Pestilence tucks the baggie away in his robes and nods at Jerome. O’Coddle answers the nod by grabbing Jerome and throwing him onto his knees in front of Pestilence.
“Where is the rest?” Pestilence demands. “I smell more.” He sniffs and walks toward Leon’s closet and the peepshow hallway. “Strange chemicals. WHERE?”
“No more,” Jerome sobs.
General O’Coddle wraps his dead hand around Jerome’s live one and squeezes. Jerome squeals in pain as O’Coddle crushes his hand to mush. He screams again when the general lets go of the mass of sinew and bone where his hand used to be.
“In the fucking closest! In the fucking mop bucket!” Jerome screams, while goggling at the bloody stump where his beat-off hand used to be.
Pestilence runs to the janitor closest and wrenches the door open so hard the hinges snap. He tosses the door down the hallway behind him with a clatter. He spots the oily mixture in the filthy yellow mop bucket, and he grabs it with both hands and raises it to his gaping jaw. Pestilence guzzles the homemade LSD and lets it run down his chin and chest. He leans forward for a breath, and long strands of his greasy hair fall in into the half-empty bucket. His eyes dart back and forth, then roll madly in their sockets. He raises the bucket to his face and chugs it in the same sloppy fashion. When he is finished, he stands up, drops the empty mop bucket, and laughs out loud when it grows dozens of spindly legs and crawls out of sight down the dark hallway.
He walks slowly back to the main store, each step sending shivers up his spine and twitches to his fingers and toes. He raises his arms as he stands before a kneeling Jerome. Pestilence feels great razor-sharp wings grow from his back and reach for the sky. He feels titties bulge and flop from the flesh on his sides and belly. He feels realizes bells have grown from his wings when he hears them ring. He opens his eyes, and colors roll and dance around each other.
Pestilence feels flowers sprouting from his palms, so he turns them up and vines wrap his arms and the tits on his sides and belly. He looks at down at the spot where Jerome used to be, but a wounded hippo has taken the whimpering man’s place. Pestilence drops his hands to his sides and feels his wings, tits and vines turn to large drops of fluid and run down his body, each tickling and pleasing him. As the drops hit his dick, he explodes all over the inside of his robe.
Pestilence falls to his knees, his eyes wide and wild, and tells Jerome, “I want more.”
“Leon took the last,” Jerome whines. “But he is fried as fuck and headed to Vegas.”
“Vegas,” Pestilence repeats as his mind dances through a postapocalyptic disco.
“Make me more,” Pestilence grins at Jerome with his graveyard smile.
Jerome holds up his stump and cries, “I can’t!”
Pestilence huffs and waves his hand. General O’Coddle grabs Jerome by the back of his neck and throws him through the back door and into the arms of the waiting zombie horde. The camo-clad creatures rip and tear at Jerome, opening his belly and carrying off his organs.
“Well, O’Fondle,” Pestilence mumbles while turning to the front door, “WE are heading to Vegas. I want a taste of some fried Leon.”
He looks back to the general. O’Coddle’s dead eyes twitch and roll in their sockets, but he doesn’t feel the flames that engulf his head.
Pestilence blinks, and the flames are gone. “This is KILLER shit, O’Fondle.”
Pestilence mounts his steed and kicks it in the ribs. The general follows right behind, and the zombies stumble from around the building, most carrying pieces of Jerome for the road.
None of them notices the shit-filled pickup rocking back and forth in the parking lot. Wet moans sound from within the mountain of feces, and a long thick log of shit reaches up and out. It twists and twirls in the air. Splits and spreads until there are four wiggling fingers. A second shit arm shoots up and twists into a giant shit pincher. The two shit arms grip the hood of the pickup, and the shit demon roars as it forms from its own defecation with only thoughts of revenge. And shit.
Jesus and Death get Lit and Take a Road Trip
They try a couple of cars, but none seems appropriate for one of the four Horsemen and Jesus. Death is quite aware of the irony, of course, one of the Horsemen without a horse. It’s sort of like War without that big old sword of his. Always gallivanting around, stirring up the masses. When he can’t get a decent war going, he calls in Famine, that fat bitch. Those two were thick as thieves even in the early days.
“What’s the plan?” Death examines a little Volkswagen Beetle, but it is too small for his scythe.
“We’re going to go have a little chat with that son of a bitch out in the desert.”
“You serious?”
“Yep. Then I’m going to punch him right in the eye.”
“Uh, boss, I don’t mean to question you, but you know he is as big as a skyscraper, and they say you can’t even see his entire body yet. He is still coming out of the ground.”
“Yeah. I saw that firsthand.”
The ground is littered with debris. A bouncing box with a gaping hole in one side hops by. It looks like a newspaper dispenser, but it says The Daily Cunt on the side. Snapping teeth line the opening that used to dispense papers.
Death just stares.
“Now there’s something you don’t see every day.”
A green demon the size of a gorilla hurries after the thing. He is covered in snakelike hair that shakes and spits as he runs. He catches up with the box, grabs it, lifts it into the air and then slams a pair of giant cocks into the metal monstrosity. It jumps and bucks, but he screws it like it owes him money, humps it right across the road until he disappears around the rubble of a fallen hotel.
“Me.”
“You can say that again.”
They finally find something large and stately. A 1969 blazing red Plymouth Road Runner convertible. The front is higher than the back, and it boasts gigantic gleaming silver rims. The roof is off, torn off to be exact, and it is the perfect size for Death’s scythe.
“Really?” Jesus asks, his dark eyebrow arching up
“Fuck yeah!” Death replies.
Death hops in the driver’s seat, and Jesus sits next to him. The keys are on the floor, so he fires up the engine. He has never driven a car, but he drove a giant chariot a few thousand years ago, so this thing should be no trouble.
He rides over a curb, chases a pair of tiny demons from behind a condom machine lying in the street and then runs into a Kia, which pretty much destroys the piece of crap.
“Fuck!”
“Practice.”
He drives like an old woman for a while, just until he gets the hang of it. Then he plows into a man being chased by a gnarly demon dressed in drag. The man is screaming while covering his ass. The demon is screaming while brandishing a male sex doll.
The guy crumples across the hood of the car and flops onto the ground. His head hits like a melon and opens up with a splat.
“Shit!” Death yells and looks over the hood.
“It happens.” New Jesus sighs.
They raid a 7-11 and come out with Big Gulps filled with Slurpee mix that is mostly melted. Even so, Death gets a wicked case of brain freeze almost immediately. The flavor is Electric Blue, but it tasted tastes more like electric fuck you. His head hurts so much he almost asks the man himself to touch him and take away the pain.