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

by Moon, Jonathan

  A sick feeling rolls Leon’s belly. He’s listened in at the confession booths, but he would never spank it there. Thinking of ugly Father Maniwhore beating his meat while relieving sinners of their faults as Leon listened, unknowingly, through the thin wood makes him queasy. He wants to go back home and hide. Maybe get on the computer to see if Chuzzle, his favorite paranoid blogger, has any words of wisdom about the chaos.

  Father O’Coddle sees the sickness in Leon’s eyes. “Yeah, Leon, I feel it because we sit back to back with only the thin wall in between. It’s distracting as fuck when I’m trying to absolve a mother fucker. You know what I mean?”

  Leon doesn’t want to think about it, so he nods and hopes he won’t have to hear any more about Father Maniwhore and his self-love. The two walk down the hallway without talking, Father O’Coddle whistling his Christmas song and Leon staring at his feet to avoid the laughing faces on the walls. The cathedral is even more crowded than before. The mob turns and looks at them, and Leon feels their eyes burrow into him.

  Father Maniwhore’s deep voice thunders through the church. “THE END HAS COME, ALL SINNERS!!!”

  The dick-shaped bruise darkening Leon’s cheek begins to burn, and Leon watches everyone melt and puddle on the stone floor as Father Maniwhore continues, “REJOICE, I SAY, FOR THE TIME IS UPON US!!!”

  Whimpering, Leon pushes his way through the melting crowd, into the foyer, and out into the day. Smoke fills the sky, and flames pour from the buildings around him. Leon sets off at a dead run for home with his hands held up to shield his eyes from the chaos of people screaming, windows breaking, and cars crashing.

  “I just want to make it home and go to sleep,” he repeats in his head over and over. He tries it out loud, but “Snuggle fuck holy house monkey sack” just doesn’t have the same calming effect. He pushes through the front door and past Jerome, who barks, “Where the shit is Bud?”

  He ignores the fat man, still thinking “I just want to make it home and go to sleep.” As Leon turns toward the stairway to his room, he grabs an unopened Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy. He amends his mantra as he trudges up the stairs. “I just want to go home, fuck a piece of pussy-shaped plastic, and go to sleep.”

  Death Gets Some Ass

  The horse is a massive stallion that gallops through the rent in reality. His name is Chester, and he breathes fire when he is in a bad mood. He and Death have been together for a long time, but the stallion is sick and tired of carrying the bald man all over the damn place. He was due for retirement a long time ago. He was promised an endless field of young fillies, but that never happened. Yeah he is resentful, but he has a great job. He gets to lead the charge, and when the two-legged people fall, he gets to mush his hooves through their skin and blood.

  Sometimes it’s the little things in life that make it worth getting up for one more mass slaughter. He lands on the ground going a solid twenty miles an hour and leaps over an oncoming car. The driver freaks out and hits the brakes, sending the car screeching to a sideways halt before the front end, now at an angle to the road, is sheared off by a Dodge Ram truck loaded with slot machines.

  Chester tugs his lips back in something suspiciously like a grin.

  The slot machines fly over the front of the truck and smash all over the street, sending coins and shards of wood and metal into traffic. The resulting scene resembles overdone movie action as every driver on the freeway tries to adapt to the impromptu obstacle course.

  The rider taps the stallion with his left foot, speeding him to the side of the road so the rider can see what’s going on.

  Chester drinks it in. The guy he frightened tries to get out of his car, but a limo hurtles into the truck pushing the Dodge into the side of the car. The door flies back and pins the man to the side of the vehicle before his head pops like a melon.

  “Sorry!” the man calls.

  Chester is not.

  Death is confused.

  Nothing is going right. The seals haven’t been found. That was the first bit of concern he brought to his colleagues. The fact that all seven were still intact. But they didn’t listen; they said it was time to make up their own rules instead of living up to something a bunch of guys high on mushrooms wrote almost two thousand years ago.

