The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1) (2 page)

His side of the door is clear; wisps of fog drift lazily across it. Gabriel’s side of the door is thick, tall, and wooden. Gabriel stares at it now as if it had called his mom a whore.

He smiles again; six judges burst into flames.

“GAWD?!?
Can you hear me?”

He sighs. A deaf man hears.

“Yes, Gabe. Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you, Gawd.”

“Good, my child. Now go on without me.”

“Gawd, it is time for the Apocalypse. You’re kinda’ expected to make an appearance …”

“Yeah, I know. But, I got to honest with you, I’m over it.”

“What?”

“I’m not really in the mood for it anymore.”

“Uh, Gawd, I don’t think you can do that.”

He growls under his chicken breath; somewhere a volcano explodes.

“I can do whatever I want, Gabe. It’s a perk of being The Creator.”

Gabriel stammers on the other side of the door, unable to form words for his dismay and confusion.

“But what about …”

“Over it.”

“But …”

“Over it.”

“Well …”

“Over it, too.”

Gabriel stomps his foot in frustration.

“GAWD!”

“Calm down, Gabe. Don’t look at it like I’m deserting this entire plane of existence for another with no humans or human-like things. Look at it like you are being freed of your celestial servitude.”

“What are WE supposed to do?” t
he big angel whines.

“I don’t know, Gabe, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. You know, with the new plane of reality and all.”

“Gawd, I don’t …”

“It is okay, Gabe, I know. Just go do whatever you want. If it is battle and Armageddon you seek, then bring your holy fury down upon your enemies. Just, eh, keep my name out of it, all right?”

“Gawd …”

“Okay, Gabe, I’m over this conversation. Have fun, buddy, and no hard feelings.”

Omnipresence is excited again. Creating again. Loving again.

“What is cooler than humans, other than chicken pot pies?” he wonders aloud.

He smiles. Somewhere a turtleman becomes chief of a new tribe on a new planet in the middle of a new universe.

Gabriel turns to face the legions. Shock drains the color from his face and loosens his jaw muscles so that his mouth hangs and drools.

They stare in wonder as Gabriel rubs his chin, trying to figure out what to tell them. They figure it out when they blink and Hea
ven is gone. Where a moment ago
they were surrounded by clouds and brightness, now they stand in the middle of a vast barren desert.

They look ridiculous in their shining battle suits, wings folded behind them. Some bear arms while others carry horns or trumpets.

“Uh, what just happened?”
A pair in front ask
in unison.

“He’s over it,” Gabriel tells them with a winged shrug.

“He’s over it?” That would be Tony. He has been polishing his battleaxe for months while watching American Idol reruns.

“He can’t be over it!” A perfectly sculpted face frowns. That would be his sister Tonette. She has a spear in one hand and a net in the other. She is addicted to gladiator porn and talks about capturing a few humans for her personal pets, then raising them to fight in the pits once Armageddon is over.

Gabriel looks around the empty expanse of desert. Does it always have to start in the desert? Can’t the battle for Earth start somewhere like Barbados?

“Ah shit. This isn’t even the right desert.”

The collected
mass of angels sigh
like a departing storm and drop their weapons in disbelief.

The Nevada Black Rock Desert
–
Burning Man
Fifty Feet behind the Shitter Wrappe
d in Bubble Wrap and Fruit Roll-
Ups

Deputy Sheriff Fenton Morks is watching the Burning Man festival from the sidelines when the first group of people breaks off into the barren wastelands behind the tents and booths. Then another. He leans his sheriff cowboy hat back and wipes the sweat from his face. Morks puts his hat back on and watches a skinny little man dressed as Pan, the goat-footed, flute-playing god, run from the groups back into the main body of chaos.

“I got a bad feeling about this,” he tells no one in particular, as he is wearing his uniform. To his understanding, no one at Burning Man will talk to a cop.

The little Pan Man runs from the camp with a dozen weirdoes in tow.
 
Officer Morks’s
 
cop instincts kick in when the groups start waving and greeting each other in an excited manner. The Pan Man and the strange dozen behind him skip and sing joyful-sounding tunes, and the distant group claps and cheers. Officer Morks sees smiles on every face–every face that isn’t obstructed by a mask or make up or ball gag—and his adrenaline kicks in, helping him run just a little faster. Dirt flies from his heels
,
and he reaches up and screams, “Backup requested, directly behind ‘Restroom
Tickle Stick
,’”
 
into the walkie on his shoulder.

