Pestilence growls at the general. The dead officer nods and moans hoarsely.

“Did you score that last shit in Reno?” Pestilence asks as the first pangs of need wrack his slender frame.

General O’Coddle stares at him with his dead eyes, both slightly withered from their time in the sun. He shakes his head back and forth.

“Shit,” Pestilence spits.

They trudge on in silence to a third overpass. After passing under it, the town fully encircles them, with tall buildings that rise in all directions toward the sky. Screams and howls of pain distract the zombies, and Pestilence hears the shuffling of their feet moving off from all sides. He turns and looks out from under his hood. His horde is deserting him; stumbling off in search of flesh to feast on.

“Whoa,” Pestilence tells his steed while giving the reins a pull. The horse ignores him, so he tugs harder and yells louder. “Whoa, fucker! Whoa or you’ll be glue!”

The horse stops so abruptly that Pestilence rocks forward and falls off his steed onto the freeway. He lands face first with a sick crunch-thud, but he rolls to his feet and jabs the general in his the chest an instant later.

“Do your thing and call those fuckers back! They are my zombie horde, and they are fucking leaving!”

General O’Coddle turns from Pestilence to the dead soldiers and hippies staggering toward the screams. He puffs out his chest and moans loudly. He huffs and growls, “Rrrraggggerrrrrrrrr! Bbbbbeeerrreeegggrrrrr!”

None of the deserting zombies slows its pace. He turns and looks blankly at the sweating Pestilence. Maggots wiggle out of General O’Coddle’s ears and land on his broad shoulders. The zombie shrugs, and the maggots tumble to the pavement, twisting and writhing as they fall.

“Whatever,” Pestilence grumbles. “If Death hears anything about this, he’ll be pissed. Fuck him anyway; he ain’t here.”

General O’Coddle tilts his head like a dog trying to understand what his master is saying. Pestilence smiles his rotted grin at the general and then reaches up and cups one long-fingered hand on the dead man’s barrel chest. Pestilence mutters something, and a glowing light fills his hand. General O’Coddle’s shriveled eyes roll in their sockets as Pestilence pulls his glowing fist away.

“Hot shit!” Pestilence yells, and he slams his fist back into General O’Coddle’s chest. With a loud crack, the light sinks back through the general’s sternum. The dead man stiffens and swells instantly. His shriveled eyes reinflate like helium balloons. Thick black blood drips from his nose and ears like waves. Tiny white maggots surf to the ground. The general’s gray skin squeaks and pops as it stretches around the sudden violent bloating. Pestilence stumbles back a few steps and covers his nose with his cloaked arm.

General O’Coddle’s body stops swelling, and his dead eyes dart around in their puffy sockets. His chin quivers like he is trying to talk or scream, but his throat is too swollen to open his mouth more than a fraction of an inch. The stiff and swollen corpse twitches and lets out a fart; extensive, deafening, and extremely malodorous. The longer the shit-splattering fart goes, the more General O’Coddle deflates until he returns to his barrel-chested norm.

“What in the red-headed gypsy queefing fuck was that?” General O’Coddle growls. Dark clots of congealed blood fly from his mouth and catch in his white handlebar mustache.

Pestilence smiles at him and says, “It was your soul, you half-rotten bastard. We don’t have time to argue or discuss ethics and shit. Get those dead fuckers back in line and tell me where to find some-fucking-thing to get me high!”

General O’Coddle’s gray lips curl into a crooked smile, and he salutes Pestilence before turning on the balls of his feet to the deserting zombie soldiers behind him.

“Atten-shun!” growls the dead general.

A few of the military zombies stop and turn, but most keep moving. Pestilence’s legs buckle, and he falls to his knees in the middle of the highway. He curses at the ground for scratching his legs, then he turns and scoffs at the general.

Rage flashes in General O’Coddle’s dead eyes, and he stumbles toward the closest runaway zombie. He grabs the dead soldier by the back of his head and pulls it to him, dragging the soldier’s heavy boots across the road. The soldier zombie fights in vain against the general’s iron grip, moaning and shouting loud enough that all the others turn to look. General O’Coddle shakes the dead soldier back and forth until he is sure all are watching.

“I said GET THE FUCK BACK IN LINE!”

With the horde still watching, General O’Coddle digs his meaty fingers into the dead soldier’s eyes. The zombie writhes and moans as O’Coddle lifts it off the ground simply by raising his arms. It kicks its dead legs weakly as General O’Coddle twists his hands in the zombie’s eye sockets and rams his thumbs through the side of the dead soldier’s skull. The zombie’s legs quit kicking as General O’Coddle roars and tears the head from the body in one quick brutal movement. The headless corpse crumples to the highway, and all but one soldier zombie stumble quickly back in line.

General O’Coddle points to the sole deserter and says, “He must have been a hippy at heart,” to Pestilence, who is reaching into the folds of his robe.

The general puffs to yell more, but Pestilence grabs his arm to silence him and help pull himself up. The hooded Horseman regains his feet and pulls a crossbow made of steel and used medical equipment from his cloak.

“My turn,” he grins and winks at General O’Coddle. He takes aim with superhuman speed and shoots a hypodermic needle at the fleeing zombie. The dead soldier stumbles in a zig-zag in an attempt to avoid the projectile.

“So,” Pestilence says to the general while continuing to watch the deserter. “Where next?”

The dart swerves in midair and hits the zombie in the back of his thigh, sending small yellow chunks of bone flying. Yellowish-green bubbles sizzle from the wound as the acid devours the zombie’s flesh. The dead soldier howls, but the acid takes only a matter of seconds to silence it by reducing it to a smoldering pile of ashes.

“I have a junkie brother who is a priest at a church close by,” O’Coddle smiles, “and I’d love to pay his whore-stealin’ ass a visit.”

Pestilence tucks his crossbow back into the folds of his robe and slowly mounts his steed. Once atop his horse, he nods at the general. O’Coddle grunts and steps in front of the horse to lead the horde to Our Lady of Eternal Melancholy. They head off the freeway and into a neighborhood that looks to be accustomed to chaos. The houses that line the street are small and old, their paint peeling away in huge swaths. Most of the windows are boarded up. Demons screech and howl from nearby, but the horde ignores them. Human screams respond to the demon cries, and a muttering of discontent rumbles through the horde, forcing Pestilence to draw his crossbow and level it at the murmuring pack of zombies.

General O’Coddle leads them to a pile of rubble and stops. Across an old wooden sign, the message “A stoned congregation and a disemboweled priest” is smeared in blood and shit. The smell of death hangs in the air around the ruins of the church, and the horde of dead soldiers pushes forward.

“Whoa!” Pestilence yells to his steed.

“Whoa!” he yells to the dead.

Both ignore him. The horde stumbles like a bunch of drunken frat boys, forcing Pestilence out of their way as they converge on the rubble. He stares at the zombies digging away bricks, his eyes bugging out of their sockets. Sweat beads and drips off his forehead, and his throat dries out when he tries to speak. Two zombies pull a body from the rubble and then fall on it with hungry mouths. Soon, the entire horde is feasting on the freshly killed congregation.

General O’Coddle moves toward the ruins, but Pestilence taps him in the back of the head with his crossbow. Pestilence twitches as his gut clenches, and he tells O’Coddle, “None for me, none for you.”

General O’Coddle smiles his black grin at Pestilence and sticks one meaty hand into the front of his pants. Drool drips at the corners of Pestilence’s mouth, and he wipes it away with the back of his slender hand. The general pulls his hand out and tosses Pestilence a bag of heroin three times the size of the last one.

“Hold out on me again and I’ll tear your soul into tiny pieces and cram it up the ass of every soldier here,” Pestilence smiles at the tan in his hand before dumping the entire contents of the baggie onto his spoon. He snaps his fingers, and a sickly green flame sparks to life from his fingertips. He heats the spoon, fills the needle and slams it into his forearm, only hitting a vein by sheer chance.

Pestilence’s eyes roll back in his head, and he tells the general, “Fine. Eat. We’ll… find… more… shi…” He nods off midword while the horde enjoys the congregation buffet.

Three Pervs and an Ice Cream Truck

Nathan Chuzzle lives on a big-ass hill in Southern Oregon that overlooks an idyllic valley. In this valley sits the small town of Spewmuller. Named after some old fart who settled here about a million years ago. They said he came out west to make money. Dig up gold. But all he found was a big puffball of nothing. So he built a bordello and filled it with every kind of woman he could find. Big girls, little girls. Girls in fine clothes and some in rags. Every madwoman, outcast and recovering nun he could get his hands on ended up in the place.

That’s how the town started. Built on the backs of whores. Literally. Chuzz once read on the Web that the city is one of the most promiscuous in the United fucking States of A. Hallelujah, brother.

There used to be a lot of trees in Spewmuller. Rows of green that would inspire penis envy in the evergreen state of Washington if it could put down the coffee mug long enough to swing by.

Now the town doesn’t look so good.

Chuzz remembers driving to the grocery store just a day ago. No way he can do that now. The street is on fire. As are what trees remain, and most of the houses around him. Streaks of yellow crisscross the sky as rockets burn away clouds and anything else that gets in their way. A flock of fighter jets streaks overhead with a large shape in pursuit. It looks like a dragon, an actual dragon, with three heads and black oily spikes that drip ichor as its mighty wings beat at the air.

Chuzz drops his gaze to the horizon just in time to see a foot swing into view. A really big foot. The thing looks like it’s the size of a bus, but maybe it is just his perspective. He tries to assure himself it’s just the angle, until the foot smashes the city into kindling. A horde of giant demons follow in close pursuit. Big red bastards about the size of minivans. Another one exits a house near Chuzz’s—just smashes through the wall like it’s not even there.

Big horns all over its body. A human guy follows the demon, not out of any desire to be near it, but because he has no choice, impaled as he is on two of the demon’s ass horns. The red spikes protrude from his stomach and shoulder, and all he can do is flail and scream.

Chuzz plucks a thorn out of his own ass. One of Stretch Bangstrom’s little gifts. Without thinking, he flings it at the demon. It falls short, and the creature turns to regard him.

“Tasty.”

“AHHHHHHH!” yells the punctured man. All Chuzz can see of him are his feet flopping from behind the red demon.

The thing has a face like a movie star who has been through five or six too many plastic surgeries. Tight, bulbous, perched on a long neck that stretches at least three feet from its emaciated upper body. The lower body is where the mass is. Like a snake just finishing digesting a sumo wrestler.

“Go away!” Chuzz yells.

“AHHHHHHHH!” screams the guy stuck to the demon’s ass.

Phil picks that moment to wander outside and investigate all the noise. He takes one look at the demon and screams in his best Phil.

Fucking Phil!

The monkey reaches behind himself and pulls a turd out of his ass with his one hand. He throws it at the demon and hauls ass back inside.

“Oh real nice, Phil. You useless shit-flinging ass-monkey!” Chuzz calls after him.

Stretch Bangstrom peeks over Chuzz’s shoulder. “We can take him. He ain’t so tough. Probably a second-circle fuck. Just use the microphone and toss him.”

Chuzz looks at the little face from the corner of his eye and feels another sliver of sanity slip. Like a big block of cheese at which someone has been hacking all day. The chunk falls away and melts into a gooey lunacy dip complete with bell peppers and a side of fuck you corn chips.

“You aren’t real. This isn’t real. None of it is real,” Chuzz whispers. The demon turns in a full circle as he seeks the source of the flung poo. The man stuck on his backside continues to scream.

“I’m real, fucker. Real enough, bub. And you better get your act together or we are gonna be dead meat. You wanna die stuck to that demon’s ass? I don’t think you do!”

“Get off my back!”

“Idiot! Just pick him up with the microphone. Do it!”

Stretch Bangstrom unsticks one arm and reaches into Chuzzle’s rear pocket. He pulls out the microphone and holds it up. Chuzz takes it in a trembling hand.

“DO IT!”

Chuzz stares at the demon, and the demon stares back. Blood drips from the thing’s mouth in a steady stream that sizzles when it hits the ground. Nathan P. Chuzzle points the microphone at the beast and wiggles it.

Nothing happens. The demon takes one massive earth-pounding step toward him. Chuzz wiggles the thing again, but it doesn’t do anything.

“AHHHHHHHH!” the poor bastard screams from behind the demon.

Another flight of jets roars overhead, this one pursued by a squadron of harpies. They screech and howl as they close in on the jets. A couple of them sweep close to the ground, and Chuzz realizes the things are massive. Wings the span of a housetop. Maybe larger. They drip blood as well, and Chuzz is pretty sure he sees little chunks of people and metal hanging out of their mouths. Then they break straight up and rip the fighters out of the sky.

“Hit the button!” The demon is so close that Chuzz picks up the distinct smell of rot and burning rubber. Or melting electronics. Maybe it is a combination of the three. Whatever it is, it is the smell of wrong.

He hits the button while pointing the device. The demon breaks into a full charge. Big bug eyes swivel around in sockets the size of serving platters. They are green and brown, like diarrhea swimming in Jell-o. They lock on him, and Chuzz feels his knees go weak. Screw this hero shit. Screw going to Vegas to stop the Apocalypse. What was he thinking? These things are monstrous. They tower over him and drool blood. How the hell is he going to stop them?

The toy! He triggers it again, and nothing happens. Then he remembers that he has to move it to make the thing do his will. He moves it up like he is going to toss the demon in the air. But he makes the trip instead.

“Wrong button, fucktard!” Stretch Bangstrom yells in his ear so loud that it goes deaf.

They are tossed fifty feet straight up. The chunk of asphalt on which Chuzz is standing is still beneath him, but the ground below is FAR away. He holds the microphone as steady as he can considering he is shaking like a leaf on one of those burning trees.

The demon storms over the spot where Chuzz just stood, vaulting the hole where the missing asphalt should be and smashing into the side of the house.

“Phil!”

Chuzz whips the microphone back down, which makes the chunk of asphalt move so fast he loses contact with it. The piece is big, bigger than a pair of pickup trucks laid side by side, and when it smashes into the ground, it crushes the demon into a pulp that makes its former smell seem like cotton candy.

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!

But the toy probably saved his life. He lowers the thing, points it at the demon, then hits the red button and lifts his hand into the air. The demon looks terrified as it flies straight up. Chuzz slaps his hand forward, which sends the demon flying with a scream.

“Good show, bub!” Stretch hollers. “Now let’s get in the goddamn truck and blow this town.”

“Howdy neighbor!” the man with the machine gun calls out just before the first demon leaps onto his roof, smashes through part of it and then falls on the guy.

“Come on, Phil!” Chuzz calls over his shoulder.

Phil bounds into the truck and settles near the door, big monkey eyes glued to the army, which is less than a hundred feet away. A thousand leering faces groan for their blood. They stagger like a bunch of drunks, spewing vomit and blood. They are the dead, and they have come for Chuzz.

Which is why Chuzz is getting the fuck out of Dodge with his one-armed monkey, a toy stuck to his back and few cheesy shreds of his sanity intact.

A couple of creatures detach from the army and slither rapidly across the ground. Their torsos are vaguely human-shaped, but they have many human legs and arms that shift and relocate. They have demonoid heads, squat fat things with many green eyes that swivel on long stalks.

Chuzz picks one up with the microphone and tosses it away, but others are close behind.

“Fuck fighting them, pick up the truck and get us out of here!”

Just like the house! He triggers the silver button and lifts the toy up in the air. The ice cream truck flies up, sending Chuzz and Phil sprawling across the floor. A large freezer spills out a rainbow of colorful melted goo that splatters all over the truck.

Chuzz picks himself up and stares straight into the eyes of one of the towering demons. Its face is a nightmare landscape, a bizarre pincushion jabbed full with human bodies. Some of the appendages—legs, arms, heads—move as it walks. The heads scream in pain, and it freaks Chuzz right the hell out. He triggers the microphone toy again and thrusts it in the direction opposite the army from Hell.

The truck shoots forward. Chuzz and Phil hang on for dear life as it moves like a jet. Chuzz backs off the stick and glances behind. The army is far in the distance. He stands up and closes the door. Stretch Bangstrom’s head leers around his neck with a razor-sharp grin.

“I knew you had it in you!” the toy leers.

Nathan P. Chuzzle stares at the remains of his town. He sucks in air, then leans over and plants his hands on his knees. He feels like he is going to puke.

Phil picks that moment to punch Chuzz in the ass.

“Fucking Phil!”

The Daily Gab Gets Refuckulated

Myron Bottomfeeder wakes to distant screams that sound as if they are clawing at the concrete walls around him. He’s been dozing on a cot in the basement boiler room of the Marvin J. Fartseinheimer Building, which happens to house the bustling offices of “America’s Number One Gossip Magazine,” The Daily Gab. Myron doesn’t always sleep on his the cot in the boiler room. After all, he is the editor of The Daily Gab, and he has as much money as one sleazy grease bag can handle, but he worked late last night.

Myron had spent hours and hours trying to unearth some printable dirt on any celeb he could find, but the only thing on the Internet, before it crashed permanently, was news about the end of the world. Myron couldn’t give two shakes of his dick about the end of the world. All he cares about are Hollywood starlets who flash their beavers on the red carpet or supposedly straight Hollywood heartthrobs who blow producers backstage at award shows. Myron doesn’t want to hear about demons and the walking dead. He wants to hear who is fucking whom and who is getting fat. He is a sad little man who only wakes up every morning because each day is a fresh day to fuck someone over.

Nothing makes Myron feel better than ruining someone else’s day.

When his Internet connection finally went the way of the Duke, he glanced out his window and looked down the fourteen stories to the streets of Reno. People ran screaming back and forth across the streets. Parked cars and trucks clogged every intersection. He sighed to himself, deciding against fighting the ridiculous traffic to make it home. If he doesn’t make it home by one in the morning, Mildred will call her boyfriend and he’ll come bang her out. Myron didn’t feel like walking in on that again. Catching them in sweaty embraces with their stupid fuck-faces never got any less awkward.

So, Myron turned from the window, flicked off his office lights, and took the elevator to the basement where his semi-comfortable cot awaited him.

He pulls the heavy metal door to the boiler room closed nice and quiet behind him so no one will hear him. As much as he loves casting the bright light of social shame on people, he despises anyone knowing anything about him. The thought of a lowly janitor seeing him leaving a boiler room instead of walking in the front door nearly gives him a panic attack. He slinks through the heavy double doors that lead to the stairwell and climbs the stairs two at a time all the way to the fourteenth floor of the Marvin J. Fartseinheimer Building. He ignores the screams and sounds of chaos on the other floors.

Myron listens at the crack between the doors and hears only the normal sounds of the busy Daily Gab offices. Keyboards clacking, the buzz of many voices speaking at once, and the near constant ringing of the Gab Lines. He smiles wide at the thought of how wonderful it is that he works with people who care more about The Daily Gab and all that they accomplish. It is clearly more important than some stupid little end of the world.

He pushes the doors open and walks through, whistling his favorite Journey song, oblivious to the winged demons flapping around the lobby screaming into cell phones. One of them spots him and flaps down right in front of him. Myron steps back as the green imp lands softly in his path. It closes its cell phone and stares at Myron with burning purple eyes. “Who the fuck are you?”

Myron huffs and shakes his head at the little demon. “I’m Myron Bottomfeeder, editor of The Daily Gab, and who the fuck are you?”

As Myron finishes his sentence, a series of bright lights and popping sounds fills the lobby around him. He holds up his hands in a vain attempt to shield his eyes. Between the floating purple blobs of his degenerating vision, he sees what looks like a bouquet of eyeballs balanced on one foot hopping around him. When the demon speaks again, Myron is completely blinded. “Well, Myron Bottomfeeder, the boss wants to meet ya!”

The small green demon grabs Myron by the hand and leads his stumbling blind ass toward his office. Once inside the glass doors of The Daily Gab offices, Myron can tell something is wrong. The voices are all strange and gravelly, and they are screaming and cursing into the phones as they answer them. “Whoa,” the little green demon says, jerking Myron back a step. Something huge passes in front of Myron’s sightless face with enough force to make his hair break dance on his forehead before shattering through the window.

Myron’s vision clears up seconds before the demon drags him into his office. A corpse is splayed on the break room table. The body has been ripped wide open, and its intestines dangle in floppy strands to the floor. A red demon and two green demons stand around the corpse drinking coffee out of his co-workers’ mugs and reaching into the body cavity in front of them for snacks. He turns from the sight, fighting back vomit. Myron glances to his office door and instead of ‘Myron T. Bottomfeeder, Editor’ it reads, ‘Azzehemadheadzqueerz, Editor.’ He can hold back the vomit no longer, and he pukes down the front of his favorite suit as he is rushed into his former office.

A giant bull-faced demon towers over his desk, tendrils extending from between two massive horns on the back of his head. Thick stringy snot dangles from his snout to the cluttered desk below him. The demon huffs and covers Myron’s small green escort in thick yellow snot before turning to Myron and saying, “Now that is the rowdy kinda’ attitude we like around here at The Daily Cunt! Who the fuck are you?”

Myron opens his mouth to answer, but the small snot-covered demon at his side reaches over and smacks him in the nuts. Myron gags and bends over with both hands on his aching balls. The little green demon flaps his wings, flinging snot all over Myron and the office. “This is Myron. The ex-editor. He slept in the basement. He also puked when he saw Zahgerdazfer, Bertyurtesta, and Elliot enjoying Zahgerdazfer’s birthday stripper.”

The bull-faced demon smiles at Myron and tells him, “Well, Myron the ex-editor, I am Azzehemadheadzqueerz. I am the newly appointed editor of the newly renamed Daily Cunt. Trust me, the pleasure is all mine. Sit down!”

Myron’s knees buckle, and he sits in the intentionally uncomfortable chair opposite the desk that was so recently his. A smile spreads across Azzehemadheadzqueerz’s bullish face, and one of the tendrils from between his horns brings a colossal cigar to his grin. The demon puffs at the stogie; the ash burns, and thick blue smoke rolls from his snout.

“I might as well start,” Azzehemadheadzqueerz says, “by telling you that you’ve done a decent job at the helm of The Daily Gab.”

The smile dissolves, and the demon continues, “But as Bob Dylan once told everyone, ‘The Times They Are a-Changin’.”

Confused, Myron asks, “What?”

Azzehemadheadzqueerz sighs and tells the former editor, “Well, as fine a job as you used to do running The Daily Gab, you have really been off your game since the rising of the Dark Lord. When he expected you to be telling the masses about him and his glorious cock-swinging return, you were publishing stories about how celebrities were coping with the end of the world.”

“The Dark Lord? My boss?” Myron shakes his head at Azzehemadheadzqueerz and tells the large demon, “This is my paper, and I publish what I want, when I want!”

Azzehemadheadzqueerz laughs, a sound like wheels squealing, before telling Myron, “Wrong, wrong, and wrong. Don’t get me wrong, we are still going to use a few of your ideas in The Daily Cunt.”

Myron interrupts, “You can’t go calling a newspaper The Daily Cunt. No one will buy it.”

“Oh, they aren’t paying for it anymore, ex-editor. No, the Dark Lord feels that news is more important than money. EVERYONE will read The Daily Cunt if they know what’s good for them.”

Still shaking his head, Myron says, “But The Daily Cunt?”

“Look, little man, we tried other names first.” Azzehemadheazqueerz sounds a bit defensive.

The small green demon pipes up, “I wanted to call it The Daily Gash.”

“That fits,” Myron says.

“ENOUGH,” Azzehemadheadzqueerz yells, rattling the glass walls. He takes a second pull of the cigar, then tosses a fresh issue of The Daily Cunt into Myron’s lap.

Myron looks the demon in his beady red eyes before folding the paper open and reading half-aloud from the front page. “The Dark Lord, Lucifer, is proud to bring to you The Daily Cunt. Gone are the times where you should be worrying about who is fucking whom and who is getting fat. The end is upon you, and soon YOU will perish. Demons that will rape your soul, your sanity, and even your asshole have been loosed upon this soiled earth. The dead have risen, and they claw and bite the living into their ranks. You should be hiding. You should be praying. Allow us to be the paper that keeps you updated when everyone else is hanging from the streetlamps wrapped in barbed wire.”

Myron looks up from the paper. “So what does this mean for me?”

Azzehemadheadzqueerz’s tendril ashes the cigar on the desk, and the demon nods his horned head at the paper. “Keep reading.”

“We will feature constantly updated celebrity deaths!”

“Ha!” Myron laughs, “Impossible; it would take up the whole paper!”

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.

“No, Control,” Agent Gallstone pouts, “only the special secret agents can drive the Humscalade and pack nukes.”

“That’s fucked-up, Freddy,” Gary snaps. “Just report back when you’ve secured the fucking thing.”

Agent Lickspittle pulls a locksmith kit from his pocket and leans over to work on the lock to the warehouse door. Agent M beats him to it, kicking in the door with one smooth, forceful motion. The three agents dive into the warehouse and surround the shiny black Humscalade. After a quick look around the big room, the agents deem it secure and empty save for the vehicle and a steel briefcase next to it.

“Building secure, Control,” Agent Gallstone reports.

“Whatever,” Control replies.

“Humscalade secured, Control,” Agent Gallstone says a little more firmly.

“Whatever,” Control responds with no less apathy.

Agent Lickspittle opens the door of the Humscalade and grabs a handwritten note off the driver’s seat.

“I have our next orders, agents. Let’s go,” Lickspittle says to Agents M and Gallstone. He turns his attention to the briefcase and notices another note taped to it.

“Son of a bitch,” Lickspittle growls before picking up the nuke case and putting it in the back seat next to Agent M.

“Control, we are ready for the next step of the mission,” Agent Gallstone tells his cuff as he buckles his seat belt. “Destination Las Vegas.”

