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

light *pop pop pop* around the corners of his eyes. The headache just gets worst as he gets farther of f the ground until it is a full- bore sum-bitch that grips the back of his skull and throbs all the way to his forehead. Like something is holding him in a vice. Something is squeezing the life out. Someone is turning his brain to mashed potatoes.
    One stumbling step goes squish in his vomit. Looks down, gross. Fights the urge to puke again but can’t help it , and th e only thing nearby is his fish tank. Chuzz throws the lid back and unleashes another stream, which will keep those little meat eaters happy for a while ‘cause he is pretty sure chunks of his gut came up. Have to check the pH balance later, he chides himself and laughs. Ha ha; pH balance . Those little leeches won’t last a day in that stuff.
    Then again, weirder stuff has happened to Chuzz. Even weirder stuff is about to happen.
    Splashes some water under his pits. He sniffs them and decides he should probably get in the shower. He tries to dig a towel out of the basket, but there isn’t one. When the hell is his mother going to get his laundry done?
    Glances in the mirror. He ’s already got three days’ worth of dark gr owth; it can wait another day , so fuck the shave. Little toothpaste swished around with some pure potato vodka that he makes himself.
    Right as rain, and he is ready to get to work. Had to pop the lid of the bottles of pills, though, didn’t like that one little bit. The government can track him that way, and he likes that even less.
    Always trying to catch the Chuzz up to no good. He is way too smart for that, which is why his pills come to a PO box and are delivered to a woman named April P. Umbrella. His Internet doctor makes sure everything is on the up and up.
    Pills, not the blue one ‘cause it isn’t Wednesday. Or is it? Some regular painkillers with a side order of Depakote for the bipolar. Lithium for the voices and Zoloft for the depression. A pair of methadone for Phil. He goes to his companion and shows him the pills. A handful of heaven. Phil stops masturbating for a few seconds and opens his mouth wide, then it is all adoring grins while he beats his meat like it IS Wednesday night. Chuzz shakes his head and goes back to the tiny bathroom.
    The thirty-watt bulb doesn’t illuminate much in this chunk of nirvana. It makes the yellow yellower and the shit stains on the toilet seat darker. Makes the layer of scum in the bathtub a little more tolerable, and it makes his skin seem almost normal.
    He frowns at the thought of stripping off his clothes and standing under a white sheet of searing agony as water that is barely above freezing does its best to tear his skin off. He could pay his heating bill and get some warm water, but he only has enough extra cash to pay for his Internet usage this month.
    Can’t lose his website. If that goes down, the gays will take over and then it will be the end of the world. The damn end!
    He douses his hair with cold water, and his hands come away oily. He uses a roll of Bounty to dry off his long hair then runs the old silver hair dryer for a few precious minutes. It almost depletes his entire reserve on one battery—one of hundreds of potatoes sitting in lemon water, rotting and creating electricity. He walks naked back to his pile of clothes and digs through them. At least one shirt doesn’t smell like shit, so he puts it on. Maybe he should just drag his clothes upstairs and wash them today.
    Not today, please not today. He has things to do, places to go and cocks to suck.
    No not suck, never suck! He goes to investigate. To map out where the damn gangs hang out with their rock-hard cocks on display. Bastards; every one of them will burn in the fires of hell.
    “Ain’t that right, Phil?” he calls over to his orangutan , who is lying on his side, head lolled back so he can stare at the ceiling. Drool runs down his hairy chin and coats his neck. One eye is closed , and the other