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

by Moon, Jonathan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Without me, there is no death.”

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

  “Not if I don’t take her soul.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The crowd claps and catcalls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I get to them. Sometimes I have a backlog, but I get to everyone in the end.” He fingers the circles under his chin and sighs. “But there are special occasions.”

  “I see. And this occasion is what exactly?” Outwardly she is calm. In control. Inside, her mind is going crazy. One of the producers slipped something in her drink. Something that is going to perk her right up. Her mind feels like it is under assault from bumblebees. They buzz around her noggin and make her want to shout crazy stuff. It’s the speed and the absinth. But this is how she puts up with the crazies and does the best interviews. High as a frigging kite.

  “It is everywhere. The signs. The end is here.”

  “The only sign I have seen is a billboard. Is that what you mean? Or is this something deeper? Something you need to prove to your brothers and sister? Some deep-seated need to show them that you are
in charge? No disrespect, of course.” She adds the words that make any question she asks safe. It’s her get out of jail free card. She uncrosses her legs and leans forward to put the microphone right under his chin like a bulbous cock.

  “I don’t need to show them I am in charge. They already know. These three have been with me since the beginning. But they are not as clever as I. Not by far.”

  “Here we go with the darkness bullshit,” War mumbles.

  “The only two things you are in charge of are Jack and shit,” Famine screams then jumps up and spins around while slapping her wide ass. The crowd goes wild. “And Jack just left town!”

  “You will learn of the dark soon enough, you ancient twat.”

  “So will you, you cock-swilling foul-breathed demon. You will learn of it when I punch you in the fucking teeth,” War says with a wicked grin.

  “I come for everyone, and soon enough I will come for you. And when I do, I will skullfuck your soul straight to the abyss myself.”

  War roars to his feet. Death is there at the same instant, and the two tussle for a moment, but neither seems very good at it. Famine screams like a banshee, which gets the audience out of their seats for the first time. They shout and scream for blood, but these gladiators are anything but warriors. Pestilence remains seated and continues waving at the crowd with those long fingers. He still has the smile plastered to his face like he is as high as a kite.

  “Punch him in the balls!” Famine screams at no one in particular.

  The security staff take to the stage to separate the loons, and the Horsemen sit down in a huff, arms crossed. More dark looks ensue.

  “Punch him in the cock!” Famine screams again even though the two have settled down.

  “I won’t lower myself to fighting by hand. I have armies to do my bidding. Minions to do my killing,” War spits.

  “These are not as clever as I.” Death turns to fix Kayla with a stare that sends shivers up and down her spine. “All I have to do is swoop down and lower the scythe, then all their precious armies of shit monkeys fall like toy soldiers. Well, toy soldiers with gaping wounds.”

  Pestilence leans forward in his chair and scoffs, "We aren't as clever as you?"

  His long fingers disappear in the shadow of his hood and scratch his unseen face. He turns to Kayla and tells her, "He is clever because he doesn't have to do shit!

  We do all the hard work." He nods first to Famine and then to War. "We are the ones who commit genocide. We are the ones who ravage the worlds with plagues and starvation. We kill you puke-fuck humans by the millions. Death just collects the souls."

  “Collecting souls is exhausting!” Death says.

  “Blah blah blah. I’m the dark one blah blah BLAH!” Famine yells the last word. Death gives her the finger.

  “So, Death doesn’t pull his share of the load, is that what you are saying?” Kayla asks.

  “You really are dumber than a shit stain!” Famine yells. A glob of spit flies out of her mouth and smacks across Kayla’s lap. Kayla stares at it in shock for a moment before shifting her gaze to the large woman.

  “Pardon me, Fatmine. I do not appreciate your hostility.”

  “I don’t give two rat rips what you appreciate. This whole place is going to be in the abyss in a few days.” Famine is on her feet again. She gestures for the crowd, but they boo her. Some get to their feet and shake their fists at her.

  Kayla smiles and gestures for the crowd to settle down. Famine finally takes her seat, but she has a huge smirk on her face.

  “If I could ask you a personal question, Fatmine.”

  “FAMINE, You fucking twig. I’m about to come over there and smother your face in my ass!”

  “Famine, I apologize. I do have one serious question … If I may?”

  Famine crosses her arms over her chest and stares.

  “Are you under the care of a doctor for the delusions? Any of you, for that matter.”

  Famine leaps to her feet, a truly frightening sight. The woman jiggles here and there, and Kayla is sure the studio shakes. Her chair shoots back, and Pestilence holds on for dear life. She waddles toward the host, but security intervenes. They are only a few feet from the stage when they step between the large woman and the tiny host. Kayla gets to her feet with her hands out to placate the crowd, but they are roaring with laughter.

  “Get your hands off me, you fucking apes. I’ll shart you into next week, see if I don’t!” She gasps and squirms, but they hold on. After a moment of screaming profanities, she stills and stares at the two.