After a moment of silence, he asks, “Control, do you copy?”

“Yeah,” Gary says in a faraway voice, “but there is some kind of box out here. It has lips and stars painted on it. A poster for a newspaper called The Daily Cunt on one side. It’s humming at me. I’m going to investigate.”

“No! Stay put, Control, await backup,” Agent Gallstone yells into his sleeve.

“Oh, calm down, Fred,” Gary says, and they hear his door creak open. “It wants to suck my dick. I don’t know how I know, but I know it does. It is calling my prick. I’m gonna do it!”

Agent Gallstone hears Gary’s zipper and then obscene sucking sounds followed immediately by deep gravelly Gary moans.

“Control, you better not have you your dick in some strange box!”

“Oh, I do, Freddy, and it sucks so good,” Gary moans over the radio. “I don’t need you anymore, Fred, you or the fucking Humscalade!”

He moans a few times more, but the then he screams so loud that both Agent Gallstone and Agent Lickspittle pull out their earpieces to avoid the terrible sound of Gary’s bone-cracking death.

Tears fill Agent Gallstone’s eyes as he stares at the floor. Agent Lickspittle looks at him and then at Agent M, who is checking his guns even though he didn’t fire a single shot. He nods at his crew; he knows they are the best. And now with the best weapon the United States government can offer, they are set to save the world. Like secret agents are supposed to do.

“All right, agents,” he says as he climbs into the seat and starts the vehicle. “Las Vegas, here we come!”

Without missing a beat, Agent M growls, “And then dare you go!”

Piss Off, No One’s Home!

The women are stopped at the entrance to the Sons of Satan’s Redeeming Cock camp. It’s the middle of the day and the place is quiet. Way too quiet. ‘Everyone is already fucking dead’ quiet. The big metal gate hangs open, and the dirt road is scarred with multiple tracks leading out of the camp.

The first team goes in hot. They are geared for war with Kevlar vests and black hoods. They wear tiny antennas taped to their throats so they can sub-vocalize when they have to. Bleeding-edge tech, only the best for Marcel’s team of badasses. And hot asses, as she likes to call them when they are sliding into their suits.

They move with military precision, poking into tents and ramshackle building. Guns out. Loaded, safeties off. Laser targets flitter across the ground ahead of them, but all they paint is dust. Hand signals flash. They move and stop as one. They would make a team of Delta Force operatives stand up and take notice.

The camp is set back a good hundred yards from the main road. There are multiple sentry stations along the way, but none has a guard. Maggie makes sure of that. She lies on top of the semi and scopes every position she can see. The trees are cut back the farther they get from the main drag. Marcel observes that the men are idiots for leaving so much space exposed.

A pair of jets flies overhead, roaring at the sky like angry birds. One of them has something on its tail. Something big that’s moving around. The plane fishtails and takes a dive for the ground. The other speeds away, but something huge and fast pursues it.

Screams from far away sweep over the camp. Like a concert. As if a thousand people are shrieking at the top of their lungs. Marcel pauses, fist in the air. The four slim shapes in black behind her stop and drop low. They look in every direction as they seek the source of the sound.

“What was that?”

“The end of the world. Now shut up, Liz,” Marcel says in a low voice that crackles off when she stops talking.

They creep forward and around a bend without another word. Edwina has an AK-47 at her side. Her favorite of the assault rifles in their collection. Darla is behind her with a shotgun and a pair of old Lugers. She saw them in the arsenal and decided they looked “pretty choice for killing assholes.”

They pause at the first tent and go low. They hover in this position for a full minute, legs straining under the weight of their gear. Marcel herself carries enough fragmentation grenades to take out a small country. They are strapped into belts that crisscross her body. The pins are covered in cloth and don’t make a sound when she walks. The primers on the right side are secured to the belt, so all she has to do is rip off a grenade and throw.

A shape, a flash of red. The figure pounds across the ground, great hooting breaths puffing out as it runs. Then it is obscured by trees. Marcel has both hands on her chest, each gripping a frag grenade.

Darla moves around Edwina. She has the shotgun at her shoulder, stock pressed close. The big Remington will splatter anything that comes close and put a hole the size of tomorrow into anything she shoots before it gets a chance to come near.

The shape flashes again. Marcel lets go of one of the grenades and pushes her hand to her earpiece, but she doesn’t need it to hear the next sound.

Screams from her squad up ahead, then the sound of automatic gunfire. They are already on the run. Edwina holds her gun up, but she can lower it with a snap and shoot in a half breath. She is a dead aim, too.

The houses are pretty close on both sides, but the women rely on Sue and her sniper rifle to protect them from that angle. Still, they train their guns on the doors as they run. The road is wet as though from a recent rain. They slog through the stuff at a good clip. Edwina glances down and notices her shoes are bright red. Not the red of clay or dirt, but the color of blood.

She doesn’t have time to shout at her friends. They break into an opening, a field that was probably green at one time. The squad is scattered along the edge of the street. Two are down, lying at weird angles. From the red hair poking out of her black cap, it looks like Rhia is one of the victims. Her head faces one way and both arms the other. One leg wraps around her back and loops behind her neck.

“Mother fucker!” Marcel screams at the sight.

A huge thing crashes out of the woods and heads straight for them. It is the size of a minivan, but it has a head and five legs. Each leg moves around in a full circle to propel it. There don’t seem to be any joints, so the appendages flap free. It’s like a giant puppy learning to walk.

But a puppy never looked like this. The head is almost as big as the body and opens into a gaping mouth filled with black teeth. It slobbers as it howls. There is a chunk of something hanging from the corner of its mouth. Edwina realizes it is an arm.

Darla doesn’t waste any time. She opens up with the shotgun even though the thing is still out of effective range. Marcel tosses a grenade, but it falls short and thumps against the ground, tossing chunks of earth all over the place. The smells of cordite, gunpowder, dirt and blood fill the air.

Edwina’s mouth hangs open for a half second before her training kicks in and she shoots the monster square in the eye. This only serves to piss the thing off. It raises its giant head in the air and howls, a horrendous cacophony that sounds like the end of the world, which is just ironic enough to make Edwina grin. Then she empties the clip into the creature.

“Suppressing fire! Get Echo squad in here, double time! I want a full fire team on the street in five seconds or we are all dead. And bring some goddamn RPGs!” Marcel screams into the microphone. She rips two grenades free and tosses them one after the other, big overhand throws that land the explosives right in the creature’s path. They tear the earth to shreds and give the thing pause as tiny flakes of metal dig furrows along the demon’s mottled skin.

Darla fires as she dashes to the side, her two handguns popping as she empties clips at the monster’s head. Edwina follows, firing as she runs. They reach the side of one of the buildings and press their bodies against it.

Some of the bullets must be penetrating the hideous creature, but they don’t seem to be doing any serious damage. A rippling sound passes over them, and Edwina knows that Maggie has opened up with her sniper rifle. There is a wet splat of flesh, and a hole appears right in the center of the thing’s head. It whips around and tries to rub its forehead on the ground as though to crush an irksome insect. Another blast, and green crap gushes from a neck wound.

Under the bursts of gunfire and the howling of the demon comes the thrum of insects buzzing in the air as a flight of Cockbugs descends in a swarm. They are on the thing and lapping at the leaking fluid in a flash. Edwina feels like slapping herself. None of this can be real.

A hiss and streak and then a stream of smoke as something whizzes past their vantage point. Edwina follows the smoke back to a squad of girls kneeling in the street. Two of them have rocket-propelled grenades and are making good use of them.

The first explosive hits the monster in the side and pushes it back a few yards. The second one knocks it off its feet. Edwina takes the opportunity to slap a fresh clip into the assault rifle, move into the street and empty it. Bullets lace across red flesh, leaving a lattice of holes.

The thing howls and tries to right itself, but Darla walks forward, shotgun lowered as she pumps shell after shell into it. Marcel follows, her big handgun at the ready. As the immense red head thrashes and shifts, she puts massive slugs of lead into the target.

Howls of pain as the thing crumples under withering fire. Another blast from the sniper rifle cracks against something solid. The creature pauses in mid-thrash as if realizing it is late for some crucial event. It looks around and renews its efforts to stand. More bullets smack into flesh as it collapses again.

“I think we got it!” Marcel calls out.

Edwina moves with a cautious step. She slaps yet another magazine in her smoking gun. This bastard will need to be well cleaned and oiled tonight. She will too after all the excitement.

They are about fifteen feet away when she sees movement out of the corner of her eye and turns the gun in that direction. Her finger is right over the trigger, ready to loose yet another stream of bullets. But the thing she sees is no threat. It’s a little animal standing between two buildings.

As the other women march on the dead demon, Edwina takes a detour. She doesn’t want a pet. She is thinking about dinner.

A rope trails on the ground between the animal’s legs. As Edwina draws closer, she coos and whispers to the animal so as not to startle it and cause it to bolt. It’s a little guy. Four hairy legs, not very long. The body of the beast only comes up to her waist.

It has hooves, and they shuffle in the dust as it turns around. She almost blows its head off when she gets a good look.

“Don’t shoot!” the perfectly formed male face says.

“What the fuck!” Every fiber in her body wants to execute this little abortion right now, but her shock-numbed brain does not command her fingers to squeeze the trigger.

“Know, right?” Not only is the little fucker talking, but he has a heavy British accent. He shifts his hooves and stares at her. His eyes are blue, and she swears she can make out the faint outline of a mustache and goatee. A goat with a goatee. What next?

He looks… scared, for lack of a better word.

“You can’t be.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What are you?” Her body trembles, but she can’t help but reach out and run her hand over the goat’s head.

“Feels nice. Anyway, I was minding my own business, see, when these boys decided have a go at me. Know what I mean? They pulled me into a shack and tied me up. Well one ’ad ’is pants down and was about to shove it in. ’Course I’m a goat then. Didn’t know what the wanker was up to. I was glad to ’ave the little bit of green they left.”

“What?”

“Green. They enticed me with some goodies.” He looks over his shoulder at a pile of what might be grass. It’s too sodden with blood for Edwina to tell.

“So this one, ’e is right behind me and I look back over my shoulder.” He mimes the movement then snaps his head back around, terror etched on his face. “And like I said, ’e ’as ’is rod out, and I don’t want to think about what ’e is about to do with it. The other boys, they all got their ’ands down their pants. Wankers. Well I wanted to fuck off right out of there, but they ’ad me tied good and tight. Then the ground started shakin’ a good bit. I ’ave four legs, so it’s not so hard to stay on them. Not them, and they had their jolly sticks out. Simple matter of balance and all, mind you.

“The one behind me fell, so I kicked him in the face. Then the world went bright red. Like I was seeing everything covered in blood. The roof flew off and a big dragon thing swept in. Wings big as a jet, know what I‘m sayin’? ’E picked up one of the tosspots in ’is mouth. Left in a hurry, that one did.

“Then this red rain starts pouring out of the sky. Bloody blood it is. Bloody ’ell, I said. But I said that bit in goat. No one understood me. Shut it, says one. But he said that bit in human, so I didn’t understand.”

Edwina contemplates killing the thing. A whole clip should do.

“Red’s pourin’ from the sky. It’s on everything, roof bein’ missin’. ’Cause of the dragon and all. When it touches me, well the one wanker was still near me and I was mad as a loon. I face-butted ’im and, when I ran out I ’ad is face. Bloody ’ell. Then I ’id ’ere and you lovies showed. So, got any green?”

Edwina chambers a round.

An explosion rocks the ground. She pokes her head around the corner. The demon is on its feet again, swinging its massive head back and forth. Marcel rips round after round at it. She fires so fast it sounds like an automatic.

Darla ducks as the head whips around to smack her. She is lifted into the air and tossed a couple of feet. She is a big girl, but she looks unprepared for the attack and hits the ground like a sack of potatoes.

One scream of anguish from her girl, and Edwina is on the run.

All she can see is Darla lying on the ground in a heap. She runs for her lover, oblivious to the danger of the beast. The demon tosses women aside like they are sticks. He picks up a blonde and crunches his massive teeth into her torso then shakes his head, worrying her body as she screams in pain. Blood flies everywhere before her body breaks apart. Torso and arms fall in a heap. Legs go down the monster’s throat.

Marcel dashes in like some action movie star, quick and steady on her feet despite her six-inch stilettos. The thing squeals like a six year old dosed up on helium and snaps at her. She tosses a frag grenade at its feet and rolls away. The explosion throws up a geyser of earth and shit, putting a momentary stop to the snapping.

Edwina dashes in shooting. She takes a flying leap sideways and manages to get quite a few into the bastard’s eyes. But it just shakes its giant floppy head, more goo flying out of elephant-sized ears.

“DOWN!” someone yells from behind, and Edwina drops like a rock. A pair of RPGs shoot overhead, followed by two more. She rolls over and gets a glimpse of the girls. At least six of them are loading everything they can carry and firing at will.

The monster rears back and whips its head forward on a neck that stretches like an accordion. Dagger-sized teeth snap over Marcel’s torso and lift her in the air. She screams, not in pain but in anger. This is the scream that Edwina remembers from a few nights ago when she tortured the Sons of Satan’s Redeeming Cock to death.

Marcel doesn’t go down without a fight. As she is lifted into the air, she grabs a wire on each side of her leather jacket. Pins pop like metal popcorn as every grenade she has left is primed. Blood erupts from her body and flies out of her mouth but she gets out one last “FUCK YOU” before the frags go off.

Edwina throws herself over Darla and holds on for dear life. The explosions come fast and furious, ripping at the air. The smell of cordite, already strong, becomes overpowering. Pieces of metal fly in every direction; smaller ones pierce Edwina’s skin across her ass and back and one thigh. She screams as the pain rips over her body like she is on fire.

She may have blacked out for a little bit, maybe a few seconds, but the darkness subsides and she comes back to reality. She tries to roll over, but the pain from her wounds makes her scream again. Her voice is raw and she wonders how long she has been screaming.

She reaches out with one hand, but no one is there to comfort her. The red thing stumbles toward them again, limping, one leg dragging behind its neck. Its head is at an odd angle, and its jaw hangs limp. It looks dazed. One eye hangs from the socket by a long piece of yellow goop.

Darla doesn’t move. Edwina grabs her arm and tugs, but she is too tired to try to lift her fallen lover. Every nerve is frazzled, and her brain runs in slow motion.

“Get up, Darla. Get up, Darla. Get up, Darla. GET THE FUCK UP!”

The beast shuffles close, and half of its damaged jaw snaps shut. In a few seconds it is going to scoop up Edwina and Darla and that will be that. Not exactly an auspicious end. Not exactly noble. She thought they would have years and years of mayhem ahead of them. She did not imagine she would end up as kitty food for a demon.

The thing snuffles close, long snout dripping yellow fluid that smells of shit, death and piss. She doesn’t want to die in that monster’s mouth. So long cruel world, at least I got to piss in the face of adversity and knee my ex-husband in the balls.

As though her mind has reverted to childhood in the face of her impending end, Edwina hears the ridiculous sound of tinkling kiddie music. It peals over and over, a familiar melody that almost makes her long for the carefree days of her youth. It is the sound of an ice cream truck, and it is getting closer.

A shape blots out the sun and then slams into the demon’s head. Edwina sees the face of a man… Wait, is it two men? Is she seeing things? She could swear she just caught a glimpse of a pair of Siamese twins hanging out the back of a flying ice cream truck.

The truck circles around, and indeed there is a man leaning out of the open back door, one hand clutching a large round toy and the other holding on for dear life. Another hand reaches from under his arm and spins the toy’s face. Piss-yellow light slices out and cuts the demon in half like the mother fucker of all butter knives through the world’s most disgusting hunk of butter.

Saved by a man, well isn’t that just fuck all.

The demon’s head flops right next to Edwina with a thunderous thud. She gasps for breath and watches in awe as the truck settles to the ground with a ferocious clank. It doesn’t land so much as come to a screeching stop on the front two wheels. The back two strike the ground, and the guy falls backwards into the truck.

A scream of pain or anger. A shape tumbles out the back and rolls into a neat somersault before coming to unsteady feet. The thing is brown and covered in hair. She gasps, thinking another demon is about to finish her off. But her double take reveals the thing to be a monkey. The beast has only one arm, which he is currently using to dig in his ass. It is definitely a he; the creature has a swinging block and tackle that piss her off. Just like the rest of her day. Pissed and getting worse.

The guy in the back of the truck follows the monkey by getting to his feet and promptly falling out of the truck. He lands face first, and for a split second Edwina thinks she sees a small head sticking out from between his shoulder blades again. A smart little grin on the thing’s face. But a grin gleaming with razor-sharp teeth.

“Fucking Phil!” the man screams as he staggers to his feet and then slips in demon guts.

Not just saved by a man but saved by a clumsy one with a little guy strapped to his back and a one-armed monkey for a companion. Can this day get any fucking worse?

A pair of shaggy hooved feet approach. They trot in a circle around her, and the face of the strange British fellow comes into view. It sticks out its tongue and licks her across one cheek.

“’Sall right, love, Goatboy is here.”

“A talking goat?” The man who fell out of the truck stands up and stares.

“Your fucking problem, mate? You got a toy strapped to your back. And you came in a flying car.”

“Good point.”

My Friend Can Only Mumble on Account of the Ball Gag

Leon follows Bud out of the sex shop and into the chaos of the busy street with his backpack over one shoulder and the angel’s bloodstained battleaxe over the other. Cars and trucks are blocking traffic, some empty of passengers, some with passengers empty of entrails. Most of the stalled vehicles have bloody handprints smeared down the sides and flattened tires. Bud and Leon round the corner to the parking lot, where Bud’s pickup awaits, and they stop cold in their tracks. A giant demon with an enormous pot belly and tiny twitchy wings has peeled back the roof of Bud’s truck cab, and is in the midst of filling it with foul-smelling demon shit. The windshield is shattered and spread around the truck.

Bud stomps the ground and yells at the disgusting beast, “What the fuck!?! You’re shitting in my truck!”

The demon peers at Bud with beady eyes sunk in a face that looks much too small for its oversized cranium. “So fucking what?”

“So… fuck… what…” Bud walks in a half-circle around his trunk in awe of the shitting demon and the inhumanly malodorous excrement splattering the inside of his cab. He uses one hand to hold his straggly gray hair out of his face and levels the M-16 at the demon with the other. “Go shit somewhere else. My favorite Hendrix CD was in there, you stinking son of a bitch!”

The fat demon shudders, farts, and launches one more explosive shit into the truck before telling Bud, “Really you should worry about them.” He nods his large head/tiny face in Leon’s direction.

Leon looks shakes his head at Bud. “Butthole Beezlebub stinky drain stain, Bud.”

“Aw, shit, Leon, are you drinking from your straw?”

“Fuckrag,” Leon says and takes a big swig.

Bud opens his mouth to warn Leon about the straw, but when he sees the three zombies in desert camo stumble from around the corner, “Turn the fuck around, Leon!” comes out instead.

Leon says, “Twatsniff?”

The fat demon shitting in Bud’s truck laughs, and Bud screams, “TURN AROUND,” at Leon before rounding on the obese shitter.

“Fuck you,” Bud tells the demon, and he lets loose a burst of fire. The demon flaps his tiny wings, and the bullets stop in midair. He puckers his tiny shriveled demon lips and blows a kiss at Bud. Then he shits more.

Leon finally turns, drops his backpack, and raises his battleaxe. The three Army zombies stumble forward, each covered in boils and sores leaking orange goo, arms raised at Leon. Leon rushes forward as Bud’s gunshots ring out. He swings the axe like a baseball bat and takes the first zombie’s head clean off. He stumbles forward from the momentum of the heavy weapon, and the other two zombies grab him by the hair.

“LESBO DEVIL GOAT RAPE,” Leon screams hoarsely before bringing the battleaxe back up next to his head. The deathly sharp blade severs all four arms from their zombie owners. Leon pulls away from the snapping monsters with four dead hands swinging from his unwashed hair. While the zombies stare dumbly at their stumps, Leon beheads them both with a single swipe. The two heads tumble to the ground in opposite directions.

The fat demon squeals and kicks his pudgy legs, which end in tiny little feet, and squeals while more bullets drop to the ground around the shit-filled pickup. Bud stomps and groans in frustration. Leon takes a step to help Bud, but six more zombies stumble around the corner, so he cracks his neck and readies himself for some good decapitating action. Two dozen more zombies shuffle up to join their brethren, and the ghouls form a half-circle around Leon as Bud fires yet again at the squealing shitting demon.

“Budddddd,” Leon says over his shoulder. He sees one of the zombie hands hanging there and slaps it back out of his vision.

“What?” Bud snaps, realizing he might just as well try to skin the immense demon with his eyes as expect the M-16 to do any good. He glances at Leon and sees the sudden swarming of zombies. “Damn.”

“Wife-swap?” Leon offers.

“Huh?” Bud asks. After a moment, he figures it out.

Bud flips the demon the bird. The monster shits. Bud snickers and turns to face the horde as Leon runs toward fatty. Bud sprays the zombies with shots aimed at head level. He knows better than to fuck around when dealing with the undead. Rows of heads explode, corpses fall, more take their place, and Bud blows their heads off too. The fat demon points and laughs at the effort of hefting the axe etched on his Leon’s face. It flaps its tiny wings, and a wicked grin replaces Leon’s strained expression as the battleaxe cuts through the demon’s dainty ankle, severing his tiny foot.

The demon stops shitting and screams. Leon hacks into the creature’s thick thigh, and it rocks forward flapping its little wings as hard as it can. The pickup’s groans rival Bud’s constant gunfire for decibel level as the demon’s fat ass raises a few inches. The demon’s wings flutter ever more weakly as Leon hacks away. Bud looks over between rows of target practice. He watches for the tiny wings to stop for just half a second. When one does, he fires a single shot at it. The bullet tears the fragile wing in half, and the fat demon collapses into his own shit with a squelch.

Leon shakes his head and says, “Demon diddle shat glory hole.”

The wounded demon looks at Leon with fear swirling in his beady eyes. “What? Did you say glory holes? Oh, shit, are they here? I can’t even run! Fuck you guys! I was just taking a shit! You guys don’t ever shit? Fuck! I am so fucked!”

“Yup,” Leon says as he drops the heavy battleaxe across the demon’s throat. The fat head rolls slowly off the pickup as Bud drops the last two zombies.

“Good thing the sheriff station is only two blocks away,” Bud says as he picks his two backpacks up off the ground. They trudge onward, leaving a parking lot full of shit and carnage behind them.

Two blocks away in the sheriff station, Deputy Fenton Morks is looking in the mirror. He rubs his chin and feels the stubble growing there. Then he runs his fingers up his jaw line to his cheek. His fingertips feel the stubbly flesh of his cheeks then a sudden yet smooth transition to the hard, firm plastic that is fused seamlessly to his flesh. The plastic holds a bright red ball gag firmly in Fenton’s mouth. He grumbles behind the thing and swings his battle-scarred nightstick at the mirror, shattering it and sending glass flying.

Sheriff Smoochole shakes his head and paces back and forth down the small block of holding cells. All three cells are full. Two with dead people still walking around and trying to bite living folk, and one with three blood-drunk pig- faced demons. Smoochole rubs his nose and adjusts his aviator sunglasses and his hat. Deputy Morks moans something from the lobby, and the sheriff frowns at the cells full of Hell. He adjusts the bandoliers he stole from the asshole general in the desert and walks out to see what Fenton is hollering about.

“Smmmphhh,” Deputy Morks yells.

“Yeah,” Sheriff Smoochole grumbles as he locks the door to the holding cells, “I hear yer mumbling ass.”

“Smmmphhh!”

“I said I’m coming!”

Sheriff Smoochole stomps into the lobby where Deputy Morks is peeking through their handmade barricade of tables and chairs. Morks has his nightstick out and is tapping it against the tables and chairs that make up the blockage. He turns around when he sees hears the sheriff and nods him to the window.

“I know, Deputy, the world has gone to shit,” the sheriff grumbles and then spits on the floor.

“Pmmmphh! Rmmphh lmmmphh pmmmphh! Ommmphh,” Morks struggles to shout around the ball gag fused to his face. “Lmmmphh Smmmmphhh!”

“People? Real live people outside? Really?”

Deputy Morks nods and steps aside so the sheriff can look out the peephole. Sure enough, Smoochole spots two living humans working their way in crazy zig-zags toward the fortified sheriff station. Zombies stumble from behind cars and out of alleys and lurch toward them. But they defend themselves well enough to impress the stoic Sheriff Smoochole. Demons dive from above, and the taller man, wearing green overalls and a faded White Lion tee shirt, swings a mighty battleaxe, cleaving them clean in two. The shorter man, wearing Smoochole’s favorite Hustler tee shirt (the black one with the bright pink logo), concentrates his fire from an M-16. Smoochole straightens up and pulls the leather g-string from between his flabby ass cheeks.

“Well, Deputy Morks, let’s help them boys out.” Sheriff Smoochole grins and moves the first of many folding tables from in front of the door. Morks clips his nightclub to his belt and helps the sheriff clear an opening. Sheriff Smoochole stands back, hands on pistols, while Morks prepares to open the door.

“Rmmmmpphh Smmmmmphh?” Deputy Morks asks.

“Yeah,” Smoochole growls.

“Ommmmphhh… Tmmmmmph…” Morks counts.

“Oh, just open the fucking door,” Sheriff Smoochole groans as he pulls his walrus tusk handled .357s from the holsters.

