Read The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1) for Free Online

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.
    “Show off!” Famine calls out in her screeching voice.
    All around them, bodies stagger to their feet and make for the survivors, but they are having none of it.
    War loops his sword around in a killing stroke that lops off a few heads. The others get a whiff of the blood and go to town in their own way. In a few minutes, there is enough crimson and puke to sink a ship.

 
    No Direction but Fuck
     
    Nathan P. Chuzzle wakes from a dream of drunken ballerinas performing fellatio on his sick monkey Phil, rolls over, and throws up. Violently. With a will. It splatters the wall, the floor, the bed. It’s on his face, on his fucking clothes, and when he finishes vomiting, he falls out of the old cot and does it again. He drifts off to dream land as the drugs chase his consciousness away.
    Phil wanders over and leans in for a sniff. He looks at Chuzz, looks at the puke and decides it ain’t so bad. Takes a taste, just a little on the tip of his white monkey tongue. Then he laps at it. Chuzz opens his eyes and tries to shoo the little bastard away, but Phil couldn’t give two shits what his master thinks or does. He is a monkey, and he does whatever the fuck he wants, and he does it frequently.
    After a nice breakfast of puke afterbirth, he goes to his corner to shiver. Little monkey images flash through his head because the man hasn’t given him his medication yet today. He is sick of waiting until noon for his hit. If that bastard doesn’t get up soon and cook it up, he is going to have to go ape on this place and nobody fucking wants to see that. The last time he went ape, he killed a possum that got trapped in the house. Followed it upstairs and beat it against the floor until it was pulp!
    Phil passes out from thinking too hard, just sets his head down and drifts into monkey dream land.
    Chuzz groans and rolls over. He stares at the ceiling and burps up a mouthful of fresh puke. He should lean over and spit on the floor, but just thinking about moving makes his head pound, so he just swallows it back down.
    Chuzz wants to die. He wants to die now.
    He has a gun and it is beautiful. He stares at it all the time. Well, the time that he isn’t staring at his monochrome screen or whacking off to Asian anime fetish porn. He stares at it, and he thinks about how cool it would be to see the barrel for the last time. Just look down it, study the tip of the lead ball and contemplate it accelerating up said tube and into his head. His biggest question is, ‘Will I hear the explosion as all those little grains of gunpowder ignite?’
    After groaning for a half hour, he finally rolls to his feet and tugs some dirty white underwear on. They were on the floor, but the puke missed them. He is pretty sure they were washed last week, so he has a day or two to go. He squishes through his own filth as he rips his puke-covered shirt off and tosses it in the corner. Steady now, on his feet, or not so steady since the floor insists upon swaying under his blurry eyes.
    Little bursts of