  “Let her go,” Kayla says softly, and the men do. Famine looks at her, and Kayla suddenly doesn’t feel right. In fact, she feels like she has just eaten something very very bad.

  The two men drop to the floor, first to their knees, then they sprawl out as their bodies unfold. Then like twin geysers, they both open their mouths and spew furious streams of vomit across the carpeting. The larger of the two, an older man who used to be a marine and has seen more combat action than most platoons, curls up in a ball and then throws up again.

  “Fuccckkkk …” he manages to gag before more vomit spews out. It splatters the floor and Kayla’s very expensive shoes.

  “I’m gonna dock your goddamn son of a fucking …” she trails off as her eyes go as wide as stoned saucers.

  Kayla gasps as her own stomach is assaulted by something that feels like it ate its way into her gut and took up residence. Then the thing does this mean little circus act where it jumps up and down with razor blades. She falls next to the men and stares at Death’s sandals, which look older than the fucking desert itself. They look handmade, and for one mad moment she wonders how she can get a pair. Then her stomach tightens, and she throws up forever. She can’t even catch her breath. She gasps and waits for someone to pound on her back to help her, but when she opens her mouth to scream, the puke blasts out of her nostrils.

  “Pestilence …” one of them warns. Is that Death with his serious face? Her vision is blurry from tears or maybe because her eyes are covered in puke.

  “I’m ready to get this fucking show on the road.” She gets a glimpse of the thin man with his thin lips. He is smiling, but it is the scariest thing she has ever seen in her life. He can’t have a soul, not that one.

  Another wracking wave of pain strikes, and the rest of her cavities void themselves. Damn shame about the Vera Mutt skirt. Damn shame about the fancy shoes, the maker of which she cannot remember for the life of her.

  Kayla tries to roll over, but her body doesn’t listen. She manages to straighten her neck. All she gets is a glimpse of Fatmine’s large foot, which looks like a bunch of oversized hotdogs squished against the bands of her sandal.

  “It’s Famine, you stupid twat. Say it with me - FUCKING SAY IT!” The woman’s foot presses against Kayla’s head, compressing her skull against the stage. The wonderful buzz of wormwood has since departed, and she would just about kill for a few sips of absinth.

  “Famine,” she mutters between clenched teeth.

  “Yo, Death. Got one for you,” the woman screams.

  “Do your own dirty work.”

  “Never did have a sense of humor,” the large woman mutters. “Or a big enough dick to satisfy me.”

  “Please …” Kayla whispers.

  “Okay, princess.” Then the world goes dark as the big girl lifts her foot, takes a breath and jumps up and lands on Kayla’s head, which sounds oddly like a coconut cracking.

  The set is dead quiet owing to the bodies that litter the studio. The cameras still roll, which means Pestilence has to ham it up. Death shakes his head at the thin-lipped man who is preening into the nearest lens like he is the messiah himself.

  “Hide your food, for when I come your stomachs will know pain as they have never felt before,” he instructs the viewers. “Hide it well. Got some tomatoes in the backyard? You better can those fuckers in the next few minutes, because I am going to shrivel them up like prunes.”

  �
�Ah, can it, you douche,” Famine shouts over him.

  She mashes her sandal into the head of the pretty blonde. One of the girl’s eyes has popped out and is staring at Death. He stares back for a moment and reaches for her soul, but there is nothing there.

  “Famine. Back away.”

  “Fuck you, you nightmare-faced bastard. I’ll come over there and make you motorboat my tits!” she screams and shakes her chest.

  Death shudders.

  “Look at the girl.” He gestures toward the body.

  The skinny blonde twitches. Her arms and legs move in slow motion. One moves and then the other as she tries to get her limbs under her. Famine steps back and stands with Pestilence. They both watch with interest.

  Death approaches and touches the girl. She doesn’t stop moving.

  “Oh Christ!” War bellows and grabs his sword.

  “What’s wrong, War? You little bitch. Afraid you are going to get your fancy robe wet?” Famine studies the man as he approaches.

  “She is dead,” Death pronounces.

  “Well aren’t you the fucking psychic to the stars. Of course she’s dead. I crushed her head like it was an eggshell,” Famine yells in his face.

  “But she has no soul. It’s gone. I didn’t take it.”

  “Crap.” Pestilence sighs.

  “Where the hell is Jesus?” Famine looks around at the other Horsemen.

  “Supposed to be in Vegas. Isn’t that where all the shit is going down? Those crazies out in the desert stirring up the horned one and all. I thought we were all meeting up there tomorrow.” War studies his sword as he speaks. He runs one finger along it and then raises it high and chops off the head of the blond host.

  Then the rest of the dead audience starts to rise.

  “I’ll go look for him. Meet you guys at the end. Whenever the hell that is.” Death snaps and a ghostly horse appears. The thing is nearly six feet, but he bounds up into the saddle like he was born in it.

  The horse rears back and leaps into the sky, leaving a massive hole in its wake. Rubble falls, and the other Horsemen dodge it.