Morks shoves out on the door, and the small sheriff steps out, guns blazing. He drops the two zombies closest to the men with well-aimed headshots. Both men look up at the sheriff and abandon their zig-zag pattern for a beeline to the front door. The demons above dive at the sheriff, and he rewards them with hot slugs of metal that tear their membranous wings to shreds. As they hit the ground, the axe-swinging fella lops their horned heads off. The two run past Smoochole and into the lobby. Sheriff Smoochole fires a few more shots at demons and zombies both before backing into the lobby himself. Morks slides the tables back as soon as Smoochole walks in. All four men rush to set the barricade back up as their dead and demonic assailant’s pound at the front door.

The two five-foot-three-inch men, Smoochole and Bud, stand across from one another, pointing their weapons at the floor.

The two six-foot-two-inch men, Morks and Leon, stand across from each other with their weapons at the ready.

Morks and Smoochole wear sheriff-issued cowboy hats over their close-cropped hair. Leon and Bud both have greasy shoulder-length hair. Leon has four zombie hands hanging from his.

“Wmmmmphhh tmmph fmmmphhh ammph ymmmph?” Deputy Morks asks Leon, eying the four zombie hands hanging from Leon’s lank hair.

“Pussy scramble Lucifer ass toy,” Leon tells him, trying to explain that he didn’t understand a fucking thing that Morks just said.

“Wmmmmmph?” Morks steps back and raises his nightstick.

“Devil shower,” Leon answers and raises his battleaxe.

“Whoa, he didn’t mean anything by it,” Sheriff Smoochole tells Leon and Bud. “My friend can only mumble on account of the ball gag.”

“Huh,” Bud tells the sheriff, “my friend only speaks in perverted nonsense.”

“We got caught in an orgy-turned-slaughter. A gateway to Hell opened up beneath us, and corpses clogged the hole. Hellfire spurted through, and one blast caught Deputy Morks here in the face and melted his ball gag to his skin.”

“Did it melt that g-string to you?” Bud asks with one eyebrow raised.

“Nope,” Smoochole answers firmly.

“Leon talks funny because our boss Jerome uses Leon’s straw to stir his homemade LSD,” Bud says with an inadvertent chuckle.

“Cock rim?” Leon asks, forgetting about his staring contest with Deputy Morks.

“Oh shit,” Bud says. “Don’t worry about it, Leon. I’m sure Jerome will die soon and he’ll never make that shit again. You’ll get right again.”

“Fuck,” Leon says. Knowing the reason for his constant tracers and wild hallucinations doesn’t make him feel any better. He sighs and the walls sigh with him.

Sheriff Smoochole asks, “Where are you two heading?”

“Las Vegas,” Bud says, leaning closer and talking more quietly. “Leon is bound and determined to go down there and fight the Devil. I know it sounds crazy…”

A wide smile creases Smoochole’s face, and he interrupts Bud. “Good! We’ll take our Hummer; it’s military issue. Deputy, pack what you need; the time for revenge is upon us!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Bud asks, confused, as Deputy Morks runs to the back offices.

“Revenge, friend. I’m talking about some mother fucking revenge,” Smoochole says, holstering his weapons. “We spent days getting fucked by a legion of smelly hippies, and now Morks has to wear a hellfire face mask. I saw that big red mother fucker. He shook one of his pricks at me. It… burns… in… my… mind.” Even as Smoochole speaks, a giant blood-red cock waves tauntingly in the depths of his brain.

“Fine,” Bud says. “Hear that, Leon? We got more firepower and a ride.”

“Slut bang demonhole smut, Bud,” Leon says with tears brimming in his eyes.

“I know, Leon.” Bud puts his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “But Jerome will pay for what he did to you, buddy. If not, once we smear that devil cock sucker out, we can come back and do the same to Jerome. Sound good?”

“Asslick foursome, Bud,” Leon says, waving his hand at the ready Sheriff Smoochole and Deputy Morks. He is ready to leave. The walls are crying the tears he won’t.

“The Hummer is parked out back,” Smoochole says, still grinning. “Hurry up, boys, I can’t fucking wait. Oh, yeah, Deputy, grab some of them sweet-ass shotguns on your way to the Hummer.”

Your Lord and Savior is Pissed

Death ponders the remains of Las Vegas.

Buildings lie in rubble; girders and chunks of concrete are the sole remnants of the most luxurious hotels in the world. Now they are gravestones, marking the burial sites of people and chips and tons of money. Neon lights once shone like daylight. Now they are dead or sparking in the street.

The first quake was bad, and when the form of Satan rolled over, it was pretty much the end of the entire city.

People wander like zombies, covered in ash, blood and sometimes parts of other people. Every few minutes, a demon pops into view. Gets a hard-on at the sight of the destruction and cock slaps the shit out of some poor soul. Death could put an end to this. He could stretch out his hand and end the misery. He could wipe it away with a look. A smile. A grim grin as only the grim reaper can pull off. He has done it before, and he could do it now.

But he doesn’t.

A demon tosses a man into the air, a fat guy dressed in sweats with a big gold chain around his neck. The necklace flies away from the demon, but the guy is impaled on the demon’s raging member. His face goes completely white in shock. Then red in pain. Then his eyes light up, and his throat opens in the most bloodcurdling scream Death has heard in a few years.

Death should help, but what’s the point?

A green demon covered in flaming giant warts pops out of the rubble right in front of the man in black. He drools a vitriol that drips to the ground and burns holes in everything it touches. Death stands resolute, doesn’t even raise his hand. His hoodie slides off, leaving his bald head exposed.

“Sup,” the demon hisses.

“Taking in the sights.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The monster is at least eight feet tall with hips wider than its shoulders. It resembles a spider with a long neck and round head at one end and half a dozen knobby arms on its chest. The thing crouches down on haunches the size of semi tires.

“I guess I can’t eat you.”

“Probably not.”

“A lot has changed. A lot of the rules don’t work the way they used to.” More drool cascades out of the mouth that hangs long and lean like a giraffe’s. Snout the color of a pickle.

“This hasn’t.” The dark man gestures and a massive scythe forms in his hands. The demon whistles in appreciation. He looks over his shoulder as though he may have heard a friend call. Or maybe he left something back down the road. Maybe he doesn’t want to get sliced in two.

“Guess I’ll just fuck off then.” The demon turns away.

“Later.”

“Antichrist, I hope not. Hey, you wouldn’t know where Satan’s spawn is, would you?”

“Dead.”

“You sure?”

Death stares at him.

“Right. So… have a nice Apocalypse.”

The demon wanders away, chancing upon a showgirl cowering behind an overturned car as he goes. He pulls her out and rips off her red sequins to reveal a flawless naked body the color of ash. Her screams don’t last long, because his mouth opens to an impossibly large maw, and in she goes, headfirst. He pulls her back out, sucking the flesh from her bones like he is skinning the meat off a chicken wing. He tosses the pile of steaming bones in a heap.

Death walks deeper into the remains of the city.

A flickering sign proclaims the building that used to be the El Douchola Hotel. Now it is slabs of concrete. No demons lurk here, and Death has to wonder what’s up. He’s had to scare a few more away, which is a new experience. In the old days he would have sliced them to bits without a second thought.

A cry from inside pulls at Death. Something familiar, as though he were remembering an old song.

He picks his way through the rubble. As one of the Horsemen, he has a few tricks up his sleeve, but inhuman strength was never one of them. Instead, when he comes across a blocked path, he uses his scythe to cut through the obstruction like a hot knife through lard. He chops a column in half and jumps back when part of the floor above collapses.

He waits for the dust to settle, then continues, climbing over beds and chairs. Something shakes in what used to be a closet, but he ignores it and moves on.

He comes across the remains of tables, chips, money. People and body parts lie everywhere. There is a guy folded completely in half at the waist, crushed under a massive table. A loud groan comes from a giant rent in the floor. Death pokes his head under a fallen column and then weasels through a narrow gap where it meets the wall. Then he is through and staring down a tremendous gap in the earth like part of a plate under the ground has shifted.

He steps to the edge and looks over it. The ground falls away into a vast valley of broken earth. It must be a five-hundred-foot drop. Not that he has any plans to go over the edge. A hand is in view, and he follows it to a pale white arm clad in a dirty white sleeve.

“Someone alive?”

“Barely.”

Death should drop the scythe and send this poor soul on to whatever awaits, but that familiar something needles him again. Like an old song he hasn’t head in years is suddenly pounding away in his head. For the first time in his long life, he reaches down and helps someone live.

The guy coughs and pushes himself up on all fours. He sneezes a few times, wipes his nose on his robe and then blows his nose by blocking each nostril and exhaling until long strands of snot form a thick mucus on the remains of the floor. Death looks away.

The man gets to his feet. He has a thick black beard and reminds Death of someone he’s seen on TV or maybe in a movie.

“Thanks,” the man says and sits down. He brushes off his clothes even though the dust and debris are caked so thick the robe itself looks gray. He coughs again and looks up at Death. Death drops his scythe and falls to his knees.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mumbles.

“Hiya.”

“Lord, I…”

“No more of that Lord shit. I am sick and tired of being nice. I have had it up to here!” He lifts his hand as far over his head as he can reach, then breaks into a coughing fit. “Do this, do that. Die for people and all for what? Do you know how bad it sucks to die?”

“Can’t say that I do. I see enough of it, though.”

“Well it ain’t no cakewalk, junior. Ever had nails driven into your flesh? Trust me, you don’t want that. No one wants that shit. Hurts like hell. Like fucking hell!”

“What happened to your eye?” A big blue bruise stretches up the side of his head. His left eye is swollen partially shut. It gives him a mean squint.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Chunks of the building crumble and fall into the valley. They slide down the side, dislodging other rocks as they go. The remaining lights flicker as power wanes in the building. Death looks up at the tilted ceiling, wondering if it is about to collapse on them. Now that everything is different, he is pretty sure he can be killed. Maybe that is the answer. Maybe he can seek solace in oblivion. With the dead walking, no one to collect their souls and the only man capable of putting things right standing in front of him looking like the world pissed on him… again… well, he is pretty much convinced that everything is fucked.

“So what now?”

“Now? We get out of this forsaken place and do something I have wanted to do for a couple of thousand years.”

“Have a drink?” Death chuckles.

“For starters. Then I want to kick some ass.”

“Road trip!” Death smiles for the first time in several thousand years.

The Demons of Hell 78 are Unleashed upon the World

They slip silently from the pit more quickly than human eyes can see. They scatter once they feel the warm dry air through the holes in their shells and realize they have stumbled into freedom. They speed through back alleys and seedy bars, then slow down and rest. Their square shells lower to cover their large callous feet. Their shells are square and seven to eight feet tall. Most humans foolishly regard them as extra-large refrigerator boxes.

Large circular holes dot the shells, some high and some low and, of course, some right around the middle. Some holes have variously colored worn stars painted around them. Other holes are set in the center of big faded lips. Within minutes, all of the glory hole demons of Hell 78 are free from Hades and scattered across the world to prey on a very, very sinful mankind.

One twirls at breakneck speed into the middle of a large herd of elephants in India. The group of Mahouts responsible for keeping the beasts clutter around the large box-shaped demon, completely unaware of its hellish origin and intent. They rub the smooth surface of the demon’s shell, and it vibrates softly under their touch. The lonely Mahouts need no words to explain the holes. The lips painted around them and the soft, sensual cooing sounds from within say enough. Three of them fish their limp pricks out of their robes. Others protest, but the men stick their dicks into the darkness of the holes.

All three men moan and groan, lost in the throes of incredible pleasure. Their howls of euphoria startle the elephants, and they trumpet and stomp in place, some even rearing back on their hind legs. The men who chose not to partake argue about the star-painted holes. One gets on his knees and peers into the darkness. Without warning, a giant maroon cock thrusts from the box and through the kneeling man’s head with an explosion of brains and bone. The demon cock pierces the man’s skull, and his lifeless body hangs limply from the throbbing demon dong.

The other two abstainers back up screaming, exciting the elephant herd into a stampede. The three men with their dicks in the glory holes try to pull them free, but sharp teeth sink into the flesh of their hard-ons. The mouths tear and bite at the men’s privates and tug them into the holes. The men scream and fight, but eventually all three are snapped in half as the mouths inside the shell eat them, dicks first.

The remaining two Mahouts run in circles, trying to calm the massive animals. One steps in the wrong direction and is crushed to pulp by a big bull elephant, and the other Mahout is trampled under the herd as they rumble toward their home. The rampaging beasts stampede through the village, stomping every person and building flat in a matter of seconds. Left alone in the dusty field, the glory hole demon shudders and spins off somewhere else in a blur.

Another glory hole demon spins across the ocean at fantastic speed. It crashes through large glass windows and lands in the middle of a busy Japanese office building.

The businessmen abandon all restraint when big colorful dicks spring from the holes with stars painted around them. Before giving in to the full-on depravity usually reserved for bath houses (and bath houses only), the businessmen use their extreme problem solving skills to determine that if dicks flop out of some holes then, obviously, dicks should go into the other holes.

Soon hundreds of men in business suits are climbing all over the glory hole demons. They hum and suck and flop in response to all the tiny hands, mouths, and cocks. Modestly dressed businesswomen are shoved aside or trampled as offices from other floors empty and men from all over the building converge on the glory hole demons.

Soon, neighboring buildings are emptied of their male population, and the floor beneath the glory hole demon squeals from the weight of hundreds of randy Japanese businessmen. The air is thick with man musk and sweat. Then the building supports crack under the fleshy weight. The office building full of depraved men, crushed females, and one extremely satisfied glory hole demon goes as silent as a grave so each tiny splinter in the foundation can be heard. The building creaks and pops, then shifts so hard and fast that every window shatters.

The men scream, and the glory hole demon feasts on the small peckers thrust down its gullet. The demon chews and spins, flinging naked men across the crowded office or out the broken windows even as the building collapses in a screaming heap of stone, metal, and depraved businessmen. The force of the destruction shakes the ground and triggers a massive earthquake that destroys Tokyo in a few hectic, apocalyptic minutes.

Other glory hole demons remain close to their doorway from Hell and end up in Reno or Vegas. They wait in dim alleys with their cocks hanging out, rubbing against passersby, humming and cooing from the holes with lips. A few wander blindly into malls and other businesses causing fellatio and chaos wherever they go.

One shatters the front doors to the Greedy Cowboy Casino and spins through the lobby crushing bell boys and cashiers as it bounces from wall to wall until it bounds onto the main casino floor. It comes to rest at the end of a line of penny slots, each with two-tone lights spinning on top. People run screaming and panicking as zombies and demons stumble and fly through the broken windows. Across the crowded, bloodstained lobby, an elevator door opens with a bing. Out meanders a sweet old lady with a metal walker. She takes a few slow shuffling steps into the chaotic casino.

She steps her walker then shuffles after it over and over again as people run screaming into the arms of the dead. This keeps the zombies distracted as she makes her slow but painstakingly straight pathway to her favorite row of penny machines.

She loses a few minutes when she has to skirt two cocktail waitress zombies feasting on a lounge singer, but the detour leads her to a roll of pennies someone has dropped on the ground. When she bends down (slowly) to pick up the roll of pennies, a zombie wearing green and orange plaid lunges at her (also slowly) and misses, falling down the small flight of stairs behind her instead. She smiles and hurries her walker to the row of games. She is struggling to remember which one paid best last when she notices the taller, stranger machine at the end of the row.

A bell boy who was thrown into a wall when the glory hole demon entered screams at her to stop, but the plaid zombie clamps his jaws down on the bell boy’s neck, silencing his fevered warning. The old lady squints behind her glasses, looking for the video screen on the giant slot box, but she sees none.

“Must be a classic.” She shrugs and commences stuffing the entire roll of fifty pennies, one at a time, into a lip hole, her hands moving faster than her legs have in decades.

The glory hole demon gags and shudders at the copper dissolving its throat like acid. The old lady, fearing that the machine is threatening to break down and steal her fifty pennies, punches her tiny but mongoose-quick fist into the same hole. Something clamps down on her fist, and she groans in pain.

A massive deformed cock flops from the star hole above her and crashes down on her head hard enough to cave in her skull in with a squish. Blood and brain spurt from her ears, and she falls limply to the floor. Where she stood, there is now a great wide banner on the glory hole demon that proclaims, “The Daily Cunt proudly presents The End of the Fucking World!”

Next Stop, Sin City

The demon went down, sure. The girls did their best to take care of him, but they paid a terrible price. There is blood everywhere. Everywhere! Edwina is not squeamish in the least. She has seen and spilled enough blood to fill a few tubs, but this is her kind.

Now she is pissed. Fucking pissed.

Darla was the worst. Seeing her tossed through the air, her sturdy body crumpling as it struck the ground, rolling over and over. If Edwina had a big enough gun she would destroy the entire area. She would nuke it into oblivion.

“FUCK!” she screams and punches the side of the truck.

The monkey goes nuts, jumping up and down and pounding on the opposite wall. Bottles of flavored syrups, nuts and a container of dried-up maraschino cherries make a squishy mess as they smash to the floor.

Goatboy perks up, walks to the mess and slurps at the floor. He hums a song as he moves around the truck, lapping at the spillage, little goat tongue popping in and out of his human face.

“It’s good. You should try it.” He glances around the tiny space.

Edwina is not all that tall, but she has to duck to keep from striking a low-hanging cabinet door that swings back and forth as the truck rocks like a ship in a stiff wind. She slams it shut and kicks one of the cabinets. A jar of crushed nuts flies off a shelf and crashes across Goatboy’s back.

To everyone’s surprise, he not only howls in pain but stands on two feet so he can rub his back with a very unnatural-looking hoof-hand. When he meets Edwina’s gaze, she has the urge to pull her nine and shoot him in the grinning fucking face.

“Don’t look at me!” she yells.

“Sorry, love. Hey look! I can stand. Brilliant. Besides, you ’ave a rather pleasant face. The parts that aren’t covered in blood. Then again, a few hours ago I didn’t even know what blood was, so I guess it’s not all bad. Maybe I can ’ave a lick, yeah?”

Phil farts and rolls over to stare at the wall. He sleeps on the side where his arm used to be.

“If you bring your freak body anywhere near me, I will take my gun and fill you so full of holes that the one-armed monkey won’t miss a place to fuck you.”

Goatboy closes his mouth after a moment and sulks to a corner of the ice cream truck. The man in the front seat hasn’t moved since he somehow made the truck levitate. Good trick, that. Maybe she can just jump out the ass end of the thing and say adios, mother fuckers. But she is a fighter, and she isn’t going to let this set her back. If her time with the ladies taught her anything, it is that she is stronger than whatever life can throw at her. She lives for challenge, not like the old days when she used to wait on Charlie hand and foot.

In fact, if she saw Charlie now, she would plant the side of her palm in his throat with enough force to crush his larynx. Then he would gurgle and die before her eyes. He would fall to his knees and plead with her for his life, his hand pressed to his throat and tears streaming down his face. She would laugh in his face, and then she would kick it in.

“Hi,” the man in the stained sweatshirt greets her. He stands and looks back and forth between Edwina and the toy microphone in his hand.

“Yo,” she replies.

“So, I saved you.”

“You didn’t save shit. You didn’t fucking save me from SHIT!” She pulls the pistol from the holster in the back of her pants and takes one big step forward. She points it at his head and seriously considers killing everyone in the truck.

“Okay okay! Fucking Christ!” He quivers.

“Don’t kill him!” a voice shrieks, and the weirdest thing in her weird day happens. The little plastic face that she’d thought was a hallucination pokes over his shoulder and stares at her. Its razor-sharp teeth are set in a permanent grin. She aims the gun and pulls the trigger before she can consider what she is doing. She is prepared for the recoil, but instead the trigger slaps home with a hollow click. Empty!

“Fuck!” She reaches for her pocket but doesn’t find a clip. She tries the other side, then starts patting down her body as she backs away.

“Stop!” the little nightmare face hisses. “If you kill me, you won’t have a guide. I was sent by one of the good guys!”

“What good guys?” She slides the clip out of her gun and checks it for another shell, but the damn thing is empty. The events of the last half hour are a blur, and she has committed one of the greatest sins, one of the things that Sue, the weapons expert, taught them never to do. She lost track of how many bullets she’d fired. She lost track of a lot of stuff.

“Darla,” she sighs and drops her hand to her side. The gun thumps against her thigh, and she nearly drops it. Darla is gone, and now nothing is right in the world. Sure, it was fucked before the shootout at the asshole corral, but now everything is a big ball of nothing.

“I’m sorry,” the man and the weird plastic head say in unison.

“Just tell me what the fuck hell is going on. Why do you have a talking toy on your back? Why do you have a monkey with one arm, and why the fuck are we in a floating ice cream truck?”

“Well I wanted a house, but we had to get away from an army of demons and zombies. And don’t bother looking at me like I’m crazy. Because I’m not! I’m just as sane as you or Phil. Get it? Got it? GOOD!”

“’Sright. He’s not a crazy tosspot at all.” Goatboy chimes in. “’Slike this. He came down in ’is truck, blasted the shit outta that cunt of a monster, and then took us up in the sky. Maybe ’e’s an angel.”

“I’m no angel, but Gabriel gave me all these toys, and he was an angel. Said he was an archangel. He didn’t explain how to use them; he just left them on my kitchen floor and wished me luck. Then he flew away and was shot down by a missile. He also drank my beer.”

“Wait, like an angel angel? Like a guy with big wings come down from the fuckin’ ’eavens?”

“Why are you talking?! You’re a goat!”

“Jealous, then? What about the thing on your back, mate?”

“Crazy stuff happened to all of us. Can we stop the questions and just move along? Move the jingajangalang along? Let’s just accept that we are in the land of weird and I am your captain for the time being. I’m heading to Vegas to meet some people. Then we are going to stop the Apocalypse,” Chuzz yells at the assembled faces.

“Sorry?” Edwina shakes her head. Stop the Apocalypse? This loser? Then again, he does have some strange weapons. Something tore apart that demon.

“Nutter. Fucking nutter,” Goatboy grins. “I like you!”

“Look, boss, you got a fan now!” the toy pipes up.

“Everyone hold on. We’re leaving.”

Edwina shakes her head. She looks around the tiny truck and finds a spot that is relatively clear of syrups and sundae toppings. She sits and slides her backpack into her lap. The rest watch her in silence as she extracts clips and bullets, a couple of handguns and various items designed to screw up someone’s day.

“What are you looking at?” she barks.

“Yeah, you tossers. Leave her alone.”

Edwina glares daggers at the goat. She pulls out a very large knife and studies the blade.

“Oh, I get ya. I’ll just fuck off for a bit then,” Goatboy says and finds a nice quiet corner to sit in. Phil wanders over and falls down next to the goat. He lays his head on the creature’s soft side and closes his eyes. Goatboy is quiet for exactly two minutes and twelve seconds.

“I notice you ’ave a lot of guns. I ’ope you don’t plan to shoot me. Not old Goatboy. I’m as soft as a lamb and as smooth as the runs.”

Silence for a few more seconds before Goatboy pops his head up one more time.

“So. Two ’ookers were on a street corner. They started discussing business, and one of the ’ookers said, ‘Gonna be a good night. I smell cock in the air.’ The other ’ooker looked at her and said, ‘No, I just burped.’”

“Have you ever had goat curry?” Edwina asks quietly.

“Eep!”

Never Steal a General’s One-Legged Whore

Spittle slips from Pestilence’s lip into a small puddle on his lap. His hood covers his face except for his thin-lipped mouth and his pointy chin. A thick gray hand reaches up and gives his skinny shoulder a shake.

Pestilence stirs and mumbles, “Weed ain’t a drug,” before nodding right back out.

General O’Coddle looks at the zombie soldiers loitering around them. They appear to be eager for more flesh to feast upon. He turns his attention back to Pestilence, who is hunched over his steed. O’Coddle reaches up and gives the Horseman a second shake, firmer than before. Pestilence’s head bobbles and rolls, flinging spit and snot, but he still doesn’t stir.

The soldier zombies groan in impatient unison behind General O’Coddle. He turns his dead eyes on them and stares each one down in turn. He says nothing, but his furious dead eyes promise Hell sandwiches with a side order of shattered bones, and agony sauce for dipping. The zombies quit groaning and mill discontentedly about amongst the bloodstained rubble.

General O’Coddle grunts his approval of their show of weakness and reaches up to shake Pestilence twice as hard. Pestilence’s left arm flies up, slapping the general’s hand away. In the same instant, Pestilence pulls a curved blade from his robe and holds it to the general’s gray throat. The deathly sharp blade comes to a stop a quarter of an inch into General O’Coddle’s neck skin. If the general’s heart was were still pumping blood through his hardened arteries and veins, the general’s chest would be quite a mess.

Pestilence’s thin lips curl back, and he growls, “What the fuck, O’Fondle?”

General O’Coddle cocks one bushy white eyebrow and asks, “What in the cheerleader skid-mark fuck are we doing next?”

Pestilence gives the blade in O’Coddle’s throat a slight twitch, and his skinny frame rocks with an involuntary tic to match it. The blade sinks another quarter inch into the general’s throat.

“I mean awaiting orders, sir,” O’Coddle tells the shaking Horseman.

“Better,” Pestilence nods sloppily. “I don’t fucking know what we are doing next. I just woke up.”

Pestilence pulls his blade away from the general’s throat, wipes the black sludge covering it onto O’Coddle’s barrel chest, and slips it back into his robe. He rolls his head from side to side, and it cracks like gunfire. He smiles his graveyard grin and stretches. Muffled crunches sound from beneath his robe.

“What’s your fucking rush, General? It’s the end of the world.” He waves his slender hands in the air at as though conducting the sounds of chaos all around them. He wonders how he slept through the racket. Demons are screeching, zombies are groaning, and humans are screaming.

General O’Coddle holds up his hands and waves them at the soldiers. “We all will rot and fall apart where we stand if we don’t get the bored zombie fuck out of here.”