  The chosen are going to be pissed. Jesus is supposed to appear and take them to Heaven (which ain’t all that great; Death has been there and no one has a sense of humor) leaving the others to roast in Hell. Well it sort of works that way. Once he takes the good guys away, the four Horsemen have free reign. But none of it is happening the way it’s supposed to!

  Where are the plagues, the fires, the mass deaths? Where are the locusts and shit? And where the hell is Jesus?

  He wanders the streets, which are filled with partiers indulging in all manner of revelry. What the hell else would they be doing? It’s the end of the world and no one cares. Well he is going to make them care, he and the other three Horsemen. No one makes a mockery of them the way that woman on TV did today.

  But he has something else on his mind right now. Something about which he has been thinking for thousands of years. Something that he is not supposed to try, but what the hell, the rules are all messed up. Nothing is going as planned.

  “Its Arma-fucking-geddeon and no one cares!” he yells at the top of his lungs.

  “Armageddon! Wooooooooo!” a bunch of college kids yell back with their hands and drinks in the air.

  “ARMAGEDDON!” others yell farther down the street.

  Death shakes his head and considers breaking out the old scythe right here and now.

  He comes across a place that is just what he’s looking for. It was probably a pawnshop until recently, but the sign has been torn down and replaced with a fresh handwritten one. The windows are brightly lit, and the object of his quest is just inside.

  He dismounts and shoos his horse away. Just before it departs, Death is pretty sure his steed gives him a sardonic look. What the hell is wrong with everyone today? The steed spins in a full circle, front legs kicking at the air. It stops with its giant horse cock pointed at Death and then leaps into the air and is gone in a half heartbeat. The air ripples where it passes.

  He turns his attention to the shop. The figures in the front are pretty good-looking as far as mortal women go. He was always partial to those angels, the arch ones with the blond hair and muscular bodies, but most of them were far too pure and chaste to take up with him. He heard that War got a hand job from one once, but War was probably just talking out his ass.

  A leggy blonde strolls up to him and hands him a flyer. She is dressed in a see-thru white top and a bright pink thong that reads Eat At Ella’s on the waistband. Her age is hard to guess, because she has enough make up caked on to make a clown break down in tears and worship her.

  “Welcome to the Fuck Pit. My name is Ella, and here are our rates.” She sounds and looks bored. “You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”

  “I have a face like that.”

  “With all those tattoos? I bet you don’t at all. Are you in the movies or something?”

  “Like you said. With a face like this?”

  “Christ. What a day I’m having. With all the crazies in the street talking about the end of the world it seems like every virgin within twenty-five miles has been in and out of here.” She cocks a hip and strikes a pose that Death assumes is supposed to be sexy.

  “Isn’t in and out all part of the game?” he asks.

  “Nothing gets by you, smart guy. We just opened. Carl said it was on the up and up, but I have my doubts. You don’t just have a whorehouse spring up in the middle of the city in a day. There are palms to grease, people to blow. Why the hell am I telling you all this?”

  “I guess confession is good for the soul.” He grins.

  “So what do you want? Just look at the little flyer there, and I’ll bring out some girls.”

  She rings a little bell on her hand, and within seconds seven or eight women in var
ious states of dress enter the room. Death looks them over and settles on a brunette dressed in a bright red latex top that hugs her skin so tightly he wonders how she can breathe in it.

  “Her.”

  “Terra? You got a death wish or something?” She smiles.

  “Her.” He grins.

  “Fine. Work out the details in the room.”

  The woman smiles demurely at Death and takes his hand. She is about five foot five, but with her red stilettos she must be closer to six feet, because he can see the back of her neck straight ahead. He can also see her ass around the strip of plastic she wears as clothing.

  “My name is Terra Fuckbunny. Mind telling me what you had in mind?”

  “Something I have always wanted to try,” he almost whispers.

  She draws him into a room filled with all manner of paraphernalia. Straps and chains hang from every wall along with whips and paddles of all sizes. He whistles appreciatively. Death knew a few Inquisition types that would get hard-ons at such a display.

