Agent Lickspittle isn’t sure where to put the document.
“Stan! C’mere, Stan, and take this tiny envelope from these government agents,” Satan says.
A tall, spiderlike demon crawls from the far side of the mountain. A dozen long, slender legs dance as it navigates the rocky terrain with ease. Each leg is forty feet tall and looks to be as sharp as a samurai’s sword. The torso is humanoid, but where the arms should be, tentacles twist and slap at the air. Stan the spider demon leans down and comes face to face with Agent Lickspittle. Up close, Stan looks almost human except for the two clusters of insect eyes peering at Lickspittle hungrily.
“May I?” Stan asks very politely for a demon.
“No,” Agent Lickspittle tells him. “I must serve the papers to Satan himself.”
From behind Stan, Satan says, “Actually, I prefer Beelzebub. And I officially empower Stan the spider demon as my representative when dealing with stubborn agents who should be crawling in my ass.”
Stan smiles, revealing long, barbed fangs. “I’ll take that,” he tells Agent Lickspittle before yanking the letter from his hand with a thick purple tentacle. He uses a second tentacle to tear open the envelope. His insect eyes scan the document Agent Lickspittle penned in the Humscalade the night before.
“It is hereby recognized, blah, blah, blah, Satan, Lord of Darkness, blah, blah, blah, wreaking havoc, blah, blah, peaceful gentle country, bullshit, blah, blah, blah, immediately ordered to Cease and Desist apocalyptic actions post haste, blah, blah, signed some pathetic human.” Stan tears the Cease and Desist into tiny shreds.
“Wrong move, Satan,” Lickspittle says, turning away from the giant face of the Devil. “I’ll give you time to consider it. At sunset, we’ll blast you back to Hell.”
Agent Gallstone reports to his cuff, “Papers served, Control, now we wait.” He turns and follows Agent Lickspittle to the Humscalade. The two climb in and slam their doors behind them.
Outside, Beelzebub, as he prefers to be called, jerks his giant head at Stan, and the spider demon skitters to his master’s service.
“Yes, my Dark Lord.” Stan bows before him.
“Kill them. And then stuff their corpses in my ass.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Stan says and turns to attack the agents, but Beelzebub stops him.
“Stan,” the Master of Evil tells him, “you’re doing a hell of a job.”
“Thanks, Satan,” Stan smiles. Venom drips from his grin as he scuttles toward the vehicle
Inside the Humscalade, Agent Lickspittle turns to Agent Gallstone.
“That went better than I expected.”
Stan taps on the window, and Agent Lickspittle rolls it down. The agent opens his mouth to say something, but one of Stan’s swordlike feet stabs through the window and then through Lickspittle’s chest. Blood gushes from the agent’s eyes and ears as Stan pulls his twitching form, still impaled on his foot, from the Humscalade.
Agent M aims the .50 caliber at Stan, but the demon swipes one leg straight down and cleaves the gun’s barrel in half. Agent M pulls a knife and puts it between his teeth. Then he pulls two more, one for each hand, and leaps at Stan. The giant spider raises a leg and lets Agent M’s own momentum impale him there.
Agent M drops both knives from his hands and inadvertently bites down on the one in his mouth. The force of his bite cleaves his head in half, and the top bounces off the Humscalade’s hood with a wet thud. Inside the vehicle, Agent Gallstone screams while rolling up the power windows, locking the power locks, and scampering into the driver’s seat. He slams on the gas, and Stan gives chase, slamming the corpses of Lickspittle and M into the ground with every step. The demon roars, and Agent Gallstone spins a wide donut and thumbs the air missile switch. A thick plume of silver smoke follows the missile to Stan’s chest, where it explodes in a rain of fire and spider legs.
Agent Gallstone slams on the gas again, and soon the giant red face behind him is lost in the sand kicked up by his screaming wheels. “Two agents down, Control. I’ll regroup and head home, Control. I’ll get even, I swear to you,” Agent Gallstone tells his cuff as tears cut wet paths down his dirty cheeks.
The Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy Can In NO Way, Shape or Form Save Someone Once He is Zombie Bit
Leon sits next to Bud in the back of General O’Coddle’s stolen Hummer. Bud is reading a copy of The Daily Cunt he grabbed when they last gassed up. The cover features a picture of two bulbous red ass cheeks surrounded by rock and earth. Every now and then Bud says, “Damn,” before turning the page.
The leather-g-string-wearing sheriff glances in the rearview mirror and asks, “What the shit are you reading?”
Bud holds up the paper so Smoochole can read the title emblazoned across the front of it.
“I’m an avid reader and diehard fan of The Daily Gab, but I gotta say I think this is better,” Bud says solemnly.
“More titties?” Smoochole asks.
“Yup,” Bud sighs and chews on his bottom lip.
“Devil titty-fuck ball torture?” Leon asks in a concerned voice.
“I have no fucking idea what you are saying, Leon,” Bud says, turning his attention back to The Daily Cunt, “but it does have constantly updated celebrity deaths. That’s cool. And look at this: a two-page pull-out map to the Devil’s ass and his head. Huh, big fucker that Devil.”
“Handjob goat face,” Leon mumbles and commences digging through his backpack. A smile creases his face when his fingers wrap around the fleshy shaft of the Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy. He pulls it out, and everyone recoils. Deputy Morks reaches back and swings his nightstick at Leon out of some primal instinct. Leon ducks back and screams, “Finger bang demon tailpipe Satan barnyard! Chuzz!”
“Is that how you talked to your friend Chuzzle?” Bud asks, astonished.
Leon nods and thinks back a day…
He fell asleep with his “girlfriend,” the Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy. Unfortunately for Leon, the Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy is the most innovative sex toy engineered in the last thirty years, and Leon couldn’t turn it on. Leon was undaunted, as he was used to being unable to turn on vaginas, be they real or plastic. He knew as he tore the bright pink box to shreds how slim were the odds of him experiencing the “pulsating, throbbing, total dick-squeezing” heaven it promised. So he ignored the thirty-three page instruction booklet.
As with many great technological advances, the Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy features a three-and-a-half-inch LCD screen and easily accessible social networking. Leon cared not for either. To be honest, he thought the screen made jerking off a little awkward. Lucky for Leon, he didn’t find awkwardness much of a hindrance to getting off. He squeezed the pink flesh shaft and jerked off into it like it was a three-hundred-dollar sweater sleeve. He didn’t care that it wasn’t on. He just hummed “Me and Bobby McGee” to drown out the screams and general chaos outside and made some sweet self-love.
But then, after he’d been asleep for hours, the Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussy began vibrating and twitching on Leon’s nightstand, sending the long-suffering lighters and troll dolls to the floor. He rolled over and stared at it through strands of his unwashed hair. It finally twitched enough to flip it up on its thick, fleshlike lips. His shaft danced in the air like a snake before a charmer. The LCD screen glowed a soft blue, and Leon could see thin black letters on its face. He was still seeing slight tracers, and he missed the first few times he tried to grab the flexing fake vagina. On his third swing, he grabbed it and pulled it close enough to read.