“Fine,” Pestilence huffs. “I smell tweek in the air anyway.” He tilts his head back and breathes deep. “Yup, just a few blocks that way.” He points in the direction of Jerome’s Sex Shop. “Good shit too.”

He wraps the reins around his fists, gives his steed a soft heel to the ribs, and tells the general, “We are going wherever that smell is coming from. Rally the troops.”

General O’Coddle grunts and addresses the soldier zombies. “All right, you rotting fuck rags, move out!”

Pestilence leads his pale horse away from the ruins of the church and toward the smell of meth. The street is clogged with vehicles, and Pestilence opts to lead his well-fed horde down an alley rather than through the maze of unmoving metal. He stops a half a block away from the sex shop and holds up his hand to General O’Coddle. The general stops and holds up his hand to the horde behind him. Pestilence presses one long finger to his thin lips, and General O’Coddle turns around to the zombie army and repeats the gesture.

Pestilence leans toward the general and asks, “Do you smell that, O’Fondle?”

“I don’t smell shit,” O’Coddle grumbles back, “because I’m fucking dead.”

“Well, be glad,” Pestilence says, waving his hand in front of his nose. “Because shit is what I smell. Nasty shit. And I think our tweekers are this way. The same way as the shit, unfortunately.”

Pestilence’s steed trots proudly from the alley into the street, its hooves making great clop-clop noises that echo off the remains of the casinos. General O’Coddle strides to his left with the zombie horde stumbling behind him. A few random screams sound in the distance, and they are met with terrifying howls and cackles. The zombie horde pays the screams little attention. They stagger after their general, knowing he will find them more flesh.

Pestilence eyes the pickup full of shit topped by the obese demon corpse and shakes his head. Rows of headless bodies are piled high in the sex shop parking lot. Most wear the desert camouflage of their earlier deserters, and he reaches down and slaps General O’Coddle’s shoulder to show the dead officer.

“Serves the chicken-shit douche eaters right,” the general grumbles. He looks away from them quickly. They are not worthy of his time.

Somewhere behind the shit-filled pickup, a high voice gurgles, “Death? Is that you? I’m not dead; I just lost my head during a shit. Put me back and I’ll be fine.”

Pestilence follows the voice and finds a fat horned demon’s head lying with its forehead against a tire. The head rolls, and tiny beady eyes squint to see the man under the hood. The decapitated head whimpers, “Oh, shit, it really is you. Please have mercy!”

Pestilence swings his legs over his steed and drops to the concrete. His legs buckle, and he grabs the reins to steady himself, then leans down to the demon head. He wraps one long-fingered hand around each horn, and with some effort, he hefts the big demon head. He nearly drops it once, then he shoves it at General O’Coddle. The general holds the head by its chin so the horns rest against his broad chest. Pestilence cracks his neck and asks the demon head, “Who is smoking tweek? And where are they?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been staring at the weak fucking tread of a tire for the better part of the afternoon,” the head chortles.

“Okay,” Pestilence nods to the tiny face. “I guess we’re done with him.”

He gestures toward the pickup, and General O’Coddle nods, his gray lips curling into a smile. O’Coddle turns on his heels and raises the demon’s fat head over the feces-filled cab. The demon’s small face crinkles as though to cringe away from the stench, and it shrieks in short bursts that squirt boiling hot blood out the stump of its neck.

“You CAN’”T drop me in there,” it whines. “Put me back on my body! I’ll join with the shit! No! That’s my shit! Put me on a corpse! I’ll serve you the way a master with mercy deserves to be served! Please! No! Don’t!”

Pestilence and O’Coddle look at each other while the demon head wails and cries above its own defecation, and they start laughing uproariously. General O’Coddle glares at the small legion of zombies around them, and they grunt and moan in unison, the best expression of mirth they can manage. O’Coddle turns from the zombies back to Pestilence, but the hooded horseman is already walking toward the back doors of the sex shop. O’Coddle grunts and drops the screaming head into the truck full of demon dung. It lands with a plop and sinks quickly, screaming until shit fills its mouth.

Someone has boarded up the back door to the sex shop. Pestilence reaches one slender hand through the boards, and the doorknob pops open. “Idiots,” he mutters. He shoves the door open and peers through slits in the boards. Thin yellow smoke stinking of chemicals stings his eyes. His nostrils flex and pull a mist of the yellow smoke into them. The secondhand meth smoke hits his twitching brain right away, and his eyes dilate and bulge.

“Bingo,” he whispers over his shoulder to General O’Coddle. Pestilence hears excited voices chattering back and forth in whispers just out of his line of vision. He can’t tell what they are saying, and the more meth smoke he inhales, the less he cares. Drool rolls down his long chin, and he shouts, “Let me the fuck in and get me HIGH!”

His voice rattles the building and sets a few loose angel feathers aflame. A fat man waddles into his line of sight and stomps out the burning feathers. Pestilence hisses, “I see you, fat man. Let me in.”

Again the building rattles and loose feathers engulf themselves in flames. The fat man has his back to Pestilence. He stops on the flaming feathers and raises his hands above his head as though he were being arrested.

“I’m not taking you to jail,” Pestilence screams and then whispers, “I want all your drugs or I’ll fucking gut you and feed you to my zombies!”

The fat man is shaking and crying, but he starts to turn around behind the door. Pestilence hears someone addressing the fat man in a half-whisper. “Jerome! No, mother fucker, don’t you turn around!”

Jerome ignores him and turns around. His tearful eyes glance behind the door before falling on a grinning Pestilence. One heavy foot falls forward, then another. A skinny priest with a shock of bright red hair darts from behind the door and shoves Jerome away from Pestilence. The priest looks at Pestilence with eyes as round as saucers and his jaw popping back and forth. The young priest looks lost for a minute then shouts, “Leave here, foul demon!”

Pestilence leans his head back so far that the hood falls, revealing his thin greasy hair, and he roars laughter. He laughs so hard he hacks and spits on the sidewalk. General O’Coddle doesn’t laugh. He leans in when Pestilence leans back. The general spots a skinny shape with a bright red top. He squints his eyes, and the blurry shape yells a second time (with even less confidence), “Leave here, foul demon!”

“Little brother Don,” General O’Coddle growls between the boards, “I’ve thought about you a lot!”

The general smashes his arms against the boards, splintering the wood. Pestilence stops laughing and stares at the general as the dead officer screams and pounds at the makeshift barricade. Inside, Father Don O’Coddle recognizes his brother Mac. He also recognizes the fact that Mac wants to kill him.

“Holy limping hooker fuck, Jerome,” the young priest gulps. “That’s my crazy fucking brother out there.”

Jerome unfreezes and runs around Father O’Coddle to slam the door just as General O’Coddle destroys the last of the boards. Jerome dives behind the counter, jumps back up, tosses Father O’Coddle the store shotgun, then dives back down and covers himself with scraps of busted counter and floppy dildos.

General O’Coddle kicks the door so hard it breaks off its hinges with a shrieking sound and flies inward. Father O’Coddle pumps the shotgun and pulls the trigger at the first shape that approaches through the stirred dust. The blast shreds the shape as it picks it up off its feet. A second takes its place, and Father O’Coddle turns the barrel and blasts it as well. As he chuckles to himself, a massive gray fist zooms out of the smoke at the end of his shotgun and into his nose. His nose shatters. When he breathes, tiny shards of cartilage shoot down his throat.

“Mac, no,” Father O’Coddle gasps. “I’m sorry, Mac. So sorry.”

“Fuck you, Don,” General O’Coddle yells as he picks his brother up by his bright red hair. “I bet she loved this hair. Mine is this elegant white, earned through battles of war and love. And yours is like clown hair.”

Big tears roll down Don O’Coddle’s cheeks as he tells the general, “I like your hair, big brother.”

“Oh good. Then you won’t mind if I take yours.” General O’Coddle smiles before ripping his little brother’s scalp back with one firm yank. He drops the screaming Don to the floor and admires the bright red scalp in his hand. Then he kicks his little brother in the ribs and stuffs the hair into his shirt pocket, which quickly grows sodden with dark blood. Father O’Coddle tries to crawl away from his brother, but both his hands and the floor are slick with his blood. Mac grabs Don by his priestly collar and picks him up.

“She left me too, Mac,” Don whispers as his brother leans close, “for a navy guy.”

General O’Coddle growls as he sinks his teeth into his brother’s neck. He shakes his head and pulls away chunks of tendon and muscle. Instantly the meth in Don’s blood hits General O’Coddle’s dead system. His heart twitches back to a slow life, and his dead eyes dilate. His big meaty hands shake, and his big square jaw pops back and forth.

Pestilence fluffs his cloak as he walks through the door. He steps over the dead priest behind the counter. He picks up a thirteen-inch pink dildo and tosses it over his shoulder. Even as Pestilence digs through his cocoon of sex toys, glass and particleboard, Jerome remains in the fetal position with his eyes closed. Pestilence leans down to talk to him, but Jerome whines and tries to duck under the remnants of the counter. Pestilence shakes his head and gestures at the counter. General O’Coddle grabs what’s let of it and rips it away with no effort. He tosses it behind him, where it shatters and knocks the few remaining DVDs to the floor.

“Where is your tweek?” an enraged Pestilence yells.

“We smoked it all,” Jerome whimpers from his fetal position.

“Bullfuck,” Pestilence tells him. He nods to General O’Coddle. The general reaches one large shaky hand down and grabs Jerome’s ear. The fat man uncurls and scrambles to his feet. General O’Coddle’s dead hands twitch, and he accidentally tears Jerome’s ear off. The man bellows, and General O’Coddle holds up the ear, regards it curiously, then eats it whole. Jerome screams and wets his pants, and Pestilence asks again, “Where is your tweek?”

With one hand cupped to the side of his head, Jerome sobs, “In Father O’Coddle’s hollow leg.”

Something dawns in General O’Coddle’s brain, but the meth pounds more thoughts over it. He mumbles, “Don only had one leg” as he pops the prosthetic off his brother’s corpse. Rather than searching for some opening mechanism, he crushes the hard plastic limb to shards and tosses Pestilence the Ziplock bag half full of crystal meth. “Mai Ting only had one leg.” More thoughts chase that one away too.

Pestilence tucks the baggie away in his robes and nods at Jerome. O’Coddle answers the nod by grabbing Jerome and throwing him onto his knees in front of Pestilence.

“Where is the rest?” Pestilence demands. “I smell more.” He sniffs and walks toward Leon’s closet and the peepshow hallway. “Strange chemicals. WHERE?”

“No more,” Jerome sobs.

General O’Coddle wraps his dead hand around Jerome’s live one and squeezes. Jerome squeals in pain as O’Coddle crushes his hand to mush. He screams again when the general lets go of the mass of sinew and bone where his hand used to be.

“In the fucking closest! In the fucking mop bucket!” Jerome screams, while goggling at the bloody stump where his beat-off hand used to be.

Pestilence runs to the janitor closest and wrenches the door open so hard the hinges snap. He tosses the door down the hallway behind him with a clatter. He spots the oily mixture in the filthy yellow mop bucket, and he grabs it with both hands and raises it to his gaping jaw. Pestilence guzzles the homemade LSD and lets it run down his chin and chest. He leans forward for a breath, and long strands of his greasy hair fall in into the half-empty bucket. His eyes dart back and forth, then roll madly in their sockets. He raises the bucket to his face and chugs it in the same sloppy fashion. When he is finished, he stands up, drops the empty mop bucket, and laughs out loud when it grows dozens of spindly legs and crawls out of sight down the dark hallway.

He walks slowly back to the main store, each step sending shivers up his spine and twitches to his fingers and toes. He raises his arms as he stands before a kneeling Jerome. Pestilence feels great razor-sharp wings grow from his back and reach for the sky. He feels titties bulge and flop from the flesh on his sides and belly. He feels realizes bells have grown from his wings when he hears them ring. He opens his eyes, and colors roll and dance around each other.

Pestilence feels flowers sprouting from his palms, so he turns them up and vines wrap his arms and the tits on his sides and belly. He looks at down at the spot where Jerome used to be, but a wounded hippo has taken the whimpering man’s place. Pestilence drops his hands to his sides and feels his wings, tits and vines turn to large drops of fluid and run down his body, each tickling and pleasing him. As the drops hit his dick, he explodes all over the inside of his robe.

Pestilence falls to his knees, his eyes wide and wild, and tells Jerome, “I want more.”

“Leon took the last,” Jerome whines. “But he is fried as fuck and headed to Vegas.”

“Vegas,” Pestilence repeats as his mind dances through a postapocalyptic disco.

“Make me more,” Pestilence grins at Jerome with his graveyard smile.

Jerome holds up his stump and cries, “I can’t!”

Pestilence huffs and waves his hand. General O’Coddle grabs Jerome by the back of his neck and throws him through the back door and into the arms of the waiting zombie horde. The camo-clad creatures rip and tear at Jerome, opening his belly and carrying off his organs.

“Well, O’Fondle,” Pestilence mumbles while turning to the front door, “WE are heading to Vegas. I want a taste of some fried Leon.”

He looks back to the general. O’Coddle’s dead eyes twitch and roll in their sockets, but he doesn’t feel the flames that engulf his head.

Pestilence blinks, and the flames are gone. “This is KILLER shit, O’Fondle.”

Pestilence mounts his steed and kicks it in the ribs. The general follows right behind, and the zombies stumble from around the building, most carrying pieces of Jerome for the road.

None of them notices the shit-filled pickup rocking back and forth in the parking lot. Wet moans sound from within the mountain of feces, and a long thick log of shit reaches up and out. It twists and twirls in the air. Splits and spreads until there are four wiggling fingers. A second shit arm shoots up and twists into a giant shit pincher. The two shit arms grip the hood of the pickup, and the shit demon roars as it forms from its own defecation with only thoughts of revenge. And shit.

Jesus and Death get Lit and Take a Road Trip

They try a couple of cars, but none seems appropriate for one of the four Horsemen and Jesus. Death is quite aware of the irony, of course, one of the Horsemen without a horse. It’s sort of like War without that big old sword of his. Always gallivanting around, stirring up the masses. When he can’t get a decent war going, he calls in Famine, that fat bitch. Those two were thick as thieves even in the early days.

“What’s the plan?” Death examines a little Volkswagen Beetle, but it is too small for his scythe.

“We’re going to go have a little chat with that son of a bitch out in the desert.”

“You serious?”

“Yep. Then I’m going to punch him right in the eye.”

“Uh, boss, I don’t mean to question you, but you know he is as big as a skyscraper, and they say you can’t even see his entire body yet. He is still coming out of the ground.”

“Yeah. I saw that firsthand.”

The ground is littered with debris. A bouncing box with a gaping hole in one side hops by. It looks like a newspaper dispenser, but it says The Daily Cunt on the side. Snapping teeth line the opening that used to dispense papers.

Death just stares.

“Now there’s something you don’t see every day.”

A green demon the size of a gorilla hurries after the thing. He is covered in snakelike hair that shakes and spits as he runs. He catches up with the box, grabs it, lifts it into the air and then slams a pair of giant cocks into the metal monstrosity. It jumps and bucks, but he screws it like it owes him money, humps it right across the road until he disappears around the rubble of a fallen hotel.

“Me.”

“You can say that again.”

They finally find something large and stately. A 1969 blazing red Plymouth Road Runner convertible. The front is higher than the back, and it boasts gigantic gleaming silver rims. The roof is off, torn off to be exact, and it is the perfect size for Death’s scythe.

“Really?” Jesus asks, his dark eyebrow arching up

“Fuck yeah!” Death replies.

Death hops in the driver’s seat, and Jesus sits next to him. The keys are on the floor, so he fires up the engine. He has never driven a car, but he drove a giant chariot a few thousand years ago, so this thing should be no trouble.

He rides over a curb, chases a pair of tiny demons from behind a condom machine lying in the street and then runs into a Kia, which pretty much destroys the piece of crap.

“Fuck!”

“Practice.”

He drives like an old woman for a while, just until he gets the hang of it. Then he plows into a man being chased by a gnarly demon dressed in drag. The man is screaming while covering his ass. The demon is screaming while brandishing a male sex doll.

The guy crumples across the hood of the car and flops onto the ground. His head hits like a melon and opens up with a splat.

“Shit!” Death yells and looks over the hood.

“It happens.” New Jesus sighs.

They raid a 7-11 and come out with Big Gulps filled with Slurpee mix that is mostly melted. Even so, Death gets a wicked case of brain freeze almost immediately. The flavor is Electric Blue, but it tasted tastes more like electric fuck you. His head hurts so much he almost asks the man himself to touch him and take away the pain.

Jesus gnaws at a piece of beef jerky while appearing to be deep in thought. He chases the jerky with a shot of Cheez Whiz straight from the can. Death saw him grab a few six packs as well, but he didn’t see what they were. Probably beer. Who could blame him?

“You get some good brew?” Death asks. The wind is whipping at his hoodie, but every time the hood falls, he tugs it back into place. Old habits die hard, and covering up all the mass murder is one of them.

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Really? I thought we might open a cold one while we cruise.”

“It’s not cold, but you are welcome to try some.” He retrieves a slim blue can from the brown paper bag and hands it over.

Death pops the top and takes a sip. It is sweet and tastes of chemicals. He grins and drains the can in one long swallow like he is shotgunning a beer. He suddenly feels happy, filled with energy. He hasn’t felt this way in a long while.

“Red Bull?” He reads the side of the can aloud.

“Tastes wonderful with vodka.” Jesus grins, his bruised eye giving a twitch.

Death smiles and guns the engine. The car leaps ahead with a roar. He reaches for another drink and pops it open. He slurps this one more slowly, savoring the chemicals as they fizz down his throat.

A whole herd of dancing news boxes runs alongside them. They twist and turn, clank and crash across the road. Some range ahead of the car while others stay with them. The boxes come in various sizes and colors, but all feature the same logo. ‘The Daily Cunt.’

“Must be a hundred of the things,” Death whispers to himself.

Death pulls up to the next store he sees, and Jesus dashes out of the car. He runs inside with his hands over his head screaming about the end of the world. No one runs out. He walks out a moment later with a box of bottles and sets it in the back seat.

The two men pour out the leftover blue sludge from their Slurpee cups and mix up a batch of Red Bull and vodkas. Then they are back on the road and headed for the desert. The smell of blood and death fades as they drive into the desert. It is replaced by dirt and a very dry sun.

The metal boxes clank purposefully off into the distance like they have a mission. Death is tempted to pick up his scythe and cut the things down, but Jesus ignored continues to ignore them, which isn’t really like him. He should be forgiving the things and blessing them, but he doesn’t seem to be in a blessing mood lately.

“We need some tunes!” the bearded son of God screams. He fiddles with the dials until he finds a station that is still broadcasting.

“Welcome back to Fuck You AD Radio, your source for the end of the world. I’m still here and I’m still rocking, so until the world crashes and burns around me, here is Motorhead with Ace of Spades! And don’t forget, folks, if you see a demon in the street, you better hide ’cause he will eat you whole. I’m Louis Lamer, and here is your next half hour of nonstop butt rock! WAAAHOOOOOOO!”

Jesus leans over and cranks the stereo to head-pounding volume as the car blazes a trail through the sand. Massive subwoofers in the back of the car make it feel like it is going to break through the street surface before they arrive.

Death grins and breathes in the new world.

An hour later, they come to a massive parade of people. People of all sorts. Tall, thin, short, fat, walking, crawling, and being prodded. An army of demons walks behind them, whips in hand as the they herd them toward some destination. They cry as they shuffle-step, wail, and scream. There is terror written on every face that as they glance back and beg for help. Men, women, children, three-legged dogs. They are an army of misery.

“What in the hell is this?” Death remembers to close his mouth after a few seconds.

“Hmmm.” Jesus squints around his busted eye.

A bulldozer rolls around the corner without a sound because it is being pushed by the biggest damn demon Death has ever seen. The barrel-chested monster is the same shade of purple as an engorged cock. Veins run up each arm and end at shoulders without a neck, just a tiny head that looks like someone dropped an afterbirth on a dickhead and gave it six eyes. It has squat legs that look like they would be at home on a T-rex. It’s dropping turds the size of subcompacts as it pushes the machine.

The demons herding the humans move aside so the massive machine can take their place. The demon groans as he rolls it against a column of people, goading them onto the freeway like cattle.

Death rolls to a stop and stares at the savior. Is he about going to start doing his savior thing?

The man in the dirty white robe opens the door and slams it shut behind him. He drains the entire Slurpee cup of vodka and Red Bull and tosses the cup in the car. He stands on unsteady feet, his body waving back and forth. A breeze blows over him and lifts his straggly hair up and around his head.

Death grabs his scythe and joins him. If this is to be the end, so be it. He knows about War, about how he died with a ball of lead to the face. Not a great way to go out, not a great way at all. He knows the other Horsemen are vulnerable now that the rules are messed up. He doesn’t understand it, but he is pretty sure he is immune to whatever malarkey is going on. He is Death, after all, and he gets a free pass.

“Run!” One of the men in the back of the ranks yells in their direction. Death looks around. That is a pretty good fucking idea. He could call his horse and be out of here in a second, or he could just grab Jesus and they could make a U-turn. Head toward the coast, maybe see if Reno is a hellhole as well.

But Jesus seems to have other plans.

He marches, Death in tow, toward one of the whip-wielding demons. He tries to walk with purpose, but he isn’t fooling Death. The savior is snockered.

“’Smeaning all this?!” he yells at the demon when they are a few feet apart.

The red thing is about nine feet tall and has hooks for hands and pulsating slits that look like hairy vaginas all over his chest. When he takes a breath, they open and air rushes in and out.

“Just who the fuck knuckle are you?” the demon asks in a voice that sounds like his mouth is full of marbles.

“The fuck I am is fucking Jesus, the son of fucking God. And you are the fuck knuckle.” He stands unwavering before the massive creature.

Death takes the scythe from his shoulder and holds it in two hands. He’s ready to back Jesus’s move.

“Er. You’re kidding, right?”

“Do I fuck like I’m looking kidding?”

The demon lowers one of the whips and lets it unfold to the ground. It is covered in cruel barbs, spurs of metal and more than a few fingers. Most look human, although there appear to be a few demonoid ones as well.

“And who are you?” The demon points the handle at Death. “His daddy?”

“I’m Death.” The screams and sobs of misery go silent for a moment as every eye turns to regard him. “So, you know. You better fucking listen up to what I am bringing down.”

Jesus shoots a questioning look over his shoulder.

“I really suck at this. If War were here, he would be doing all the talking. I’m better at doing the reaping.” Death shrugs.

“You two petunias just became my new bitches. I’m gonna wear your asses out tonight and then tomorrow I’m still gonna toss you in the pit.”

“What pit?” Jesus stands on his tiptoes.

“The one over there. The one we’re shoving every one into. The pit of Satan. Where have you two fuck sticks been?”

“Busy. Now unleash aside before I move some holiness on you.” Jesus hiccups.

He looks over at Death. Death shrugs.

“I ain’t moving for either of you fuck sticks!”

“Say fuck stick one more time,” Jesus says so quietly Death isn’t even sure he heard the words.

The demon sure heard them. He takes two massive steps forward to leer over the man in the robe. He leans over and smiles a nightmare grin.

“FUCK STICK!” he roars so loud the hair on Jesus’s head ruffles as if in a strong breeze.

“I bless you,” Jesus says just loud enough to be heard. But his words are hurled like a spear at high speed.

The demon spontaneously turns inside out. His viscera spill out of his ass before he is torn limb from limb and then smeared at high speed across the pavement. What is left isn’t fit to piss on. It’s just green ooze and a couple of eyeballs.

“Any of you other fuck sticks want to play?” Jesus yells. He is met with silence.

He glares around from face to face. Demon and man alike. Some fall to their knees; others rise up on tiptoes to see what all the commotion is about.

“Save us. Please save us!” the cries come in earnest as the crowd begs for mercy.

A couple of the demons drop their whips and back away. The giant demon with a tiny dick for a head stops pushing the bulldozer and turns to face the man in dirty white. He takes one massive step toward him, and then another. With each stride, the highway feels like it is going to fall apart around them.

“I bless you.” Jesus smiles, and the demon is treated to the same exit. He is much larger than the first demon, and the mess he leaves behind will take a week to clean up. His little dick head flies across the crowd, bouncing off the heads of the herded humans before falling into the pit.

Jesus strides to the car with a swagger. He puts one hand on the side of the door and leaps over it to land with a soft whomp in the passenger seat. Death stows his scythe and jumps in beside him.

“That was fun!” Jesus smiles like a kid with a new toy.

“Are we just going to leave them?”

“Should I help and stop , *hiccup* every single crybaby? Did they ever do me for that?” He squints at Death.

“Good point, dude.”

“Let’s find a way down to the desert. I still want to have a little chat with that fother mucker down there.”

The car starts with a roar and the sound of Guns and Roses blares out. As they peel away from the herd of people, Death gets a look over the cliff at an enormous red shape half stuck in the sand. The highway might have been a long strip of road over flat ground, but now it drops off a few hundred feet. There are other things dropping as well. Columns of people fall as the pushing resumes. Hundreds of them drop like flailing rocks, arms and legs flapping as they cartwheel straight into the asshole of Satan himself.

“I wish I had a video camera,” Death whispers.

“We got any more Red Bull?”

Cease and Desist, You Evil Bastard

“We are nearing the target, Control,” Agent Fred Gallstone tells the microphone in his cuff sleeve as the Humscalade speeds through the desert toward the Lord of Darkness himself. Beelzebub.