“I got ya’,” squawks the sheriff over the walkie.

The Pan Man reaches the first group seconds before a charging Officer Morks. The Pan Man jumps and stands with his arms bent and his hands in the air. He puffs proudly to his full height of five feet and one inch and announces to the group, “I bring friends!”

As soon as the words escape his mouth, Officer Morks ducks his head and crashes into the diminutive man, striking under his upstretched arm. The Pan Man crumples to the ground with a thud. Officer Morks loosens his nightstick and pulls it free in one quick motion. He turns on the dozen crazies that were behind the already intercepted Pan Man and swings the
nightstick at them. They all back up, tripping over each other in their haste.

 
Morks swings back to the first group, who stare at him with wild vacant eyes. Two men, nude except for long black nun hoods, are crouched in the sand around what looks to be a giant sand asshole. Behind them is a circle of weirdoes of various sizes, colors, and kinks. Officer Morks reaches up and slides his sunglasses down so he can peer over the lenses at what look like small fleshy dicks crawling all over the freaks.

“What in the …” Morks asks anyone who can finish his question.

The Pan Man stands with a groan and tells him, “Cockbugs! Aren’t
 
they fucking sweet!? We,” he points to his chest and to the two bearded naked nuns, “just discovered them! Just now, right here!”

Officer Morks takes a step back and swings his club at the Pan Man’s head as hard as he can. The hard black plastic connects with a sick sloppy noise, and blood splatters the small crowd. The force of the blow knocks the Pan Man off his feet, and he lands in a heap with his hands covering his head. Morks smiles and bashes his club against the man’s tiny toga-clad ribs with a crack.

Officer Morks faces the dick-covered group and in a more confident voice asks, “Are those dicks crawling all over you?”

“YES!” the dick-coated group sings in unison. One of the nuns adds, “They are Cockbugs from the Mother Earth! And they are BEAUTIFUL!”

“YES,” the group chants, “BEAUTIFUL COCKBUGS!”

A man sits cross-legged near the pucker of earth. Cockbugs cover him from his hemp shoes to his dirty Rusted Root tee shirt. The fleshy little pricks crawl all over him, over skin and hair alike. As he speaks, the crowd around him begins humming
ommmm.
“They are a sign from our Earth Mother. She has given us these little bugs to remind us of the beauty of the penis! The beauty of this tool of love! She is asking for our love! These Cockbugs will take our love to her! Orgy on the mound!”

The Pan Man struggles to his feet with a wide sedated grin. He wobbles back and forth as he raises his hand to Officer Morks. The officer peeks over his sunglasses again and sees a little prick, all veined shaft and head with two nasty little horns, crawling over the small man’s hand on many little black legs. The Pan Man smiles at Morks with a lopsided grin and tells him, “They tickle and get you HIGH!”

Officer Morks frowns at the curly-haired man bleeding from his head wound and offering a dick-shaped bug. Morks slaps the man’s hand away, sending the Cockbug flying. The Pan Man’s eyes criss-cross as they follow the flying bug in slow motion. As soon as the Pan Man’s head turns, Officer Morks swings his nightstick again. It hits the man hard in the back of the head, and blood shoots out his nose, mouth, eyes, and ears. Morks swings the club every bit as hard into the man’s crotch. It cracks and smooshes, and Morks rears back for a final battery. He grasps a fistful of
toga and gives the man a good shake before connecting the club with the man’s skull with a crack that echoes through the massive camp.

“What’s the problem here, Officer Morks?”
 
Sheriff Smoochole asks from behind.

The deputy drops his beat bag onto the hot Nevada sand. He is breathing in short wild bursts and smiling like a maniac.

 
“Nothing, sir,”
 
he says before turning around to see the sheriff in a leather g-string. Thin leather straps rise from the revealingly little piece to meet on a metal circle in the middle of the sheriff’s old skinny chest. He still wears his cowboy hat and his aviator sunglasses. His badge is pinned to the leather strap going over his shoulder. Officer Morks stares at the sheriff with embarrassment reddening his cheeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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