  She turns to regard him, and he holds out the flyer with his finger pointed at one of the options toward the bottom.

  “That’ll cost you.” She grins as she looks him up and down.

  Death gives her a few of the hundred-dollar bills he found in the woman’s purse at the talk show that morning. She had a whole pile of them rolled up along with pills and powders of all sorts.

  “Now get on your knees!” she orders, face suddenly stern.

  When he is down, she puts one stiletto heel on his back and leans over to whisper in his ear. Death tries not to grin.

  Jesus, he Sucks at Craps!

  Charlie’s boss sucks on a cigar. He is as wide as a refrigerator and bald as an apple. He puffs when he isn’t gasping great big breaths that rattle and wheeze when he moves.

  A waiter steers around the men and into the hubbub of the casino. Amidst rumors of the end of the world, people have flocked to Sin City like never before. Charlie has never seen so many luckless losers blowing their savings at such a rate. They are making so much cash that boss man hasn’t said shit about losses all day. Even the Chinese guy who left with two million house dollars was allowed to just go back home like he won two bits. Few weeks ago, Edgar Marcinni would have been all over the guy like a snake oil salesman until they won some of the money back. What the fuck was the world coming to?

  A slow army of graying hair and tropical shirts pours inside. Probably another bus of rich golden-year retirees who are sick of kneeling in church praying for their souls.

  The volume is increasing by the hour. People are flooding in like Tom Jones is performing tonight, but he isn’t. He’s rumored to be vacationing in Bali while the ‘excitement of possible coming events’ plays out.

  The ground picks that moment to heave and ho like a ship that just hit a wave. He reaches out and grabs the arm of the pit boss to keep his balance. The bigger guy smiles at the minor earthquake and rides it while clenching down on his cigar with yellowed teeth.

  “Another little one.” He shrugs off Charlie’s hand and turns to face the army of the old. “Come oh ye faithful. Spend yar fuckin’ money like it is going out of style.”

  “This can’t keep up. People are going to get wise to the fact that they are still alive in a few days. Take that guy there. How long has he been at it?”

  “The crazy in the robe? Three fucking days. He ain’t moved and ain’t that some shit?”

  “What?” Charlie says.

  “He ain’t moved in three days.”

  “That a record or something?”

  “Pretty close. That meth head made it for four, but he went out in an ambulance. This guy doesn’t look tired. He seems … I don’t know, elated. Go talk to him. See what he is all about. Offer the guy a nice room or something. The way he is spending money, we need to keep him happy.”

  “Sure, boss, no problem.” Charlie steps away and is almost plowed down by an electric wheelchair driven by a demonic-looking woman with black cat’s eye glasses and a disheveled bun of blue that trails behind her. “I fucking won ten grand. TEN GRAND!” she yells as she almost runs him over.

  He takes the long walk along losers’ row. How many times has he taken the steps and tried to reconcile what he does? How much money he helps bring in, how many dreams he has seen crushed. How many times has he stared into the eyes of someone who just lost a child’s college tuition? Offered comforting words, offered the devastated parent a free upgrade to a suite and a fresh line of credit?

  It pays to look like a nice guy. At work at least. He tried to be a nice guy at home, but that didn’t work out so well with his lovely bride Edwina. Bitch kicked him in the fucking balls and drove over his legs. They found the car a few days later but no sign of her. He wanted to press charges, but he was too damn embarrassed that she’d beaten the hell out of him and stolen his car.

  Stupid cunt. He gave her everything, and as payback he gets to walk with a limp everywhere he goes. Some days he wakes up and can’t feel his fucking legs. If he ever catches up with her, she isn’t going to feel her legs for a long time.

  He strolls past a pair of patrons. A short man with bright red hair and a stunning woman dressed in something that resembles clothing. She has gigantic fake boobs that are barely contained behind her string top. They are kissing while she takes his dice and tosses them across the table. He grabs a handful of her ass and peeks as the dice come to a stop. Then he jumps up and down as they win a cool five grand. Charlie can tell the winnings from a mile away. His eyes lock on the color of the chips, and he feels like the money is being taken out of his own account.