Agent Clarence Lickspittle says nothing. He knows there is no one at Control. They passed the white van Gary used to drive, smeared with crimson and brown, as they pulled the Humscalade out of the warehouse. Fred stared in the opposite direction, but Agent M and Lickspittle both saw the thick pink chunks of Gary the demon left behind. Control is dead, Lickspittle thinks to himself and cracks a smile. Control is dead and I’m in charge. Mrs. Lickspittle’s baby boy is going to save the world, and as fucked up as the world is, that still has to count for something.

Agent Lickspittle looks at his longtime friend and partner Agent Gallstone and shakes his head softly. He knows his man is hurting, but he needs him to be at one hundred percent for the mission ahead. It’s not every day that you and your team of crack secret agents serve Lucifer a Cease and Desist notice in the middle of the Las Vegas desert. Especially while surrounded by seething hordes of howling demons and ravenous dead.

Agent M is sitting in the backseat, reloading all of his weapons and re-zipping all of his zippers when the Devil’s giant half-buried red ass comes into view. The earth around the massive ass cheeks has heaved and split, leaving the ground and highway uneven and broken. Hundreds of the undead stumble around the desert looking for any living flesh they can find. A stretch of highway has been twisted into the air where it hangs above the Devil’s asshole. A line of humans is moving slowly up the twisted path of asphalt and over the edge, prodded on by misshapen demons with pitchforks and swords.

Agent M screams, “Not again!”

The muscle-bound agent crawls up to the .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the top of the Humscalade. Agent M grabs the gun and opens fire on the hordes of the dead. Rotted body parts fly as the fifty cal rips the decaying bodies to shreds. Agent Gallstone stares out the opposite window and whispers into his cuff, “Visual confirmation of target, Control, well the ass end of the target.” He chokes a little. “The desert is dead and beautiful in its own way, Control, like you.”

“Fred…” Agent Lickspittle wants to console his partner, but he gets distracted when Agent M lets loose a small missile into the throng of undead.

“I vill make you vish you stayed deed!” the man screams.

Agent Gallstone turns and faces Agent Lickspittle with panic etched on his unshaven face. Lickspittle thinks for a split second that the explosion of sand and dead human parts has shocked Fred back to reality.

Agent Gallstone yells excitedly into his cuff, “Visual confirmation of target’s giant ugly fucking face, Control!”

Agent Lickspittle doesn’t care if Fred has gone shithouse-rat-crazy. As long as he can shoot his gun at any demons that attempt to intercept them, the man is okay in his book. Lickspittle turns and looks the Lord of Hades, Satan, right in his giant obsidian eyes. The Devil’s head protrudes from a gargantuan crevice in the side of a mountain, and it is fucking huge. Bigger than the Humscalade. Bigger than most houses. It regards the approaching vehicle with cool disinterest.

Agent Lickspittle cranks the wheel and slams on the brakes. Agent Gallstone grips the door and steadies himself without taking his eyes off the giant Devil face. Half a dozen razor-backed demons spring from the surrounding rocks. They gnash their teeth and charge the sideways-skidding Humscalade. Agent M opens fire, taking out the nearest two with the cruel efficiency that has made his name legend among other secret agents. The other four remain clustered, and Agent M fires a second missile and blows them to small smoking chunks. Satan flinches as shards of sandstone rain down across his giant exposed face.

“You guys are dicks!” the Lord of Darkness bellows with enough force to rock the Humscalade.

Agent Lickspittle straightens his tie and opens his door. Agent Gallstone tells his cuff, “We are making contact and serving the Cease and Desist, Control,” and opens his door as well.

Two more demons leap at them, and Agent M shoots them out of the air, follows the corpses to the ground, and then cuts them in half with the .50 caliber. Agent Lickspittle nods at Agent M, who responds with a thumbs-up.

“That was a jerk move, Satan,” Lickspittle says calmly as he stands in front of the giant red face “How about we call it even and get down to business?”

“Hmmph,” Satan hmmphs. “You guys are at the wrong end. Just turn around, follow the broken highway until you see the huge red ass crack sticking up into this blasted desert sun and jump right in, mother fuckers! Hahahahahahahahaha!”

“I don’t think so,” Agent Lickspittle says, neither impressed nor afraid. “We are special secret agents in the employ of the United States government.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a sealed letter. “This,” he waves it in front of the giant black eyes, “is a formal Cease and Desist order from the United States government. We are giving you until sunset to remove yourself and your legions from United States soil.”

Agent Lickspittle isn’t sure where to put the document.

“Stan! C’mere, Stan, and take this tiny envelope from these government agents,” Satan says.

A tall, spiderlike demon crawls from the far side of the mountain. A dozen long, slender legs dance as it navigates the rocky terrain with ease. Each leg is forty feet tall and looks to be as sharp as a samurai’s sword. The torso is humanoid, but where the arms should be, tentacles twist and slap at the air. Stan the spider demon leans down and comes face to face with Agent Lickspittle. Up close, Stan looks almost human except for the two clusters of insect eyes peering at Lickspittle hungrily.

“May I?” Stan asks very politely for a demon.

“No,” Agent Lickspittle tells him. “I must serve the papers to Satan himself.”

From behind Stan, Satan says, “Actually, I prefer Beelzebub. And I officially empower Stan the spider demon as my representative when dealing with stubborn agents who should be crawling in my ass.”

Stan smiles, revealing long, barbed fangs. “I’ll take that,” he tells Agent Lickspittle before yanking the letter from his hand with a thick purple tentacle. He uses a second tentacle to tear open the envelope. His insect eyes scan the document Agent Lickspittle penned in the Humscalade the night before.

“It is hereby recognized, blah, blah, blah, Satan, Lord of Darkness, blah, blah, blah, wreaking havoc, blah, blah, peaceful gentle country, bullshit, blah, blah, blah, immediately ordered to Cease and Desist apocalyptic actions post haste, blah, blah, signed some pathetic human.” Stan tears the Cease and Desist into tiny shreds.

“Wrong move, Satan,” Lickspittle says, turning away from the giant face of the Devil. “I’ll give you time to consider it. At sunset, we’ll blast you back to Hell.”

Agent Gallstone reports to his cuff, “Papers served, Control, now we wait.” He turns and follows Agent Lickspittle to the Humscalade. The two climb in and slam their doors behind them.

Outside, Beelzebub, as he prefers to be called, jerks his giant head at Stan, and the spider demon skitters to his master’s service.

“Yes, my Dark Lord.” Stan bows before him.

“Kill them. And then stuff their corpses in my ass.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Stan says and turns to attack the agents, but Beelzebub stops him.

“Stan,” the Master of Evil tells him, “you’re doing a hell of a job.”

“Thanks, Satan,” Stan smiles. Venom drips from his grin as he scuttles toward the vehicle

Inside the Humscalade, Agent Lickspittle turns to Agent Gallstone.

“That went better than I expected.”

Stan taps on the window, and Agent Lickspittle rolls it down. The agent opens his mouth to say something, but one of Stan’s swordlike feet stabs through the window and then through Lickspittle’s chest. Blood gushes from the agent’s eyes and ears as Stan pulls his twitching form, still impaled on his foot, from the Humscalade.

Agent M aims the .50 caliber at Stan, but the demon swipes one leg straight down and cleaves the gun’s barrel in half. Agent M pulls a knife and puts it between his teeth. Then he pulls two more, one for each hand, and leaps at Stan. The giant spider raises a leg and lets Agent M’s own momentum impale him there.

Agent M drops both knives from his hands and inadvertently bites down on the one in his mouth. The force of his bite cleaves his head in half, and the top bounces off the Humscalade’s hood with a wet thud. Inside the vehicle, Agent Gallstone screams while rolling up the power windows, locking the power locks, and scampering into the driver’s seat. He slams on the gas, and Stan gives chase, slamming the corpses of Lickspittle and M into the ground with every step. The demon roars, and Agent Gallstone spins a wide donut and thumbs the air missile switch. A thick plume of silver smoke follows the missile to Stan’s chest, where it explodes in a rain of fire and spider legs.

Agent Gallstone slams on the gas again, and soon the giant red face behind him is lost in the sand kicked up by his screaming wheels. “Two agents down, Control. I’ll regroup and head home, Control. I’ll get even, I swear to you,” Agent Gallstone tells his cuff as tears cut wet paths down his dirty cheeks.

The Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy Can In NO Way, Shape or Form Save Someone Once He is Zombie Bit

Leon sits next to Bud in the back of General O’Coddle’s stolen Hummer. Bud is reading a copy of The Daily Cunt he grabbed when they last gassed up. The cover features a picture of two bulbous red ass cheeks surrounded by rock and earth. Every now and then Bud says, “Damn,” before turning the page.

The leather-g-string-wearing sheriff glances in the rearview mirror and asks, “What the shit are you reading?”

Bud holds up the paper so Smoochole can read the title emblazoned across the front of it.

“I’m an avid reader and diehard fan of The Daily Gab, but I gotta say I think this is better,” Bud says solemnly.

“More titties?” Smoochole asks.

“Yup,” Bud sighs and chews on his bottom lip.

“Devil titty-fuck ball torture?” Leon asks in a concerned voice.

“I have no fucking idea what you are saying, Leon,” Bud says, turning his attention back to The Daily Cunt, “but it does have constantly updated celebrity deaths. That’s cool. And look at this: a two-page pull-out map to the Devil’s ass and his head. Huh, big fucker that Devil.”

“Handjob goat face,” Leon mumbles and commences digging through his backpack. A smile creases his face when his fingers wrap around the fleshy shaft of the Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy. He pulls it out, and everyone recoils. Deputy Morks reaches back and swings his nightstick at Leon out of some primal instinct. Leon ducks back and screams, “Finger bang demon tailpipe Satan barnyard! Chuzz!”

“Is that how you talked to your friend Chuzzle?” Bud asks, astonished.

Leon nods and thinks back a day…

He fell asleep with his “girlfriend,” the Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy. Unfortunately for Leon, the Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy is the most innovative sex toy engineered in the last thirty years, and Leon couldn’t turn it on. Leon was undaunted, as he was used to being unable to turn on vaginas, be they real or plastic. He knew as he tore the bright pink box to shreds how slim were the odds of him experiencing the “pulsating, throbbing, total dick-squeezing” heaven it promised. So he ignored the thirty-three page instruction booklet.

As with many great technological advances, the Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy features a three-and-a-half-inch LCD screen and easily accessible social networking. Leon cared not for either. To be honest, he thought the screen made jerking off a little awkward. Lucky for Leon, he didn’t find awkwardness much of a hindrance to getting off. He squeezed the pink flesh shaft and jerked off into it like it was a three-hundred-dollar sweater sleeve. He didn’t care that it wasn’t on. He just hummed “Me and Bobby McGee” to drown out the screams and general chaos outside and made some sweet self-love.

But then, after he’d been asleep for hours, the Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy began vibrating and twitching on Leon’s nightstand, sending the long-suffering lighters and troll dolls to the floor. He rolled over and stared at it through strands of his unwashed hair. It finally twitched enough to flip it up on its thick, fleshlike lips. His shaft danced in the air like a snake before a charmer. The LCD screen glowed a soft blue, and Leon could see thin black letters on its face. He was still seeing slight tracers, and he missed the first few times he tried to grab the flexing fake vagina. On his third swing, he grabbed it and pulled it close enough to read.

Now Online: *Nathan Chuzzle*

It had told him. And then they talked. But Leon doesn’t know how to make it work again.

He could really use a chat with his buddy now, so he slaps it. Then he smacks it against the seat next to him. Bud cowers and holds his Daily Cunt in front of him like a shield. Leon’s eyes go wide and he turns away from Bud. He slowly and silently unzips his pants. Maybe fucking the pocket pussy will bring it to life. He glances around and pulls his pud from his overalls. He is lowering it slowly into the wide plastic opening when the pocket pussy shouts, “Leon, what the fuck? Where are you?”

Leon doesn’t even bother to tuck his dick back away before he types, “Chuzz, we are almost to Vegas! Where the fuck are you?”

“In Crazyville with a crazy chick. I did it, Leon, I killed a demon. Big mother fucker too. I rescued a chick and everything! Thank fuck you are okay, man. I’m on the way. I think. We ended up in an ice cream truck, and I have a lesbian with me. Oh and a talking goat thing!”

“Goat thing? Huh? Bud just read in The Daily Cunt that Satan is ass up just outside of Vegas. We are in a nice-ass Hummer with two wack-ass sheriffs, and we’re headed there!”

“We are on the way, Leon! Wait until you meet the goat. Just don’t let anyone shoot him. He tells great dirty jokes.”

“I can promise no one will shoot the goat, but the ball-gagged deputy is a billy club swinger. Chuzz, we’ve killed demons and dead people, so I think I am as ready as I’ll ever be to fight the hordes of Hell.”

“What the fuck is up with all the demons? I saw some in the street and they had a big box. A big metal box that should say The Daily Gab but it said The Daily Cunt. They were doing bad things to the box, Leon. Bad things. And you know how I feel about putting your dick in stuff, because I have talked about it a lot on the blog. You know that, right Leon? RIGHT?!”

“Oh, I know, Chuzz. The demons seem to be getting more sick and twisted. And I don’t know about sticking your dick into anything a demon would, Chuzzle. Maybe they have crabs in Hell, Chuzz, big demon crabs. Stay AWAY! Also, Bud loves the Daily Cunt, he says it is ‘action- and news-packed.’”

“Crabs in Hell? Maybe that’s it, Leon. Maybe we are all in Hell already. I think I’m in Hell with this lesbo who wants to put a bullet in my head. I never did nothing to her! Nothing!”

“Chuzz, can you channel her rage? Point her at Satan? Bud says the Daily Cunt has a pull-out map of Satan, he is in the desert outside of Las Vegas!”

“It’ll be something if I can just get her to channel her rage away from Goatboy. She keeps talking about making goat curry, and she has a really big knife.”

Chuzzle pauses for a breath. “Vegas. We are on the way. Stretch is navigating. He’s this stupid toy that is stuck to my back. When we meet up, I need you to cut off his head!”

A tinny voice in the background calls out, “You need me, bub! You need me in the battle that is to come, buddy!”

“Oh, I got just the axe for taking off heads! Wait, you have a toy stuck to you? Who was that?”

“It’s a long story, Leon. I wish I was back in my basement blogging about this shit instead of doing it. See you in Vegas, buddy!”

“See you in Vegas!”

“Okayyyy.” Bud nods with understanding, “Sounds like a plan. How soon can we get there, sheriff?”

“Half an hour tops,” Sheriff Smoochole says and cracks his neck.

Next to him Deputy Morks says, “Imph hmmph pmmph.”

“Okay, Deputy,” Smoochole tells him, “I’ll pull over at that truck stop up ahead.”

He looks in the rearview at Bud, his Daily Cunt open on his lap as he jots some notes on the map. Then to Leon, lighting a joint he found somewhere. Sheriff Smoochole almost scoffs, but a glint of sun off the gore-stained battleaxe sitting next to Leon catches his eye. Morks is rocking back and forth as the parking lot for the truck stop is getting close and Smoochole is looking in the back seat.

“Smmmph, pmmph ommph, imph gmmph pmmph mmmph pmmmph!”

Sheriff Smoochole cranks the wheel hard, and the Hummer squeals and bounces into the parking lot. Bud doesn’t even look up. Leon drops the joint in his lap and slaps his nuts when he tries to grab it. The Hummer slams to a stop facing the burnt-out shell of a truck stop. Morks jumps out of the Hummer and runs for a row of parked sixteen wheelers to the left.

He ducks down the first row and starts pissing on a big truck wheel. His heart throbs in his ears from running so hard, and he doesn’t hear the dead truck stop hooker sneaking up behind him. Her blond hair hangs in clumps and knots, except where a flap of scalp dangles, dripping black sludge all over her ‘Diesel Fumes Make Me Horny’ tee shirt. Her chipped neon orange nails sink into his shoulders. Deputy Morks howls in muffled agony and tries to jerk away, managing only to piss all over himself as she sinks her black teeth into his neck. Morks slams his head back as hard as he can, smashing the zombie’s face to pulp. She staggers backwards, and he stumbles back toward the group, holding the back of his neck and still pissing down his leg.

As Morks nears the end of the row, another dead lot lizard lunges out from under a trailer and bites down on his thigh. Instinctively, he brings his nightstick down on the back of her skull with a satisfying thud. She falls away with a scrap of his skin between her teeth. Morks stumbles forward and into sight of Leon, Bud, and Sheriff Smoochole right as a third truck stop whore attacks. This one stumbles forward on big cheap heels and clamps her rotten teeth onto his shoulder. He shrugs her off and smacks her with enough force to spin her head halfway around.

“Damn it,” Smoochole grumbles. “Leon, can that magic pocket pussy of yours help us here?”

Leon looks at Sheriff Smoochole for a second, then at Deputy Morks, who is fighting off a fourth dead hooker. Leon holds up the Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy and tells Smoochole, “Finger fuck, butt fuck, titty fuck.” He sticks two fingers in the sex toy and wiggles them, making the shaft dance slightly. Then he shakes his head and holds it up like a telephone, “Evil snatch golden shower, Chuzz.”

He looks to the slowly stumbling Morks, bleeding from numerous bite marks and whimpering behind his ball gag, and tells Smoochole sadly, “Rimjob stiff mung jump dog-faced demon three way donkey porn devil nutsack.”

“I was afraid of that,” Smoochole mumbles and draws his guns.

Morks sways where he stands, and the life leaves his eyes. He takes another step, and Sheriff Smoochole puts a bullet in his forehead. His dark eyes cross, and Smoochole fires two more shots, which blast the top of Morks’s skull away.

The ball-gagged deputy falls to the concrete, and dozens of zombies stumble from the rows of trucks, summoned by the gunfire. Bud levels his M-16 and fires wildly. A stray bullet blasts the lock on the back of a trailer, and a parade of dead illegal aliens stumbles out, howling for blood. Bud and Smoochole open fire, but more dead are appearing from everywhere.

“Fuck this,” Smoochole yells, and the three jump in the Hummer.

“Sorry about your deputy,” Bud tells Smoochole as they pull away.

“Don’t worry, I’ll avenge him.” Smoochole grits his teeth. “We’re only ten minutes from that evil fucker’s giant face.”

You Get to Be Thelma Next Time, Bitch

“Dude. I am so wasted.” Death is stretched out in the back seat with both feet over the door. Jesus hums to music, out of tune, in the front seat. They parked after their last cup round because Death was seeing two roads, and he was afraid he was going to drive off at least one of them. He hit a small demon that looked like a pig, but J-man just laughed about it. Some of the yellow ooze that made up its blood splattered all over the window, and no amount of windshield wiper fluid could get it off.

He fingers the end of his scythe and tries to see into the soul of the foul weapon. The blade is still as clean and sharp as the day he got it. Handed to him by the man himself back when he still strutted around the Earth and did things for himself. Then all the damn people came along, and he had to outsource the management of the cosmos. The four Horsemen were an afterthought. The bigwigs needed someone to come in and take care of mass murder, but they didn’t want to do the dirty work themselves. They needed someone to collect all the dead, grab the souls and funnel them to the right place. Death was working his way up the chain to archangel status when he was tapped to take on the job.

They said he met a certain profile, something about all the cackling with glee when he was doing the dirty work, also known as ‘killing in the name of.’ He was good at his job, very good. Need a city razed? Just point the way, and he was at the head of the other angels. But all that changed when they gave him the scythe. They didn’t bother to tell him that every time he committed genocide, he would be marked somewhere on his body. At first it wasn’t so bad. Wipe out a few cities and get a new one. Just a few pokes. But after a thousand years, they started running out of room.

“You think I look okay with all these marks on my body?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Really?”

“No.”

They both tap their feet to the ZZ Top song that thumps out of the speakers.

“They said I had to wear them, you know, to remember.”

“It’s because they are shit at keeping records, so they used you as the file. I think it’s wrong, but what the hell do I know? I’m just the son of God.”

“That’s gotta be some pressure there, eh?”

“Oh fuck yeah. And the worst part is I need to get laid. Like bad. Really laid.”

“We’re in Vegas. There’s a whorehouse on every corner. Tell you what. After our little chat with the red guy, let’s find one and have some fun.”

“Sure. Why not?” Jesus slurs.

“Can you do that? You know, do a woman?”

“Sure. I have the equipment. I should have done it a long time ago, but I never got up the nerve.”

“God wouldn’t let you?”

“Nah, more a matter of timing. They didn’t leave me alone much when I was out spreading the word. Pretty much had one of those uptight jagoffs with me all the time. If it wasn’t Peter, it was Paul. I still think some of my apostles had the hots for each other.”

Death chokes on a mouthful of booze. After coughing a few times, he sits up and looks at the huge chasm. The wind crackles over the edge of the cliff. It carries the screams of those falling into it. The valley does that, makes the sounds carry. Like a bunch of banshees. Death is familiar with that sound. Way too familiar.

“How are we going to get down there?”

The men stagger out of the car. Jesus slings an arm around Death so he doesn’t fall on his face. He grips his Slurpee cup of Vodka and Red Bull in his other hand, and it sloshes everywhere as he walks. The guy has put away at least two fifths of the stuff. Death can’t keep up; he has never had booze before. But he does like it. Likes it a lot. Why didn’t he try this a long time ago?

Tumbleweeds and sand are the order of the day, and it is hot as hell out here. Death shifts his hoodie and then unzips it to let some air in. His old ratty shirt is soaked with sweat, and he would give just about anything for a cool shower right about now. That and a cup of ice. Something cold and wet to suck on.

The sun has a red haze over it, probably owing to the Apocalypse and all, but the desert is so desiccated the redoubled glare doesn’t even faze it. It does look a bit like Mars now, though. While the guardrail has fallen off in a few places, the highway stretching along the giant pit is mostly intact. Death goes to the edge and lifts his robe. He pees into the abyss far below. Jesus takes up station next to him and does the same.

“Look at us, a couple of swinging dicks!”

“I still don’t see how we are going to get down there.” Death leans forward and stares down into oblivion.

“We could jump.” Jesus grins.

“Wouldn’t we die? War got killed, so I figure we are all vulnerable.” Death wavers back and forth on that free pass issue.

“Nah. I can’t die. Last time I tried, I came back.” Jesus sputters into laughter then falls on his ass in a puff of dust and sand. A little dark gray scorpion darts out from the shade of a rock and then hauls ass away from the two madmen.

“I’m Death. So can I die?”

“Nah. That would be ridiculous. Hey… I have an idea.”

Death leans over to help the son of God get up. When he is back on his feet, he puts a hand on Death’s shoulder and leans over to whisper in his ear. Death leans back when he is done and stares at his loony traveling companion. Then he looks at the car and breaks out into fits of laughter.

The Road Runner spins a rooster tail of sand into the air as the car spins in a half-donut. Death cranks the stereo to an ear-splitting volume. Back in Black by AC/DC screams from the speakers, making his head rattle and threatening to mash his brain. The road roars past them as they get the old car up to eighty, ninety and then a hundred miles an hour. The giant engine thrums through the floorboards like they are sitting right on top of it.

The line of people being shoved into Satan’s ass comes into view so fast they go from look at those specks in the distance status to holy shit, they’re right in front of us in a split second.

“You be Thelma. I’ll be Louise next time.”

“Screw you, pal, I’m Thelma and you’re Louise!” Jesus laughs over the pounding music.

They’ve accumulated a decent pile of dirt by the side of the road. They are a good hundred yards away from the demons when Death cranks the wheel hard to the left. The car slides and threatens to spin out, but he pumps the brakes until he regains control. Faces rush past as the car accelerates under the force of his foot pressed all the fucking way to the floorboard.

When they hit the makeshift ramp, Jesus raises his hands into the air and yells as loud as he can, “I bless all of you, mutha’ fuckas,” gives the exploding demons and people the middle finger and then throws up as the car is propelled over the abyss and immediately starts to fall.

“The power of Christ compels you!” Death howls with glee. Then his smile turns upside down as the car’s nose falls forward and he gets his first glimpse of the giant red ass sticking out of the desert.

One Minute and Horse Chow the Next

Pestilence pushes his horse and his horde harder than he ever imagined. Normally riding on his steed makes him queasy, but with Jerome’s bathtub acid coursing through his diseased veins, Pestilence is in heaven. He feels at one with his horse and imagines himself as a centaur galloping toward Leon, with his sweet acid-addled brain, through the desert. As luck would have it for Pestilence and his horde, the Nevada desert is littered with hidden meth labs. They will be full of survivors for the zombie soldiers to feed upon.

Pestilence grinds his teeth and scans the horizon. Far in the distance, he sees the two massive red ass cheeks he knows from centuries of pasting his pale thin lips to them. A large section of highway is hanging above the cheeks, and little dots drop from it into the valley of ass. Pestilence jumps when General O’Coddle runs up alongside him.

“I didn’t know dead guys could run as fast as a centaur.”

“What the pale junkie fuck are you talking about? I just wanted to tell you there is a giant shit monster following us.”

Pestilence shakes his head. Is he sitting on his horse or is he half horse?

“Huh?” asks the dreaded Horseman as his eyes cross and uncross and drool drips down his chin.

General O’Coddle reaches over with one meaty gray hand and grabs the reins to Pestilence’s steed. He tugs it to a halt, and Pestilence slumps forward as the horde stops. A huge cloud of dust rolls forward and engulfs them. Pestilence winces and blinks grains of sand out of his eyes. It burns, and the acid in his system makes his vision a rainbow of strange colors. General O’Coddle stares at him with his shriveled unblinking eyes despite the vicious sand cloud.

O’Coddle turns and points behind them. The horde of zombies step to either side so Pestilence has a long, clear line of sight. Not quite a mile away is a large dark sloppy shape slouching toward them. Pestilence squints, but his eyes refuse to focus. He shakes his head and pulls his hood down over his face.

