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

is a slit. He keeps stroking himself even though he is limp.
    Stupid monkey, or should he say stupid ape? The semantics are frequently lost on his drug-addled brain.
    Probably feels like shit. Just like me. He gets a flash from last night. A drunken game of patty cake with Phil. They were making out. That can’t be right!
    Stands up, looks for pants. There they are, across the room over his computer chair. The space seems vast, but he will make the pilgrimage for his pants. One shambling step after another sees him at his destination and then with pants. Life is getting better.
    “Phil, wake the fuck up!” he calls to his pal in the corner. Phil holds up one hairy hand, his only hand, and gives Chuzz the finger. A hairy finger. Fuck you buddy and then some. His hand falls back lifeless. Snores filter across the room like a train leaving the station.
    He takes a Jenny Craig breakfast bar and tosses it to Phil. Fine, suck on that.
    “Fucking Phil,” he mutters.
    Tosses some clothes on the pile of vomit, and the place smells a hell of a lot better. Contemplates breakfast, but his stomach still feels like hell. Still feels like it is filled with acid. Like he is going to puke it all out at some point in the very near future. If there is even anything left in there.
    Need calm, center. He goes to his tiny refrigerator and extracts the carton of homemade buttermilk. A few quick swallows and he feels as right as rain. Funny how the texture is just like the stuff he puked up earlier. Well, goes out, goes right back in. Time to head to the store and then it will be time to get to work.
    He takes his mother’s beat-up Camaro to the grocery market . He ignores his neighbors, who are packing up to move. Trucks backed into garages like the whole neighborhood just sold to some land developer. Maybe it did, but Mom played hardball and refused to sell. Now they will have to build condos around her house.
    The store’s parking lot is a madhouse. The line stretches a half-mile, but he knows a short cut. Chuzz cuts around the back of the parking lot and noses between a pair of large hedges that scrape the car. Someone catches sight of him and honks their horn from the line, but fuck them. He hits the gas and fishtails through the gravel, shoots past the back of the store and zips around to the front. He parks in a tiny space marked with a handicap sign. He takes an old towel from the back seat and covers the sign. He’ll only be a few minutes.
    Inside, more lunacy waits. People run all over the damn place buying up cartfuls of canned goods and bottled water. The shelves are almost bare, but he finds what he n eeds after a few minutes of looking.
    Chuzz can’t stand waiting. He’ll do anything to avoid a line, including feigning injury. He sco res a place at the front of this one with a limp and a downturned mouth like every step is pure pain.
    It doesn’t hurt that he is feeling a little foggy today as though he were walking in a dream. Not one of those stupid nightmares he has every night, but a dream where everyone around him is a character and he the lead. He smiles when he has to, looks sad when it is appropriate, and tries to make as much eye contact as possible. This serves to control those around him like he is their puppet master. He reckons that’s why he gets his way. Always. And if those tricks don’t work, he resorts to his favorite weapon in his arsenal.
    He is about to unleash that baby right now. A ballistic missile designed to obliterate the enemy. In this case, the enemy is the cashier who has already scanned his meager collection of items. A bag of marshmallows, some kerosene and a package of stew beef meat that was marked down because it is turning brown and no one wants to see that shit on the meat aisle. Not that there was a lot else to see.
    Chuzz knows that the red color everyone demands is a byproduct of the food coloring and other unmentionables they add to stuff these days. He knows this because he reads