  They will probably lose it back to the house in a few minutes. Nothing else to see here; move along, folks.

  He makes it to the craps table and gets an up-close look at the man who is perched over the back of it. One foot cocked up on the support of the leg rest. His other hand crooked, elbow on the table, hand cupping chin with fingers tapping pearly white teeth. He has a full beard, which reminds him of one of those Al-Qaeda mother fuckers on TV. The ones who want to kill Charlie and take away his freedom.

  The man’s eyes are wide open and bloodshot. Sweat drips down his brow and onto the collar of his robe or toga or whatever the hell that sheet hanging to the ground is supposed to be. Probably works on one of the shows; he looks like one of those Broadway wannabes who run around in costumes. Looks like he could play someone’s dad with all that hair and those dark circles under his eyes.

  “You … uh … you okay, sir?”

  “Yep.” He doesn’t even look at Charlie. He just grabs the dice and tosses them with a flourish of his hand, white robe whipping out with a snap.

  “Sir, if you would like to take a break, we can hold your chips for you. No one will let anything happen to them. Or you can take them with you, and the table will hold your spot.”

  He tosses the dice again, and they come up a three and a two. He stares at them like they are his worst enemy, like he is going to reach across the table, sweep them up and toss them across the room.

  “Me!” he exclaims.

  “Pardon?”

  The man turns his full gaze on Charlie, and the man who has seen it all recoils. There is something there. Something old beyond measure. Something that makes him want to find a hole and hide in it. He feels like he is under the gaze of his angry father, just like the old days when the drunk used to chase him out of the house.

  He thinks of the first time he hit Edwina, and he feels a flash of pity, of shame. He feels like a child who has done something wrong but was never punished for it.

  “I’m sorry,” he says to no one in particular.

  “I said me, you half-tard. Now fetch me another of those wondrous drinks that make my head buzzy and dizzy at the same time.”

  Charlie really can’t do anything. The man is in full possession of his faculties, that much is certain. He may be a bit crazed, but otherwise he is harmless. If he were causing a scene, it would be a different matte
r. He stands on unfamiliar ground here as he contemplates what to do with the man. Three days of gambling. That can’t be good.

  He affects a tight little smile meant to look dismissive even though he is the one being summarily sent away like kid without his supper. He meanders back to the boss, narrowly avoiding a pair of midget Elvis impersonators who are belching fire from their mouths and asses.

  The boss gives him the arched eyebrow. He doesn’t really know what to say, how to respond to the fact that he was told to go away. He shrugs his shoulders. A sound from the table he just left grabs his attention. The guy is stomping his foot. Is that a fucking sandal? “Me Me ME!” he yells.

  “How much is he down?”

  “They say three point four mill, but I find that hard to believe.”

  “Jesus.” The room goes completely silent for a split second, and all eyes glance at the man in the robe.

  “What the fuck?” the boss whispers, then it is chaos again as machines spit out money, take in money, lose money and clang clang clang like there is no tomorrow. Which there isn’t, according to most of the people in the building.

  Charlie is not so sure. He still has customers to draw in, and he plans to wring every dime from them so he can keep the real bosses happy.

  “Weird,” Charlie says to himself. Boss nods and goes back to work.

  The building shakes again, and someone wails as chips fall to the floor and roll everywhere. Scrambling, fingers reaching then fists pummeling. Kicks, groans, bodies go down. Security descends on the scene and sorts things out with elbows and clubs.

  Much later in the day and Charlie has watched the man in the robe for hours. He can’t figure the guy out. He orders enough vodka and Red Bulls to placate an army of alcoholics. He downs them, belches, scratches his ass. He shuffles from foot to foot, and every time he reaches into his robe he pulls out money. Where the hell does all that damn money come from?