“Shit,” Pestilence murmurs, “is that Famine?”

General O’Coddle stars dumbly at his hooded junkie master and something rolls in his undead brain. A dusty memory bounces, and the dead officer blurts out, “The big girl from the desert?”

“It is?” Pestilence asks.

“No, I don’t think so,” O’Coddle says. His dead withered eyes focus more easily than Pestilence’s drugged living ones. “It’s a big shit monster.” The general nods. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

O’Coddle looks back to Pestilence and asks, “Is that big girl single?”

Pestilence pulls his hood off in a flash and stares at the talking zombie with wild eyes.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“What?”

“She is a fat, abrasive, disgusting, rude…” he trails off and stares at the general incredulously. “Fucking gross, man!”

“I’d do her,” General O’Coddle shrugs. “Do you know where she is?”

Pestilence scoffs, “No, and thank fuck for that.”

Even as he says the words, a vision flashes brilliant and clear over the harsh barren desert. He sees dark rock walls lit by unseen flames that send trembling shadows across them. Famine walks around a corner, bleeding and sweating with her robe in thick shreds. Pestilence opens his eyes so wide the dry desert air burns them, but still he sees her. Holy shit, he really sees her.

Famine staggers, looking cautiously from side to side. She waddles with a limp, and her terribly thick make up runs down her cheeks to circle her beady eyes like a raccoon’s mask. She winces in pain and leans one hand on the nearest wall. It groans at her weight, and she pulls her hand away slowly. Then she slams her fist into it, sending a crack from the dirt floor to the high cavernous ceiling. She growls and turns from the wall, resuming her pained waddle with vigor.

“Horsey,” she calls in a high whiney voice. “Horsey, come here. Right NOW, Horsey!”

She leans forward and puts her hands on her knees to catch her breath. She seems unaware of the soft clop-clop of her emaciated steed until it sinks its teeth into her big ass. She screams in pain and spins to face the horse. Famine opens her mouth to yell, but the apocalyptic steed snaps forward and tears her floppy throat out in one quick bite. She stumbles backward, gurgling incoherent curse words as she dies. The skinny horse nuzzles up to her ample bosom like a loving pet before tearing one tit half off. It chews Famine’s flesh, strings of connective tissue still hanging from her wounds.

Pestilence snaps back to reality. “She’s dead,” he tells the general. “Let’s find this Leon cat, and we’ll find you some other fat girl.”

“What do you got against fat people?”

“Nothing, as long as they aren’t her. God is fat. Super fat,” Pestilence chuckles.

Borne on the desert wind, a copy of The Daily Cunt flies through the air and slaps hard across the general’s solid gray face. Pestilence grabs it and opens it up. He pages to the centerfold, which happens to be a big aerial map of Satan’s exposed ass and head.

“Put on your shit kickers, O’Fondle; it’s time to kick some shit!”

Chaos Reigns!

“Howdy fellas!” the squat demon yells before battering into them. The two guards have M-16s at the ready when the massive creature comes down the ramp. It lumbers and stumbles, shrugs aside gunfire from above and then bursts into view. The other demon is smaller, but he holds a giant claw that looks like it came from a fifty-foot lobster. The thing reaches out and snaps one of the guards in half, leaving body parts splattered all over the floor. The last thing the man says is “ARFULGARGUL!!!!”

The second guard, Foley Shanktwan, does the one only thing he can think to do. He turns and pounds on the door. He screams for help, but the giant metal portal doesn’t slide open. It is made of several feet of solid metal and can withstand a nuclear explosion. It can also withstand Foley’s frantic pounding.

Guard duty? Guard duty! That’s what he screamed at his supervisor just before they dressed him in a uniform and gave him a gun. He is a scientist, not a fighter. He understands quantum physics and chaos theory, but he barely knows how to slide the thingy back on top of the gun that puts the metal thingy in the tube so another metal thingy can slam against a firing cap and project a round metal thingy at high enough speed to become subsonic in a split second. He could probably write the formula for the force of the recoil against the dampening effects of the rifle. He could go on about the accelerating bullet that leaves a barrel at high speed.

But he can’t explain the things coming down the hallway.

“Mate. Mate. We don’t want to hurt ya. See me and sunny Jim here just need a way in. We don’t mean to cause no harm.”

Foley scratches at the door in fear, expecting the claw to snap shut at any second. He slips on his fellow ‘guard’s’ guts and almost falls. He looks down in fear only to see a twitching hand, and his little scientist mind can’t help but wonder how long until the synapses in the dead guy’s head stop firing.

“Buddy! Look at us, buddy!” the demon croaks behind him.

“Yeah look at him, not at the guy next to you. He was gonna shoot at me, and there was no call for that mate. No call at fookin’ all.”

Foley turns in a half circle and looks the two up and down. They are walking nightmares that can’t exist. They can’t! Not even the top genetic engineers could design these sick things on a trillion-dollar grant.

“Please…” He trembles and almost faints at the sight. The two are dripping fire and sparks that sizzle and splatter on the hard metal surface of the floor. The smell of brimstone, has to be brimstone (What the hell else could that acrid scent be?), makes him want to gag.

“Right. See we just need to get in and have a little chat with the folks on the other side. Right civil one at that. We just need to make sure those nukes never get launched. Never.”

“Never,” the second demon echoes in his scraggly voice.

“Can I go then?” Foley asks in a trembling voice.

“Yep. Soon as we get in. So get us in and we are all good. Square, you and us. You walk right on up that ramp and embrace the new world.”

“You can’t get in. The door is shut from the other side.”

The two demons look back and forth. Then the smaller one drops the claw and walks toward Foley, who wants to cower behind something. But the only thing to hide behind is a big pile of nothing. Nowhere to even cower, what a way to die. Once upon a time Foley was the pride of the Pentagon. He was going places. He has an unlimited budget as long as he worked on larger and more powerful bombs. He had one of his babies right here, just about finished. Ready to move into an ICBM casing.

Years of research went into it, and when he was done he had the mother fucker of all explosions at his hand. It could take out a pair of cities with a single blast. New York wouldn’t stand a chance. The weapon was never supposed to see use, it was merely a deterrent. Enough leaked information to ensure that the right parties knew the US of fucking A had it.

“You gonna help us get in?”

“I can’t. I hope you understand. I’m just a scientist. I don’t know anything except how to work the computers. I just do research, that’s all!” His voice rises to a shrill scream as he begs to be heard.

“OK. We do things the hard way. Move over here so you don’t get hurt.”

“You aren’t going to kill me?” Foley looks on in disbelief.

“You are no threat to us, my friend. No threat at all.”

“Wow. You guys are cool. I thought for sure you were gonna do me in.” he says, walking forward. The demon steps aside and gestures. He could run up the passageway and maybe get away, but they would probably cut him down before he got twenty feet.

The demon shifts its back feet up and over its body so they act like hands as the beast stands up. It takes a chunk of metal out of one of the gaping holes in its side that look like big pus-covered vaginas. Or, as his ex-wife used to say, vajayjays. Not that hers got much use in their marriage.

The thing glistens in the dull light and gleams with whatever juice covers it. Makes the room reek of formaldehyde and acid. Foley puts his hand over his mouth and tries not to vomit.

“Watch this. It’s a pretty clever trick.”

The demon tosses the object at the giant metal door. It sticks and then melts in a circle over the surface. It shifts as it spreads outward, forming a pentagram with the image of a demon holding up its middle finger stretched between the points.

“Abraca-fucking-dabra” the big demon says.

The door sizzles where the shape sits. A river of molten metal pours out from the edges of the shape and onto the floor. The demon takes a step back and waits patiently. After a half minute, the giant pentagram has burned itself all the way through the door. A giant upside-down star remains in the eighteen inches of steel.

Gunfire blasts through the door and splatters against the demon’s skin.

“Fuckers!” he screams and dashes inside. He slithers through the hole in the door, and screams echo from the other side. A head sails through the pentagram and bounces off Foley’s chest. He stares down at it dumbly, then kicks it away. The features of John Slith, the asshole who made him stay outside with a gun, stare up at him.

“All clear!” the demon calls.

“Come on, we got some stuff you can help us with,” the other demon snorts.

“That is a fine idea!” Foley follows him into the nightmare.

Half an hour later, he cackles at a computer screen as he enters the codes he was handed by the skinny demon. Then he looks down, shocked, to see a burning hand push through his chest from behind. It reaches up and clutches his heart, and Foley bursts into flame.

Agent Fred Gallstone walks up the broken and bent section of freeway hanging above Satan’s spread ass cheeks. People stagger before and behind him as demons give the slower ones a poke with their pitchforks. Agent Gallstone sees fear in those humans near him, but he is content. Men and women are crying and begging for their lives at the edge of the road. The demons laugh and push them over the edge. He hugs his heavy silver briefcase to his chest the way a child hugs a teddy bear. More people drop into Satan’s steaming stink-hole, and the line moves forward. He won’t beg and he won’t cry when it’s his turn; he’ll just plug his nose and jump.

Everyone is dead. His president. His team. His lover. All dead.

Revenge will be his. He pats the briefcase, moves up the concrete folds and leans toward the long drop.

“Please,” the man right in front of him begs, “I’ll suck your dick!”

“Yeah?” the demon says. “All right!”

The demon pulls aside its loincloth to reveal not a dick, but a swollen purple demon twat. The begging man’s eyes bulge, and a small pitchfork erupts from the demon’s pussy with a slurping sound and stabs the man in his face. He stumbles backwards and falls into Satan’s waiting ass. The small pitchfork slowly and noisily retreats back whence it came.

Agent Gallstone steps to the edge, ready to complete his mission.

He looks down into Satan’s asshole, and his mind snaps. The Devil’s cheeks spread wide open to reveal rows of teeth that make Gallstone think of the Sarlacc from Star Wars. Boils leak gray ooze on the cheeks, and angry-looking beetles skitter over and between the floppy bloody spikes that surround the hole. Agent Fred Gallstone grips the nuclear weapon to his chest, takes a deep breath, and dives headfirst into the seething beast that is Satan’s furious asshole.

The instant before he sinks into the sharp and painful darkness, he realizes he left the bomb’s remote on the dash of the Humscalade.

Chuzz paces to the front of the ice cream truck, leaving the crazies in the back. Idiots, morons, fucking double dipshits. He should pick up the microphone and toss them out the back. Especially the damn goat that stands up and talks like a spy in from a James Bond movie. Who the hell talks like that?

Nathan Chuzzle kicks the seat with the back of his foot and sinks back into the chair.

“Easy there, bub,” Stretch Bangstrom hisses in his ear. Chuzz leans back harder, which makes the toy squeak.

“You gonna start on me too?”

“No way, bud. No way. I wouldn’t dream of it. Are we supposed to be somewhere?”

“Sick of this shit. Sick of it.” Chuzz stares out the window at the expanse of land. At the trees that cover the hills and stretch up into the mountains. At the horizon where massive creatures are sailing up into the air. Are they more angels? They look more like the anti-aircraft missiles that chased down Gabriel.

He leans forward and sets his head on the wheel and then bangs it a few times until his brain rattles around. Then he reaches into his pants and massages his dick, which has been as hard as a rock for three days. If that stupid chick would just get him off, maybe a little thank you. He could stand behind one of the cabinet doors and pretend like she is on the other side of the wall. Yeah, just like Leon might do if they ever…

NO! He ain’t no faggoty fag! NO!

“Dammit I need a fucking glory hole,” he hisses.

“Wossit?” the goat calls from the back and clomps forward on his cloven feet.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Chuzz stares at the sky again and wonders which way to Vegas.

“Say boss, see all those metal boxes bouncing off into the distance?” The toy points over his shoulder.

“Yeah.”

“Follow them and you will get to Vegas.”

“Fine, whatever.” He sneezes a big wad of snot onto the seat next to him. Stupid dirt and crap on the ground. He has a hundred drugs with him and not a single antihistamine in the lot.

He pulls the microphone out of his pocket and pulls it back to his head. He should give his passengers some warning. Or take it easy and not go too fast. He glances back and gets a dirty look from the chick.

“Fine,” he mutters under his breath. “You don’t want to be nice, I don’t have to be nice. That’s how the world works. Damn diddly damn, bitch. That’s how it works, and if you don’t know that then you are just a stupid cunt after all.” He jerks the microphone straight out in front of his face. A clash of people and animal screams erupts in the back followed by a few thumps as the truck is propelled forward at lightning speed.

Chuzz grins, mainly because he has no choice. His body is pressed into the big seat, squishing the toy against his back. It gasps and then giggles in his ear. Chuzz’s lips peel back in a G-force-induced leer. He howls with glee.

Sheriff Smoochole stops his stolen Hummer next to the abandoned Humscalade, which is parked in the space between Satan’s ass and his enormous face. Bud and Leon climb out after the sheriff.

“That’s pretty fucking lucky,” Bud remarks as they slam their doors and arm the ground-to-air missiles.

“About fucking time we get some luck,” Sheriff Smoochole grumbles behind his shades. He misses his dedicated deputies. He adjusts the rearview mirror and focuses on a cloud of dust behind them. A skinny hooded man on a horse is leading what looks like a platoon of zombies. Then General O’Coddle comes into view, and the blood in Smoochole’s veins turns to fire.

“Change of plans, boys,” Smoochole says, climbing back out of the Humscalade.

Leon follows and asks, “Nipple bite demon suck face?”

“Don’t worry about me, Leon,” Smoochole says as he turns back to the general’s Hummer. “I got some unfinished business with that barrel-chested dead guy behind us. Go on now, Leon, and take care of that Devil face sticking up out of the desert. I’ve been waiting for this.”

“Devil cock sin shit shower, Bud,” Leon says as he slams on the gas leaving Smoochole alone to face the approaching zombie horde.

“Huh, I would have wanted the missiles if I had that many zombies running me down,” Bud says, watching the horde grow in the rearview.

“Corpse fucking demon day,” Leon tells him.

Two eyes as dark as moonless nights turn and watch them approach. A smile spreads across lips that look thin even on such a giant face. Two long horns reach from the Devil’s forehead to the smoke-filled sky above, and a long goatee swings off his chin and snaps at the Humscalade as Leon turns it off.

The Road Runner sails into the abyss with a roar from the eight-cylinder engine. The sound of AC/DC echoes across the canyon. The men in the car scream all the way to the bottom of the chasm. It’s a nice day; the sun glints off the red hood. Death is pretty sure he and Jesus can’t die. After all, what is he going to do, reap himself?

But that ground is coming at them awfully fast.

He clutches the scythe to his hand and prays, then he remembers who his traveling companion is.

Jesus picks that moment to throw up hours’ worth of booze. Death dodges to the left, but some of it splatters across his face and shirt and gets in his nose and his mouth, which he doesn’t close in time. Death joins in the pukefest.

Then the car hits the ground, and the world goes black for a while.

Drool flies from Pestilence’s gaping mouth as he and his horde descend on the two Hummers. The fancy one heads toward Satan’s face, and atop the other stands a small man in a g-string and aviator sunglasses. The strange fellow pulls two .357 Magnums and starts firing into the zombie horde, dropping dead soldiers left and right.

“It’s the hippy who killed me!” General O’Coddle growls when he sees Sheriff Smoochole taking shots at his now twice-killed men.

“Well, kill him!” Pestilence roars back. “I’m going after the other.”

General O’Coddle’s gray lips curl into a smile under his handlebar mustache. Half the dead soldiers follow Pestilence, and half follow General O’Coddle toward Smoochole. Not far behind them, the giant shit monster approaches.

Death opens one eye to see a scorpion checking him out. He reaches out to flick the thing away, but pain races up his arm. Then up his shoulder, into his head, down his back and into his legs. It terminates at his feet and then starts in his arm again, like he is lying a in a giant pile of fuck you. He rolls onto his back and stares up at the sky, which starts the pain cycle all over again.

A hand comes into view and touches his forehead, and suddenly he feels a hell of a lot better. He is still buzzed half out of his noggin, but at least he doesn’t feel like he was just in a car wreck. He remembers going over the cliff and plummeting to earth. He also remembers a river of puke flying into his mouth and throws up again.

“That hurt more than I thought it would.” Jesus groans and touches his own forehead for a few seconds before sighing in pleasure.

“You can fix yourself?” Death asks. He groans as he sits up but wonders why, since he feels a hell of a lot better.

“Being the J-man has its advantages.”

“Why didn’t you heal yourself when you were on the cross?”

“Wasn’t supposed to break the rules.”

“Stupid fucking rules.”

“Well said. Time to break a few today.”

Death sits up and stares around at the giant stretch of nothing. What looks like a couple of birds flying far above turn out to be some sort of winged demons that swoop down to check out the two men. Damn vultures.

“Piss off, you clowns!” Jesus yells and then blesses them. The demons are ripped apart from the ass first. Parts plummet to the ground, and Jesus and Death jump aside to avoid being splattered with demon goo.

“Gross.” Death smiles.

The sun is nice and high, but it still has that red tint to it. It is also still hot as fuck! Death would kill for a beer right about now or a glass of water. He cranes his head around to look over his shoulder and sees the head of Satan himself. He turns back to Jesus, who somehow managed to save the vodka and a bag of Red Bull. He cleans puke off his face and then reaches for an energy drink.

“Let me ask you a question. So you died once.”

“Yep.”

“On a cross, surrounded by assholes who could only sit around and weep.”

“Yep.”

“While you did all the hard work by dying for everyone’s sins.”

“That about sums it up. So what is your question?”

Death stares at him for a moment.

“Are you a fucking zombie?”

“Yep.”

“I knew it!”

Leon jumps out of the Humscalade with his battleaxe held high. Bud opens his door, dives across the sand, and then rolls to his feet, M-16 trained on Satan’s forehead. Satan scoffs at the pair.

“You guys are at the wrong end,” the Lord of Darkness informs them coldly. “You might as well just go jump in my ass.”

“No,” Leon says shaking his head. “Titty fuck bang hole demon done.”

“Fuck you, then,” Satan says, and his giant black orbs roll in their sockets as he looks for his spider demon. He can’t see Stan anywhere, but out of the corner of his giant eye he sees a glory hole demon, a pet project of his, and he whistles to it as one would a dog. In a flash, the demon is standing between Satan and Leon and Bud.

“So I guess I’m a goner,” Satan says in a quaky voice. “Might as well get your dicks wet before you kill me.”

Leon scoffs and raises his axe to charge, but Bud hears soft cooing from the holes on the box in front of him, and it calls to him like a horny siren song. He leans his M-16 against the side of the demon and begins unbuttoning his jeans.

“Bud,” Leon says, nodding to the long red Devil face regarding them with no emotion, “cock suck slutty demon hole.”

“Leon, that little angel fella fixed my plumbing back there. I haven’t been able to bust a nut in months; I NEED this!”

Bud pats the box-shaped demon, and it hums in response. “See? Besides, Chuzz ain’t here yet. Your axe will split the mother fucker’s face open anyway, so just let me bust a nut! All right, man?”

Leon’s cheek burns, and he remembers the cock slap from a few days ago.

“No,” he answers firmly.

From behind the demon, Satan’s voice booms, “C’mon now, let your friend get his dick sucked. Then we can have an epic battle if you’d like.”

Bud crams his limp noodle into the hole. Leon raises his axe to charge Satan, but Bud screams and Leon swings instead at the box-shaped demon biting Bud’s prick.

Satan laughs loud and heartily. Leon grunts and mumbles about “demon dicks” as his blade slices through the thick painted shell like Mexican food through a fat kid. Dark cracks form, spidering bloody veins across the shell as though it were a huge square egg. Leon hefts the axe, screams, “Die, pussy fart, DIE,” and hacks into the other side of the glory hole demon.

Behind him, Satan bellows, “NOOOOOOOOOO!”

To his left, Bud screams, “Gawd damn it, Leon, it was gonna blow me!”

Leon hacks on. Each swipe of the axe cleaves deeper than the last. The glory hole demon shudders, and its shell falls away in four thick chunks, revealing the hideous fleshy demon within. Mouths of all sizes suck and squeal, making sounds like children burning as big floppy dongs of various colors and sizes slap and wave obscenely at Leon. Bud steps back, picks up his M-16 and aims it at the mass of lips and dicks. The creature howls in a thousand voices, and the air is suddenly filled with the sound of buzzing.

Called to their dying brother glory hole demons, an army of metal boxes spins through time and space to converge at his side. As each arrives, it jumps atop the last one, and their shells go soft and rubbery long enough to join together. Soon the dying demon is completely absorbed into the growing monster as hundreds of glory hole demons join into one massive box-shaped fiend.

Satan strains against the tons of earth holding him down and yells, “That is the single sexiest thing I have ever seen!”

They’ve been walking toward the big red guy for a while. What looked like a close landing site turned out to be pretty far away once they were on sanda firma. This close up, Satan’s ass looks enormous on a geographical scale, like they are walking toward a pair of mountains with people spewing in instead of lava spewing out.

All the dust is playing havoc with Death’s allergies. The stuff has infiltrated Death’s hoodie, and he isn’t too happy about it. It itches, makes him want to strip and find a nice pool of water to jump into. Or maybe a pile of bodies he can roll around in. The smell of desiccated ground fills his nose over the stink of puke.

Jesus doesn’t seem to mind too much. He’s probably used to it after spending all that time hanging out in the desert.

The earth rolls and shakes again. Death and Jesus hold onto each other and then dive for the ground. A fresh clump of people and demons fall down the long chasm. The humans scream all the way down; the demons try to snatch people out of the air and devour them before they hit.

A cloud of dust rises so high into the air that Death is reminded of a sand storm. It passes as they walk, but he gets a fresh coat of the stuff on every itching inch of his body. It’s irritating, but the walk is doing him some good, as is the ground tossing and turning. It is sobering him up. He is Death, but he is going to meet the man. Well, the other man.

Jesus appears unperturbed and marches on like a crusader minus the shiny armor.

Another quake shakes them to their knees, and Death realizes that Satan is struggling to get up. He shakes sand off his massive body and turns his head to glare at the approaching men. One of the bastard’s rotting eyeballs is the size of the car they drove off the cliff.

“Fucker is huge!” Death mutters and looks at the blade of his scythe and then back at the big red guy.

“Just hold the fuck up!” Jesus roars. He has a bottle of vodka in one hand and a can of Red Bull in the other. He chugs one, then the other and shakes his head. Death is still buzzed, but he is beginning to think that now might be a good time to hit that vodka bottle again.

“Goddamn this stuff is good!” Jesus says to himself. His words are slurred and come out slowly.

Death has his eye on the giant box that is coming together before their eyes. It is huge and getting bigger by the second. He grins at it, can’t help himself. Now that is some old-school shit. Just the kind of thing to temp the Ddevil into hauling his ass out of the sand. There are more boxes arriving every second. They fall off the cliff and hit the ground, bounce into the air and then stack themselves up.

Satan breaks his gaze away from the box for a second to consider the men walking toward him. “Not another pair of losers,” he sighs in a voice that rumbles and shakes the ground.

“’Who the fuck are you calling loser, you red asshole?”

“Red asshole’s back there, where you should be heading. I don’t have time for any more visits from secret agents, so just fuck off.”

“Look at me!” Jesus’s voice comes out loud and clear, and it seems that every eye in the world turns to look in his direction. Even the people falling into Satan’s ass spin to stare at the man as they scream.

“Well if it isn’t the mad hatter himself. Sup, J-man?” The Devil smiles. “Wanna blowjob? I can get some of the chicks from up on the road to come take care of you. How does that sound? Maybe a boy, since I couldn’t tempt you the last time. Remember that Syrian broad with the legs that went all the damn way up?”

“I remember the desert, and I remember the longing. I remember being scared, and I also remember being pretty pissed off when your guys staked me to a cross and left me to rot.”

“That was daddy. I didn’t have anything to do with it. I may have whispered a few things to that Judas guy, just to unbalance him, but it didn’t take much. He fell for a few coins and the chance to have his name live alongside yours. Neat trick, that, giving people what they want.”

The massive box continues taking on a life of its own above the desert. It rises out of the sand and floats a few feet off the ground. Death can’t take his eyes off the thing. It is massive, perpetually shifting and changing, and it has three gigantic pulsing holes in it.

“That was the old me. This is the new. So what are you going to do?” Satan challenges. “The Apocalypse didn’t go as planned, and we seem to be the two biggest deities around. So how do we handle it?”

“Yeah. Ain’t that some shit? I’m sure you didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Nah. It all went to hell when an old lady killed my son. Do you have any idea how hard I worked to bring him into the world? Then he gets a knitting needle in his eye before he can come into his full power. Shame.”

Jesus nods.

“Say, who is tall dark and handsome next to you?”

“Oh Death. He came along to help out.”

“No fucking shit!” Satan squints at the man in the dark hoodie. “Death, I am a HUGE fan. HUGE! Can I get your autograph before I stuff you in my ass?”

“Yeah, all right.”

Satan squirms a little more, and a massive arm unearths itself. Once the ground stops shaking, Death moves in and lowers his scythe. There isn’t a lot of room, what with all the screaming faces bubbling on the surface of his skin, people and demons both that writhe beneath a layer of red. Death moves the blade up and down a few times, and the demonic flesh sizzles with a smell like burned chicken. He steps back and examines his work.

Death waz here!

“Thanks, man!” Satan smiles and a giant spider demon creeps out of his mouth and scuttles toward Death. Death may be drunk, but he has made this move countless times in the past. Not so much in the last few days, but plenty before that. He slices down and then rips the giant scythe sideways, which leaves the demon still moving, but in two pieces that pass him by. Flaming blood and demon guts splatter across the white sand and Death, but they leave no mark upon Death or his clothing.

“You just killed one of my spider demons! Dude, calm down. He was probably just coming out to high five you, and you swiped him. Bah. Look boys, I’d love to stay and chat, but I have a giant box to fuck the shit out of.”

“Wait!” Jesus commands.

“Oh, for your sake!”

“Look Satan, I know we are supposed to fight each other and all, but I think the rules have changed. I’m sick of being everyone’s whipping boy. I’m tired of running around helping people and listening to them whine and cry. I have problems. I have issues.” He mimics a little girl crying.

“Look dude, if you need relationship advice, just call Dr. Phil. I own him. Tell him I said to give you a freebie or I’ll collect early. Then again, he could be in my ass for all I know.” Satan chuckles, sending shivers through the ground. A fresh group of people falls into his butt, screaming all the way down.

“That’s not what I…” Jesus starts to back up, his hands in the air.

“Nah hold on; he’s probably right here.” Satan reaches back with his free hand. “Just kidding, buddy!”

Jesus crosses his arms and taps his foot.

“Ah hell, J-man, just fucking with you.”

“Seriously, Satan, what do we do now?”

“Well here is how I see it. Things have changed. The rules don’t apply. Seals are still intact, and the Horsemen are a mess.” He glances at Death.

Death gives him the finger.

“Go on,” Jesus says.

“Where is the big guy?”

“Meh, haven’t seen him in a while. Something about starting over in another galaxy with fewer humans. All he ever talks about is chicken pot pies anyway.”

“Oh yeah. Good call.”

“Yeah. Not a bad idea.” Death nods.

“So here’s my proposition. We just let things run their course. I make this part mine and you go grab another part. Like Europe. The chicks there like their underarms hairy just like the old days.”

“Nice.” Death nods again.

“Hmm,” Jesus says. He fingers the bruise around his eye.

“Seriously. Go build your flock, brainwash a bunch of new people, won’t take long. You know how dumb these idiots are.”

Death nods and chuckles. Why didn’t he think of this earlier?

“Tell them you were busy and didn’t have time to make the Apocalypse. Tell them you’ll reschedule it. They’ll understand.”

Jesus smiles at Satan then spits in his eye. It’s a beauty. He draws deep, nose snort and all, gets a big old mouthful and lets it rip. The green gob of goo flies in a graceful arc that splatters in the malevolent eye of the Prince of Lies himself. Satan blinks and shakes his head.

“That’s for the cock slap!” Jesus roars.

Satan does not look pleased.

“I’ll give you something to think about, buddy. I’ll show you and the world how badly I am going to fuck you.”

The ground shakes and moans as Satan heaves himself out of the earth. Death is pretty impressed that they escaped the crash somehow alive, but he does not want to be picked up and shoved up the red guy’s asshole. No thank you very much.

Jesus grabs him by the shoulder and tugs. They both race away from the scene, stumbling as they duck the falling debris. The earth shifts again, and there is a sucking noise as the Devil comes to his feet. Death risks a glance back and falls on his face. Jesus slows down and comes back for him, but he stops in his tracks as Satan reaches his full height.

It’s not the size, nor the fact that he is standing that freaks them out. Nor the fact that he is as tall as a skyscraper. It’s not the big red legs that shake dust free, and it’s not the globs of people falling, screaming, from his ass.

It’s the fact that Satan has three massive cocks and they are all rising to the occasion.

A blinding flash of light in the distance draws their attention away from the Devil. A silence descends as the entire valley goes from roaring to nothing in a few seconds.

“What the…” Death trails off as a giant mushroom cloud forms over the hills in the direction of Vegas.

To each other, General O’Coddle and Sheriff Smoochole are the only two things that exist in the world. Neither warrior sees the massive glory hole box shaking and cooing at the Lord of Darkness. Neither feels the chill that permeates the air when Death is near, although that could be because Death is shitfaced. And neither feels compelled by the power of Christ—or anyone else—to do anything other than kill each other.

Behind his aviators, Sheriff Smoochole’s eyes are focused on his approaching foe, but his bullets blow gray brains out of soldier skulls and blast yellow kneecaps from rotting legs. The horde tries to press forward, but only General O’Coddle is allowed to advance. The general smiles, and his handlebar mustache twitches as a foot-long millipede crawls from his grin and over his stout shoulders. His dead eyes bloat with rage and fury as his heavy footsteps pound forward. His men are being ripped to shreds with his own guns.

Smoochole clicks empty, and General O’Coddle grins wicked and wide as he dives face first at his stolen Hummer. The g-string-clad sheriff jumps into the air. He tucks his bony knees to his birdlike chest and flips off the Hummer just a pubic hair of an instant before the charging general rams his skull into the vehicle with all his might. The Hummer crumples in half like a melted model toy and rolls across the sand. Satan’s giant hooves step on the rolling Hummer as he moves to embrace the giant glory hole box. Flames erupt from between his hooves, and he screams with a million voices.

Smoochole flips twice more and lands with his pale pancake ass facing what’s left of the zombie horde. The dead soldiers stop as one and moan at the flabby ass cheeks before them.

General O’Coddle watches the explosion before turning back. His men are distracted by the sheriff’s hypnotic flabby ass cheeks. He screams a warning so loud and hard it comes out not as a word, but as black phlegm. It’s too late; Sheriff Smoochole has reloaded his guns. Now he turns on the remaining zombies and sends them back to Hell.

The two closest zombies’ heads explode in perfect gory unison.

The next two in line catch bullets, one in his right eye and the other in his left. They fall on top of the first two.

The last remaining zombie looks at his fallen comrades before he turns to stumble away. He only makes it a few staggered steps before a cursing Satan steps on him.

A massive gray fist smashes into Sheriff Smoochole‘s face. His aviators fly in two different directions, and blood gushes from his shattered nose. Smoochole staggers back and opens fire with the .357s. The slugs slam into the general’s chest. O’Coddle flexes his dead muscles, and the bullets turn to hot lead pellets when they hit, doing nothing worse than knocking him back a few inches across the sand.

The general charges the sheriff, and the sheriff uses the guns to move his foe backwards, frantically trying to come up with a plan. General O’Coddle raises his arms and roars at Smoochole as the sheriff sinks six more slugs into his enemy’s chest. Each pushes the general back a bit more. Frustrated, Sheriff Smoochole aims instead at O’Coddle’s meaty gray hands. The pinky and ring finger on the general’s left hand disappear with a spurt of black goo and yellow bone. Half a second later, the pinky and ring finger on his right hand vanish in the same fashion.

General O’Coddle balls his stumps into fists and dives forward, swatting Sheriff Smoochole’s guns away as both his bleeding fists thud off the sheriff’s thin chest. Smoochole flies backwards and lands hard in the sand. General O’Coddle stomps across the sand toward his foe. Dark snot and drool fly off his face. Sheriff Smoochole kicks at O’Coddle’s legs as he gets close. The sharp tip of Smoochole’s cowboy boot tears through the General’s rotted calf and smashes yellow bone through gray skin. O’Coddle growls and grabs Smoochole’s boot with one three-fingered hand and tosses him like a rag doll across the desert. Smoochole lands in a pile, but he jumps back up, dazed but not beaten.

General O’Coddle swings a right, but Smoochole ducks it and answers by whipping the general’s own gun against the side of his skull. O’Coddle’s head sinks in, and the dead officer stumbles backwards as Smoochole slams the butt of his pistols hard into the general’s head again and again. The zombie falls, but rolls onto his back then springs forward, catching Smoochole with a thunderous uppercut that sends the small sheriff flying. O’Coddle stomps his foot down on Sheriff Smoochole and leans forward. First Smoochole groans as the general’s weight makes it hard to breathe, then he screams in agony as his ribs break under the government-issued work boot.

General O’Coddle reaches into his scorched and torn uniform while Smoochole squirms beneath him. He pulls out an ultra-napalm plasma grenade, a very hot and dangerous explosive used by desert soldiers to turn small patches of sand to glass.

General O’Coddle holds the grenade and reaches for Smoochole. The sheriff kicks the general in the face until his boots come away dangling strips of flesh and patches of mustache. O’Coddle lets go, and in that instant, the sheriff climbs the stout general like a tree, knocking the grenade from his hand. The grenade hits the sand at the general’s feet and erupts into a glowing disk of bright blue flame around the two men. They pummel each other in the face as flames dance around them. The flash burn of the explosion turns a perfect circle of sand into glass. Stuck dead center in the glass up to his knees is a furious General O’Coddle. Sheriff Smoochole guffaws, but the general leans forward and wraps his three-fingered hands around Smoochole’s skinny throat, and he lifts his foe to face him.

“Fuck you,” Smoochole tells him and rams the barrels of the .357s all the way into the general’s eye sockets. He hits something hard, but he pushes harder until with slurping noises, the guns sink deeper into the general’s face. When the guns are in as far as he can push them, Sheriff Smoochole squeezes both triggers, and black and pink brain matter scatters across the sand as the general’s head explodes. As General O’Coddle’s black twice-murdered soul fades, his fingers clench closed around Smoochole’s windpipe.

“Worth it, you fucker,” Smoochole gasps as he watches sluggish gray Cockbugs crawl from the crater that is O’Coddle’s head. Behind him, Leon and Bud scream. Smoochole misses his deputies. Then bright light envelops everything as he asphyxiates, hanging six inches off the ground in the General’s death grip.

The ice cream truck creaks and groans, shakes and shivers. It bumps and grinds as it rips across the sky. Chuzz’s passengers are screaming in the back, but he can’t make out what they are saying because he is too busy screaming himself. Stretch Bangstrom yells directions in his ear, and he tries to pay attention. He zips left, right, no left again. After a couple of moments of being plastered to the seat like a wet diaper, he pulls the toy back a little, and the truck slows.

They hover over a long stretch of desert with a shattered city off to the left. There is so much destruction here that it looks like one of those giant demons walked around and ground the place to kindling.

“Son of a bitch!” Edwina yells from the back.

Chuzz hears shuffling and the goat getting in some good cursing. Phil farts, then screams in monkey. More bottles and utensils crash to the floor. Someone slips and goes down amidst another round of cursing.

“We are close, boss. Real damn close now.”

“What in the two Mary fuck are you?” Chuzz doesn’t look at Stretch. He just asks the air as though it will answer and everything in the world will suddenly make sense.

“Me or the sky? The sky doesn’t have answers, which is funny. I don’t either. See, a couple of those bugs got in me, then that big angel showed up. I think I was born spontaneously. I think I may be some sort of savior!” The toy yells the last few words.

“What does that make me?”

“My ride.”

“Fuck you!” Chuzz says and flops back in the seat.

“Ohhh hurts so good, buddy.” The toy cackles.

“If you do that again, so help me…” Edwina has managed to crawl toward the front of the truck. Chuzz looks down at her and grins.

“Left a little,” Stretch cackles in his ear.

Chuzz yanks the toy to the left and pushes it forward. The truck rips around in a short curve and then shoots forward for a half a minute while the others scream in the back. He smiles at their calls for him to slow down and instead massages his member, which still rages against his pants. Why didn’t he bring his map along? He should have found a place to stop and rub one out. Now he is going to stop the Apocalypse in this condition? Oh shit, what is Leon going to say?

The view changes from rapidly advancing sand and desert to a massive red shape stretching into the sky. Chuzz pulls the microphone back so hard the truck slams to a stop, which throws him forward. He gets one hand up just before he smacks into the wheel and instead mashes his face into his meaty forearm.

“Gotta stop doing that, mate!” Goatboy howls from the back.

Chuzz gives the truck a short hop that brings him closer. People are being herded along the road in a more or less orderly line that stretches for miles. Demons stand on either side poking and prodding them with what appear to be pitchforks.

Two things hold Chuzzle’s attention like a two-bit whore with two fingers up his ass.

One is the huge red column he saw a minute ago. It is a giant demon standing in the desert. He has a pair of horns the size of semi trucks. He is naked, and giant metal bands run through his nipples. His chest is a ripple of muscles that make him look like a body builder. Arms are ripped the same way. His waist is thin and legs equally cut. He also has three massive dangling cocks, the concealment of which would require a loincloth the size of a circus tent.

The truck drifts forward as he gets a glimpse at the second object. It is a giant box that floats in front of the Devil. It looks like one of the boxes he saw earlier. The glory hole demon box into which one of the bastards on his street jammed its dick.

Chuzz’s mouth hangs open as he practically drools at the thing. He nudges the truck forward again until they hang close enough for him to see that it is formed of many smaller boxes that all have some rendition of The Daily Cunt written on them.

“Oh my God!” he exclaims as he stands up in the front of the truck. A blast of light in the distance makes him shade his eyes. Something so bright it is like someone just lit a new sun.

His stupid monkey picks that moment to tell him he needs a hit by punching him in the ass. Chuzz falls forward, and the truck shoots straight at the giant glory hole like it is on fire. Screams about stringing him up by his dick come from the back of the truck as they plummet toward the floating object.

From the Mouths of Babes, Really Badass Babes

“Say hello to my many friends!” Satan yells so loud that it shakes the entire valley. Another flash of light in the distance punctuates his words. The big red guy shakes his dongs in the general direction of Jesus and Death. From the giant holes in the earth, an army of demons pours forth. Slobbering, slathering, moving with purpose and anger. Red eyes intent, dog shapes, human shapes and downright fucked-up shapes, take to the desert from the holes in the sand.

“Too bad War isn’t here. Well I guess we can what, turn and run?”

“I’m done running.” Jesus squints. “Fuck the Devil, fuck his army and fuck this desert.”

“Right. Fuck ’em.”

They stare at each other for a moment then break into laughter. Jesus leans forward and puts his hand on Death’s shoulder to steady himself. They stare into each other’s eyes for a few seconds, an unspoken bond of friendship between the two men cemented with copious amounts of alcohol.

“Watch this.” Jesus smiles and steps away.

Death turns and watches hundreds, and then thousands of creatures emerging from the three holes in the desert. Most fan out in other directions, but some make a beeline for the two men. Death lowers his scythe and swings it in a massive arc just before the things reach them.

The air ripples where the blade passes, and it moves away from him in a wave that tears the demons apart. They flop into pieces, body parts flying in every direction. A head tumbles from one, a massive thing with two faces set opposite one another other, one smiling and one frowning. They continue to argue as they hit the sand.

“WAR!” Jesus yells behind him. “Get the hell UP! I call you!”

Nothing happens.

“Come on, you Lazarus fuck, you got some death to deal!”

Death shakes his head. Why does everyone think that War causes all the death? Death IS death. End of story.

A silence settles over the valley for a split second. It is like the sound after a lightning strike. It is preternatural, and it makes Death pause in his slaughter. He has never felt such power before; it slashes at his reality and makes him stagger. He is Death, and he decides who falls and when. He reaps souls and sends them along the way to wherever they are bound. But this is something he knows nothing about.

Death turns to watch Jesus wavering in place and calling to the sand. The sand responds by spitting out a shape dressed in rags. The body flies into the air and then tumbles over and over to land in a sprawl at the feet of the son of God.

“Christ that sucked!” The man stands and dusts sand from his robe. He lowers his hood to reveal the face of War. The same old sneer set to one side of his lips, he frowns at Jesus and then drops to his knees. “Uh sorry about that last bit, Jesus master Christ.”

“Get up, War. Get up and kick some ass!” Jesus commands.

“Uh. You brought me back? My thanks, Lord. I have always said that the hand of Jesus is like the uh… ever-flowing eternal life of the…”

“Just shut the hell up and bring some help. There is an army of demons coming toward me, and I don’t feel like dying again.” Jesus gestures with one hand.

War turns around and gets a look at the army of demons. He reaches over his shoulder for his sword, but it is not there.

“WHERE THE FUCK IS MY SWORD?” War bellows.

Death turns his head a second after eliminating another wave of inbound demons. “Check the sand where you were puked out!”

War stalks to the place and pushes his hand inside the spot. He roots around in the sand, but after a moment of searching, he doesn’t find anything. He shakes his hand off and looks about in disgust.

“For my sake,” Jesus sighs. “Moses just needed a stick. Here, use this.” He breaks a twig off a dried-out tree and tosses it to War.

War looks it over and frowns. “I hope you aren’t serious, er, your Lord Jesus Worshipfulness.”

“Just try it. Me!” Jesus looks exasperated.

War holds it aloft and whistles so loud the sound echoes off the valley walls. A horse gallops out of some damn plane of existence. It shoots out, lands on its feet, and runs around in a circle. War sheathes his tiny wooden sword and jumps on the back of the monster horse. The animal screams at the sky, hooves slashing the air like razor blades as it rears back. War stands up in the saddle and waves his sword around in circles as he gallops in Satan’s direction.

“Man, he is motivated! Is he going to take on Satan himself?”

“Me, I hope not. He is going to call up an army.”

“This is War we’re talking about. He doesn’t exactly use his head most of the time.”

But War may be thinking for a change, because he runs the horse at full speed into the press of demons, waving his stick. He strikes around him, and where he flails, the demonic creatures fall. Several cracks open in the crust of the desert opens on the outskirts of the army of red. All around War, creatures rise out of the sand.

They shamble from the ground like a desiccated army of stick figures. They rise by the tens, then by the hundreds. The call is answered from the other end of the valley as well, as a whole regiment of the Army moves in en force. They roll in in tanks, Humvees, transports and on foot. A pair of helicopters sweeps over the ground and takes up station at the outskirts of the war machine.

War himself flashes up the length of the chasm and then back down the other side. Where he passes, the dead claw free of the earth in their multitudes. They are in all states and manners of dress. Some wear nothing while others are dressed in suits and carry bazookas.

“I was supposed to come back and call them back to Heaven. There they are,” Jesus observes, settling in on a nice comfortable rock.

“What happened?” Death asks out of curiosity.

“I lost interest. The devil played me once again. He tempted me with booze and gambling, and I missed the Apocalypse.” He squints in the direction of War, who is rallying his troops. “Sorry about that, man.”

“So this whole thing has been Satan’s doing then?”

“Yep. Asshole.”

Death lowers his scythe and cuts down a column of demons and zombies alike. They fall to pieces and splatter the sand with ooze and body parts. Some of the demons have burning blood; it sputters and smokes as it melts the sand into glass.

“So what now?”

“We wait, and we hope one of those nukes doesn’t hit us.” Jesus says and tosses back a swig of vodka. He leans a little too far back and nearly falls off his rock.

“Ooof!” Jesus chokes on the last swallow, then breaks into laughter.

Another flash of light, this time far to the northwest, brightens the already sunny sky.

Leon stares up at the composite glory hole demon and the equally massive Satan as they do some kind of clumsy primal dance around each other. Their massive shadows roll over the armies of demons and undead crawling from the craters left by Satan’s hasty exit.

“Devil dick hefty hooker, Bud,” Leon says.

Bud frowns at Leon and asks, “Why didn’t you hack that mother fucker in his face?”

He doesn’t give Leon, whose jaw drops and eyebrows curl at the question, time to answer. He lowers his gun and pulls the trigger, spraying the rising zombies and demons with hot death.

The legions of Hell are all around Bud and Leon. Leon stares, mouth agape, while Bud fires recklessly into the oncoming masses.

“Why, Leon?” Bud screams as he reloads yet again.

“YOU… COCK BOX… FUCK,” Leon screams in frustration.

Satan embraces the giant box the way a dog would try to fuck a bear. The box recoils slightly, and Satan waddles after it. Humans fall out of his ass as he totters forward.

Leon searches for the words, but they don’t appear in his acid-addled brain. The giant red demon with the three massive swinging cocks is the fucking Devil, and Leon is just a peep show mop up boy. He doesn’t even have his mop bucket. If he ever goes back for it, he’ll kill that shithead Jerome for frying his brain.

“Leon,” Bud screams between quick bursts of automatic rifle fire. “Get your fucking head in the game!”

Leon snaps to and swings his battleaxe at the closest demon. He chases another one a few feet and cleanly cleaves one of its heads from its shoulders. The other head turns as if to complain, so Leon hacks that head off as well. Demon gore splatters his face, and the demon-killing fury he felt when he chopped Father Maniwhore to pieces returns tenfold.

His eyes dilate and he screams, “Fuck rag demon douche gang bang!”

“Thataboy!” Bud cries out. He slams another magazine home and pops off a few more rounds.

A hooded rider on horseback and several zombies in desert camouflage run straight for Leon and his companion. He opens his mouth to ask Leon if he knows the hooded rider behind them. The man under the cowl reaches into the folds of his robe and pulls out a small crossbow.

Bud manages to squeak, “Leon,” as a hypodermic needle flies from the crossbow and sticks into Leon’s back.

The ice cream truck falls toward the giant glory hole box at an alarming rate. A we are gonna smash right the fuck into that thing rate. Chuzz pulls the microphone back and stops the truck a few inches from the top of the dancing abomination. Chuzz peers over the front of the truck and gets a look at Satan with his giant erect cocks. Then his eyes are pulled down to the glory hole box, and he feels very dizzy.

“I am getting out of this piece of shit!” Edwina yells from the back. The door bangs open, and sunlight pours in from the rear.

Phil grins up at Chuzz and shows him the heroin kit he wants so badly. His mouth hangs open, tongue lolling out. His eyes are filled with need.

“Not now, Phil!”

The monkey flips him off, then shits in the corner of the truck.

“Oh real mature.”

“’Ee’s an animal. What do you expect?” Goatboy asks.

“Not that!”

The truck swings around slowly, or maybe it is the box under the truck. Chuzz wants to get away, but the vehicle tilts back and smashes into the top of the enormous glory hole demon with a mighty clang that will surely draw the big demon’s eyes straight to them. Chuzz doesn’t want that thing to get a look at him or his ride. He picks up the microphone and prepares to make a jump for it. He may be at the Apocalypse, but this was not what he had in mind for stopping it.

Before he can hit the button, the girl dives out of the open doors. She lands on top of the giant glory hole, rolls out of an awesome somersault, and comes to her feet. She looks around and then the door slams shut.

“Should we go ’elp ’er?” Goatboy takes a couple of steps toward the door.

“Help her do WHAT? Look at that thing!”

“Those things, you mean. Look at the size of those bangers. Bloody huge! ’Ee’d make a sperm whale scared to bend over.”

“Maybe she has a plan…”

Edwina has no plan. She hits the giant box hard and comes out of her forward roll with guns drawn. The massive red demon looms on one side, and when she peeks over the other, all she sees is all manner of shapes and figures running about in the sand. A crazy guy on a horse is waving a twig around portentously.

There is an army of demons pouring out of the earth. Hundreds of the things pull free of big holes and run in every direction. They don’t seem to have any leadership, which Edwina knows is a bad way to run any military outfit. Troops need direction; they need a leader. Those stilettos were, until recently, filled by Marcel. What she wouldn’t do to have the tall woman here right now to help guide her.

But she is all alone, and there is a giant red man with three giant red dicks. He towers over the desert, playing with his cocks, shaking them loose or getting them ready for something.

The box pulses beneath her, and suddenly she understands what is about to happen.

“Not today, you giant red box fucker!” she yells.

The guns come up, and she fires at the Devil, but the shots don’t even faze him. She empties two clips, and he doesn’t flinch. Now how in the hell is she going to take him down?

This guy has to be the leader. He has to be! He is somehow responsible for killing Darla, and she wants to eradicate him from the Earth. She wants to stand over his body and piss on it. She wants to remove his head and mount it on one of his cocks. That may be problematic, however, since he is so fucking big.

She pulls the stupid toy off her back. She knows just how ridiculous it looks, but she strapped it there as she prepared for battle anyway. The guy in the ice cream truck managed to kill a demon, and he swore it was the toy. She looks over the plastic thing with its strange images. Something rattles and bounces around inside it when she shakes it.

The giant red Devil guy takes a step toward the box and sees her for the first time.

“Well howdy fucking do. Do you know who I am and what I am about to do to that thing you are standing on?”

“Nope. Don’t care.”

“I am Beelzebub. The Devil. Satan himself. Nicetameetcha. So what is a pretty lady like you doing on my fuck box and not stuffed in my ass where you belong?”

“Just passing through, thought I’d stop by and kill you first,” Edwina says, breathing deep to slow her pounding heart. It is thumping away like a logger on speed working over a tree.

“Hah!” Satan roars and reaches for her.

She flips the handle down while pointing the face at him. The dial rolls around and stops on a pig shape. With a squeak, a little two assed piglet appears, runs around in circles and falls off the edge of the box. There is a massive explosion from below.

“Shit!”

“Nice toy. Is that thing supposed to scare me, you stupid little twat?” Satan asks in his rumbling voice that sounds like a volcano throwing up.

She hits the lever again, and the dial spins. This time it lands on a picture of a demon pissing into another demon’s mouth. A foul spray of liquid shoots out of the center and is snatched away by the burning desert heat.

“What do you call that? It smells like a whore. If I wanted that stuff on me, I’d rub your cunt all over my face. Now get in my ass!” Satan howls as he reaches for Edwina.

“Get back in!” Goatboy has opened the door and is leaning out of it, gesturing with one hoof.

She dives under Satan’s sweeping hand as it clips the top of the ice cream truck. Goatboy peers out from the doorway, now down on all fours, front feet outstretched to stop him from flying out of the door. Phil bounces up and down until the truck stops shaking.

Chuzz even pokes his head out. His eyes go wide as he meets Edwina’s. He looks like he is about to jump out of his skin. He holds the microphone up, but his hands tremble so much that he drops it. The mike clatters across the floor of the truck and rolls out onto the top of the glory hole demon. The truck, upon losing contact with the toy, bounces a few inches into the air and then smashes into the metal box.

“Ah fuck!” Chuzz yells as he dives for the microphone.

“Ah fuck!” Edwina echoes as she dives out of the way of Satan’s big sweeping hand.

“Come here, my lovelies!” Satan roars.

“Hit the one with the fucking demons!” Chuzz calls to her.

“They are all fucking demons!” she yells back. She wants to run over and kick him right in the balls. Asshole.

“No! The demons that are fucking each other!” he yells and crawls along the edge of the giant moving box, presumably to get whatever he dropped.

“Like I can pick which one is which!” she screams back at the imbecile just as the box shifts again. Chuzz rolls to his right and stops himself just short of falling off the side. For a split second, she considers going over and giving him a little nudge to help him find the ground below.

She hits the lever again, and a blinding ray of light shoots out of the toy. She holds it aloft, pointed over the shoulder of a very unhappy-looking giant red demon. He reaches for her again, but she slips back, dropping to one knee as she almost falls. In the process, the beam intersects with a meaty part of his hand and cuts right on through.

The devil roars, his head rolling back as he screams in pain. She doesn’t know how much longer the blade will last, if it will even cut through his giant neck. She needs a smaller target. She looks over the edge of the glory hole demon, and a wicked smile curves her lips up.

Leon staggers with the hypodermic needle sticking out of his back. He reaches for it with one hand because he refuses to drop his battleaxe. He tries to get it out, but instead the needle compresses and injects festering purple poison into his bloodstream. Leon howls as fire enters his veins.

Pestilence, atop his steed and fast approaching, cackles at his shot. He waits for Leon to fall, but the axe-wielding maniac is spinning in large drunken circles, cleaving into the ranks of the demons around him as he tries to reach the needle in his back.

The poison spreads throughout Leon’s body, but it doesn’t seem to affect him in a negative way. He knows he should be dying, because it felt like Hell was rushing into him. Maybe it is the bathtub acid that protects him.

“What the fucking fuck is in my back?” Leon screams.

“What the hell? Die monkey! I command it.” Pestilence almost comes to a halt.

“Leon,” Bud shouts as he tucks his M-16 and rolls across the sandy battlefield toward him. “You’re talking normal again! It’s a miracle!”

“It’s no fucking miracle,” Leon complains. “It hurt worse than bending a boner!”

Pestilence shakes off his disbelief and shoots a second syringe that hits Leon in the shoulder. The poison drains into Leon, and the burn dances through him again.

“Ass cunt cock torture,” Leon screams at the approaching Horseman.

Bud takes aim at Pestilence but has to turn to blast back the demons that have snuck up behind him. He turns just in time to see a third projectile fly toward Leon. It hits him square in his chest.

Leon drops his axe and falls backwards into the sand. Bud screams and opens fire at Pestilence and his zombies as he runs to his fallen friend.

Pestilence laughs out loud and kicks his steed in the ribs as hard as he can. Within seconds, he is barreling down on Bud and Leon. The steed moves far too swiftly for Pestilence’s zombie horde to keep up. The dead soldiers crash head-on into the panicked demons. Both sides respond with teeth and claws. Powerful demons rip rotted heads from shoulders as zombie soldiers sink black teeth into wings and scaly throats.

Bud fires randomly into the chaos and reaches Leon with another roll, very well executed considering Bud’s trollish body. Pestilence’s hood flies back as he dives after the two, arms outstretched. His long greasy hair flails wildly. His yellow eyes bulge in their sockets while his graveyard grin betrays his devious intent. Bud turns to face him, and his long greasy hair flails wildly. Thin glasses slide to the tip of his nose, and he grits his teeth.

Leon pulls the empty syringe from his chest and crawls backwards like a crab. His long greasy hair flails wildly. His eyes are turning orange and green from all the chemicals in his system, and his mouth forms a silent scream. For an instant before the three crash together, they look like they all share the same white trash genes. The three grunt and roll into the dense crowd of demons and decay.

Cock Chop Symphony of Destruction

War is leading a fresh assault. The last one didn’t go so well. Bunch of zombies charged in slow motion. It took forever before they even got assembled. Then when they were closing in on the army of demons and flying vulture-like creatures, the other guys decided to charge first.

Now the desert is covered in piles of bodies and limbs. A head rolls near Death, and he leans over and swings the scythe, scooping up the head and flinging it back into the melee.

“GOAAAAALLLLL!” Jesus howls. He stretches out a hand and blesses a bunch of demons. The resulting explosion and mess echo across the chasm walls for a long time.

War gestures, and a flight of helicopters swoops down and forward. Ripples of fire as rockets scream into the advancing army. Some of the demons are ripped apart, but more often than not they shrug off the fire and keep coming.

A group of tanks rumbles into view and starts picking off some of the bigger creatures. Shells and bullets scream across the sky as a bunch of guys in green make the scene. They form up firing lines and advance as they shoot everything that moves.

“Now we’re talking!” Death smiles and lowers his scythe. He staggers forward and rips another group of demons to pieces.

“Get ’em!” Jesus roars. He is running around blessing everyone who gets near, which is really bad for the demons. The looks on their faces are actually pretty funny as their bodies are torn out their assholes.

War rides into the mess with his big stick. Somehow he manages to bat aside demons that get too close to him. He is laughing and howling with glee as he strikes left and right.

“Just like the old days, eh Death?” he screams and hits a demon so hard its head is shoved into its body and it bounces into another demon. The two stumble and then say hello to a tank shell, which splatters them all over their allies.

Demons are falling everywhere, but still they pour from the earth.

Jesus stops beside Death and leans over to catch his breath. His face is covered in green and yellow pus, but his bruise shines through, just as livid as it was when Death pulled him out of the rubble.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Death slashes another demon that gets too close.

“Yep. Lets blow this popsicle stand.”

Death nods.

“The car?”

“It’s in bad shape, but I think I can do something about that.”

Death whistles at a demon that is circling over them. He gestures, and the stupid thing swoops down to check him out.

“Dude. If you pick up a car, with us in it, and fly us off… in… oh,” he looks in a direction that is not currently exploding in a nuclear blast. “… that way, you can hang with us and not get blown to bits.”

“What’s the catch?” the thing asks in a voice that sounds like he is retching up a half-digested meal.

“No catch. I’m Death and this is Jesus, by the way.”

“Ohhh big guys. I guess I could do that if you keep me around and promise not to chop me into bits.”

Jesus nods. “You got it. What’s your name?”

“Sally. But I like to be called Princess Sally.”

Death burps up a mouthful of booze as he tries not to laugh out loud.

“Okay, uh, Princess Sally. We need to find the car first. I think it’s this way.” And the two stumble off with the demon flying over them.

The fourteen-foot shit demon is finally closing in on the deranged Horseman he has been following since Reno. The mind of the onetime shape-shifter and regenerator now works in slow shitty loops.

Six million shitty steps later, it feels the anticipation of wrapping its big fecal claw around Pestilence’s smug face. Chop it off and give him a shit body. Then he could be the Shit Horseman.

Revenge is all he seeks.

Revenge is all he knows.

He gets a glimpse of Pestilence rolling around on the ground with two guys that look a lot like him. He quickens his big shitty strides. A shadow falls over him. He looks up to see a giant red hoof coming down.

“Ah shit!” he grumbles before being squished to a big brown smear across the gory battlefield.

Edwina stumbles to her knees as the giant box shifts. She glances back at Chuzz, who has the toy microphone in hand and a dumb look on his face. He stares at her, and she frowns back at him.

The ray of white light carves a hole in the sand and mutilates the demons screaming out of the holes. They are sliced in half with splatters of pus and ooze flying in every damn direction. For the first time today, she smiles.

Her grin gets even wider when she gets a look at Satan’s giant cocks. She narrows her eyes at the closest one, and she decides to have a little fun. The ray of light is fizzling out a little but is still strong enough to do the job.

She runs along the edge of the giant box so she can get a good angle. For now, she keeps the ray pointed away from the giant demon, who takes a big step forward to close in on the box. He’ll be able to grab her pretty soon if she doesn’t boogie. She thinks again about just trying to slice the bastard’s head off, but this is Satan himself and she has her doubts that would do anything other than piss him off.

She reaches the end of the box just as another smaller one slaps itself into place. It says Daily Cunt and she almost laughs out loud at how ridiculous the whole situation is. Then she gets good and angry again and points the ray straight down.

She points the ray straight down, then rips it up into the air and catches Satan with his pants, literally, down. The ray fizzles out as she completes her cut.

Satan jerks his head up and screams at the sky as one of his cocks flops off and hits the ground far below. He reaches for it, but not fast enough, and the big red hunk of flesh smashes into a whole group of demons.

“PISS COCK FUCKING SUCKING MOTHER FUCKING ASS-LOVING SISTER OF DEATH FUCK!” he screams and stumbles. His hand shoots out and hits the box, knocking Edwina over the edge.

Air whistles past her as she plummets to the ground. She strikes much sooner than anticipated. The surface is not hard at all, but soft and moving. The ground shifts as the breath is driven from her body. A nasty smell assaults her nose right away, nearly overriding her pain threshold, which has just about peaked.

A cracked rib or three for sure. Head hurts, feels wet, like blood. She bit into her tongue, and part of it might have come off.

“OWWWWW!” She gurgles blood, but she is moving

“Get the fuck off me!” a voice yells.

She looks around and realizes she is flying. Giant red wings the size of boats rise on either side of her body. She rolls over, and a huge five-horned vulture head looks back at her. The face is disgusting, looks like a horse grew a beak and then was dipped in fuck you ugly.

“Arghhhh!” she screams.

“Arrghhh!” the creature screams back as it dives toward the ground.

“I’m gonna land and then skullfuck you!” it informs her.

She reaches to her waist and pulls one of the .45’s. She cocks back the hammer, pretty sure the gun is dry, not that this stupid shit will know, and puts the barrel right up against the thing’s reeking head.

“What?” she says and spits blood.

“Said I’m gonna land and let you go.” The thing tries to smile.

She nearly passes out.

A thunderous guttural scream from the staggering Lord of Darkness brings a momentary pause to the chaos on the ground. Flesh-starved zombies turn from their one-course demon meals and gawk at Satan, wincing and clutching his dick stump in his giant red hands. Blackish ooze drips from between his fingers, and the demons wrinkle their faces in disgust and pity. In the middle of a crowd of battling demons and dead folk, Pestilence has Leon pinned to the ground with his knees on the man’s shoulders. Bud has his arm wrapped around Pestilence’s throat and one hand twirled up tight in the Horseman’s long greasy hair.

All three pause and look in the direction of the inhuman screams to see Satan stomping around in agony. Satan steps on a greasy shit demon and slips and falls face first onto the fucking confusing battlefield. Hundreds of demons and walking dead are crushed under his bellowing form as he rolls back to his feet.

“Holy shit,” Pestilence gasps, struggling for breath under Bud’s choke hold, “Is that Satan?”

Leon, who is lying on the ground with his head rolled back so he can see everything that is going on even if it is half upside-down, answers Pestilence, “Yeah, and something cut one of his pricks off!”

Pestilence’s stares Leon in his orange and green eyes and asks (still half choking on Bud’s forearm), “Are you frying balls? How fucking wild is that? Ha!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Bud orders and tightens his grip. “We have serious fucking issues to deal with right fucking now, and I ain’t gonna put up with someone teasing Leon right fucking now!”

Pestilence gags and tries to speak but can’t. Leon wiggles out from under Pestilence’s slender twitching form and crawls to his battleaxe. He picks it up and hacks into the nearest hellborn creature, separating horned head from feathered body, hoping to strike fear into the heart of their hooded assailant. Pestilence gags behind Bud’s arm but still smiles his rotted grin at Leon. His yellow eyes sparkle, and Leon knows he could chop the head off of every demon in Hell and not scare this creature. Not a monster or an assassin, worse by far… a junkie.

Leon turns his battleaxe sideways and bitch slaps the junkie across the face with it. Bud chuckles and kicks the man once in his ribs. He readies himself for a second kick, but the hooded man is on his feet in a flash.

“Who the fuuuuck are you?” Bud demands.

The hooded man catches Leon off guard and backhands him with enough force to send him sprawling across the sand. Then he turns back to Bud, smiles his black-toothed grin, and says, “I’m mutha’ fuckin’ Pestilence, baby… and I’m ready to get HIGH!” To punctuate his last statement, he head butts Bud in the face. Bud’s knees buckle, but Pestilence grabs him by the scruff of his shirt and hauls him up.

“You know, this is my favorite Hustler tee shirt design,” Pestilence mentions offhandedly before tossing Bud like a rag doll. He lands on his back with a crunch and a crack that causes a second pause from the thinning hordes of demon and zombies still ripping each other to shreds around them. They turn and look at Bud’s twisted and broken form, but once he screams they all go back to attacking whatever is closest to them.

Leon gets back to his feet and growls at Pestilence. “Fuck you. I’m fucking sick of anything and everything that has ever been to or crawled out of Hell! Not a single goddamn thing has worked out at fucking all for us! And now you fucking show up and break Bud’s fucking back. He just fucking got rid of kidney stones, and now he’s got a broken fucking back. ASSHOLE!”

Pestilence chuckles and levels his crossbow at Leon, “It’s only getting worse for ya from here, dude; I’m eating your fried fucking brain.”

“What?”

“That fat tweeker in the sex shop, the one with the killer LSD? He told me your brain was soaked in the shit! I’m here to feast on your gray matter, fucko!” Pestilence drools down his skinny chin as he eyes his intended victim.

“Leon,” Bud gasps from the sand. “Use… *pained breathing*… the… *cough, cough*… fucking… *cough, then pained breathing*… axe… *deep cleansing breath*… you stupid bastard.” Just as Bud gasps out the last words, a giant hoof lands on either side of his prone form.

Leon looks at the gore-stained heavenly weapon in his hands. He smiles and starts whirling in great uneven circles, holding out the axe so it whistles as it slices through the air. The axe cleaves limbs and heads from nearby demons and zombies, and they push each other into its path as they scramble to get out of its way. “FUCK YOU ALL!” Leon bellows. “I GOT SOMETHING FOR YA!”

“Whoa, asshole,” Pestilence says and backs away, holding the loaded crossbow in front of him. “I said stop that shit!”

A voice booms from above, “Pestilence? Is that you? What the fuck? I just got a dick hacked off and you are down here rolling in the fucking sand?”

Pestilence takes his eyes off of Leon just long enough to look at Satan and say, “You still got two, boss,” before Leon lets go of the axe and falls to his ass. The momentum of Leon’s spin sends the axe flying end over end like a medieval buzz saw. Pestilence ducks the twirling blade and shoots Leon with another hypodermic arrow, this one right in the middle of his forehead.

The mind-melting burn of the needle’s poison rushes into his head even though he plucks it out as fast as he can. He tosses the half-empty needle to the sand and watches the axe as it flies at Satan. Satan’s eyes go huge as the blade cuts cleanly through one of his two remaining dicks. He bellows, grabs his second dick stump, and stomps away, screaming, “Are you FUCKING kidding ME? In my ass not off with my dicks! FUCK!”

A massive dick-shaped shadow covers Bud as he tries to crawl away. He digs his hands into the sand and pulls his broken body a few inches. He reaches again, but the giant red schlong smashes to the ground on top of him, sending Bud into darkness.

Pestilence points and laughs at his pained Lord before reloading the crossbow and pointing it back at Leon. “Now I’ve got to eat your brain since you threw away your killer weapon, dumbsh…” His words are interrupted when the axe boomerangs back. It whistles as it passes through. His yellow eyes twitch. His long fingers claw at the air in front of him as his torso slides off his hips with a slurping sound like old people butt fucking. Both halves of Pestilence’s corpse hit the sand, and three-foot-thick worms burst forth and hiss at Leon. They burrow into the desert, leaving Pestilence’s body paper-thin and flapping in the breeze.

Chuzz dives for the back of the ice cream truck and misses, because the last thing into which he dove was a pool, and that thing was seventy feet long. He manages to grab onto the edge of the floor. He almost loses his grip, but Goatboy sticks out a hoof and Chuzz manages to grasp it.

“Get in the truck, you stupid cunt!” the goat yells.

“I’m damn well trying. Dammit!”

Goatboy clops backwards on three legs, dragging Chuzz along with him. Chuzz gets his feet up on the bumper of the vehicle and pushes his way inside, then collapses on the floor and tries not to throw up. The truck shifts. Did he forget to set the brakes? Come to think of it, he never started the damn truck. He just pointed it at the sky and took off.

Stupid trip to Vegas. He can’t even find Leon in the mess out there. Stupid devil and his delicious floating glory hole box. If Chuzz were big enough, he’d stick his dick in there too. But he will never get the chance because he is probably going to die here after what Edwina did to the Devil.

Satan screams from down below. Well, speak of the Devil. Chuzz crawls over to the edge of the truck and peers out. Someone has cut off one of the monster’s other cocks. Satan reels back and then starts stomping the ground in a frenzy, smashing hapless demons. The massive army of demons tries to get out of the way, but many of them are smashed to red and yellow pus in the process.

“I’m gonna fuck that box and then I’m going gonna fuck the world and every one of you assholes!” Satan yells. He grabs hold of the giant metal monstrosity, pulls it nearby and then pounds into it.

Chuzz is nearly tossed out of the back of the truck. He holds onto Goatboy as the truck rocks back and forth.

“Get us out of here for fuck’s sake!” Goatboy screams.

Chuzz stares at the goat, then at the big red face a mere fifteen feet from him. Phil bounces around the cabin like he has been straight for months. He seems to have a lot of energy now, no doubt all of it directed at self-preservation.

“That’s right! You are next. No matter what you do or where you go, I am the Devil, and I will find you, Nathan P. Chuzzle. I will find you, and I will fuck you until you bleed, boy! Until you fucking bleed!”

Chuzz shakes his head at the horrendous image. He points the microphone behind his head and gives it a little push. The truck lifts a few inches and then rockets back a quarter mile, which once again almost makes Chuzz fall out the back.

“Shit!” He falls to all fours again.

“Shut the fucking door, mate!” Goatboy yells.

“Then I can’t see the box. The beautiful box. It’s a work of art. I need one. I need one bad.” Chuzz is almost in a daze as he watches Satan fuck the giant metal box. The thing moves back and forth, back and forth, like a giant pendulum designed to hypnotize Nathan Chuzzle.

He lifts the microphone and points it at the devil. If he throws the guy, maybe he will leave Chuzz alone; he will know he should fear him. He triggers the button and points it carefully. He doesn’t know if he can even move something that large.

Phil picks that moment, that very moment to stroll up to Chuzz in his very vulnerable position and punch him right in the left ass cheek. He bucks forward, his finger hits the little red button, and the truck shoots straight at the giant box. He doesn’t even have time to think about what he is about to do. He points the microphone, triggers the other button and flings the glory hole away.

The box is there one second and gone the next. It smashes into the side of the chasm and explodes on impact, breaking it into hundreds of tiny glory hole boxes that scream in unison.

Satan doesn’t take the move well. He roars at the sky again. As the ice cream truck shoots past him, Chuzz gets a look at a very pissed-off red face that is glaring down at a torso now missing no fewer than three cocks.

“You’ve unmanned me!” Satan yells.

The truck smashes into the ground, bouncing on impact and blowing out two of the wheels. The door slams shut and Chuzz ricochets off of it and onto Goatboy.

Goatboy in turn rolls into Phil. Then just for good measure, the truck rolls into something and comes to a sudden grinding halt. All three passengers smash into the door, and everything goes black.

The demon swoops to the ground so fast that Edwina drops the gun. The weapon falls away, and no amount of cursing will bring it back. The demon lands violently, and she is tossed off like a sack of potatoes.

She lands in the sand with her head staring directly up at Satan, who no longer has any dicks. Well too bad for the cockmaster. Too bad indeed.

She pulls the other .45 from her holster, levels it at the winged demon and blows his head clean off. Fuck you, crashing boy. Could have had it the easy way, but you had to be an asshole. The creature flops down in front of her and gurgles air through its neck, which is all that’s left at the top of its body.

She struggles to sit up but almost passes out when she tries to breathe deeply. Her chest feels like it has a hole in it. She can barely get in a breath, and she wonders if a rib has punctured her lung.

Sound comes back and she remembers she is in a war. Demons are running all over the damn place, screaming and howling. A figure on horseback flashes by, and for a half a second she things it is the weird creature that Marcel shot.

There is a beat-up vehicle right next to her. Looks like a luxury car crossed with a military-grade Hummer. She crawls to it, breath rattling in her chest as she pulls herself through the sand. A head rolls past her. It looks like what would happen if Medusa puked up a porcupine.

The door to the vehicle is open, and she tugs herself into it. She sprawls across the two seats because it hurts too much to sit up. There is crap all over the beat-up vehicle, and it smells like men. She hates it, but she would rather be here than on the ground with the demons.

She spots a small box on the dash and recognizes it from an article she once read in one of Marcel’s magazines. She reaches for it with her good hand, picks it up and brings it to eye level.

“Well fuck me sideways,” she mutters.

The device is a T46A close trigger for a tactical nuke. Somewhere nearby there has to be a big fucker of an explosive.

“Hey, bitch, miss me?” Satan leans over and stares into the turret with one very large, very malevolent eye.

She sighs and looks at the trigger.

Leon holds his battleaxe at shoulder level like a samurai baseball-bat-sword as he approaches the crashed ice cream truck. He takes wide cautious steps around it and makes note of several sets of demon feet sticking out from under the frame of the strange vehicle. Leon decides that if the passengers are killing demons, they must be all right. He reaches up and knocks on the door, on which a flier for The Daily Cunt has plastered itself. It reads “EVEN THE END IS FUCKED!”

Leon nods and knocks a little harder.

Goatboy hits the hanging doorknob to see who is there, or so Chuzz presumes.

“Idiot! Fucking clueless moron, what are you doing? Don’t let anyone in!”

But there is a man standing there whom Nathan P. Chuzzle knows very well. At the end of the world, his one true friend is right there just like he said he would be. He’d hug the bastard if it weren’t so gay.

“Leon?” he says in wonder.

“Cockbang foursome,” says Leon.

Chuzz stares and stares, and after a moment Leon slaps him hard.

“Douche breath death fuck stick.”

“That’s it. We are getting the mother skunk fuck out of here!” Chuzz screams and rushes toward the front of the little truck. “I’m sick of trying to stop the Apocalypse. Satan wants my ass, and I very much like my ass right where it is!”

He trips over Goatboy. “Mind your feet, you peacock!”

Falls into Phil who curses in monkey at the man. “Fucking Phil!”

“Ass tickle farmyard fetish fuck,” mutters Leon.

Chuzz hits the seat with his gut and almost flips face first into the stupid steering wheel. Then he points the stupid microphone at the stupid horizon and practically throws the stupid thing at the window as he hits the stupid button.

The truck rockets toward the sky. Chuzz grabs the seatbelt and holds on for dear life as they are transported many miles away from the battle.

“Looky here. Just looky what I see. Are you ready to get in my ass now? No, that’s too good for you. I’m going to take you apart one piece at a time and then make your head a cock ring for my new growths. I’m going to have five this time. FIVE!” Satan howls with glee.

Edwina is not at all ready to be torn apart. She studies the remote and wonders where in the hell the nuke is. Well, no sense in waiting around to find out.

“Hey dickless,” she calls. “Here is what you can do with your new dicks if they ever grow back.”

She flips him the bird, drops her hand to the remote and triggers it. Everything goes very very white.

Death and Jesus stagger to the car. It was crushed from the impact, flat to the ground on four tires that will never hold air again. The passenger-side door flew off when they struck the ground. The hood is popped and crumpled in the center, and the trunk is wide open. Steam still pours out from under the hood. The car will never start again.

But they jump in anyway, Jesus in the front with his hand over the half of the steering wheel that is still attached to the car. Death in the back where the long seat is tented up in the middle. He picks the side with the fewest springs poking out of it and lays the scythe across his lap.

Princess Sally grabs hold of either side of the door with massive claws that puncture the metal. Giant wings flap at the air as the car rises and swoops away from the battle.

“Hold on, boys, we are getting out of town!” the demon caws.

“Damn big battle going on down there.” Death looks over the side.

War is rallying the troops and leading a fresh charge. His army runs into a shit wall of Hell as demons crash into them. Men are picked up and tossed aside, tanks are crushed to tin cans and helicopters are flung out of the sky. It looks like a full rout.

“War, what is he good for?” Jesus chuckles.

The car is carried eastward, away from Vegas, or what is left of it thanks to a growing mushroom cloud. Princess Sally has huge wings, and they are moved along at a pretty fast clip.

“I wonder if the stereo still works?” Death hits the button and it rumbles to life.

Growling fills the air, and double bass drums assault their hearing.

“What the hell kind of music is this?” he wonders aloud.

“They call it death metal. Personally I think it sounds like shit. I’ll take Liberace any day,” Princess Sally croaks.

“Death metal. That has a catchy ring to it, eh J-man?”

Jesus snores in answer. Death leans over the back of the seat and stares down at the son of God, who is passed out in the front seat.

A blinding flash of light ignites the world behind them.

“Fucking fly!” Death yells.

“Don’t gotta tell me twice.” Sally surges forward at breakneck speed. Death flattens back in his seat and hits his head on something. He reaches back and pulls out a bottle that sloshes. It’s vodka, one of Jesus’s, but he doubts the man will care.

He pops the top and drinks it down by the mouthful. If the world is going to Hell, he is determined to sleep through it.

“Screw you, world.”

“Yeah, what he said. Save me some of that, eh?”

“Your beak isn’t getting anywhere near this bottle.”

“Jerk.”

Death smiles as the alcohol takes him to oblivion.