“Well,” General O’Coddle says, “don’t be an arsehole, Arseblister.”
“Sir,” Major Arseblister nods.
“Major,” the general answers and stares back out at the barrenness of the alkali flats.
Major Arseblister notices the massive makeshift parking lot ahead of them first. His jaw drops at the sight of the thousands of randomly parked cars, trucks, motorcycles, Volkswagens, and converted school buses presenting an impossible obstacle to the snake of Army vehicles behind them.
“Uh, General,” Arseblister says, still awed by the mile-wide thickness of vehicles.
“What in the drunk-enough-to-wear-a-dress fuck do you want now, Major?” O’Coddle asks, but he answers his own question as he turns to face his subordinate.
“Sweet meth lab explosion fuck!” General O’Coddle exclaims.
“Do we head through on foot, General?” Major Arseblister asks.
“Fuck no,” the general scoffs, “We move the mother fuckers!”
With that he grabs the radio and screams into it, “Tank Division: Alpha get your asses up here and clear us a path through!”
Four gargantuan tanks separate from the main line and rumble toward the parking lot, stopping alongside the general’s Hummer. General O’Coddle looks out his window with an ear-to-ear grin as he takes in the superior firepower of the four giant tanks; each with massive turret and .50 cal guns aimed at the vehicle-surrounded orgy.
“Well?” the general says into the mike, “fucking blow shit up!”
All four tanks fire missiles at the same spot at the same time. Smoke, ash, and sand fill the air, and everything is lost in gray for a minute. General O’Coddle leans forward, tapping his meaty fingers on the dashboard, and waits for the smoke to clear. Once it does, he sees the first several hundred feet of parking lot cleared of automobiles. All that remains is a huge crater blasted into the ever-shifting sand, now scorched black and shiny.
General O’Coddle grabs the mike with a groan and says, “Okay, assholes, one at a time. Firing order: Rectum, Damn Near Killed Them from the right. Go!”
The tank farthest to the right of the general lets loose a missile that sends two small foreign cars into the sky as fire and metal scraps. The next tank fires at the two vehicles next to the blackened remains. The explosion sends one skyward and one rolling over onto the car behind. The third and fourth tanks fire, and each destroys two or three automobiles. In seconds, the four tanks have cleared a fiery path almost all the way through the parking lot. The general’s Hummer rumbles forward, and the armada follows.
As the tanks near the orgy, the general orders, “Fan out and spread us a level firing line!”
The tanks group in pairs, blasting the cars and trucks closest to the orgy. A missile sends a VW Beetle flying over the squirming mass of humanity. The flaming chunk of metal skips across the top of the orgy like a rock across a pond, crushing people while they screw. It tears away a swollen section of arms, tits, and dicks in a shower of blood and gore. A tall, muscled man leaps screaming from the spot and climbs over the mass of moaning bodies beneath him. He hollers something at General O’Coddle and Major Arseblister as they step out of the Hummer, but neither can hear him over the sound of tank fire. When he reaches the very outer ring of the orgy, where people drag themselves to rest between wild, crazy fucking, he dives and lands at the general’s feet.
The man is Officer Johnson, still wearing his assless chaps (though they are now tattered and torn) and his feather boa (though it is now brown and slimy). All his fat has been worked away from a solid week of constant boning, and his ab muscles flex and twitch as he screams at the soldiers, “Stop! You don’t know what you’re doing!”
General O’Coddle turns to Major Arseblister, smiles at him, and moves his hands to the walrus tusk handles of his .357s. “This is why I’m in the middle of the desert, Arseblister.”
Officer Johnson stumbles forward, weakly rubbing his perma-chafed cock through paper-thin leather. “You can’t do this! The Cockbugs have started taking our love spunk to the Earth Mother to choke the Devil! If you kill people…”
General O’Coddle draws both his guns at once, and Officer Johnson’s head explodes in two separate blasts, sending flaps of skull and chunks of brains in opposite directions, before he can finish his thought, “… then the blood will mix with the love spunk, and it will poison the Earth Mother and set loose the Devil.” A statement that is common knowledge among the hippies who have spent the last three months with their heads in and out of the ever-widening Earth Asshole.
General O’Coddle blows the gun smoke away from the two barrels with a smirk. He takes aim with each pistol at different unsuspecting orgy members.
“Give the order, Major,” he says.
“Don’t we have to give them,” the major nods at the massive orgy, “a warning first, sir?”
“Fuck no! If they know it’s coming, they’ll run like there’s a war draft,” General O’Coddle says, drool leaking from the corner of his mouth in his pending kill frenzy.
“Right, sir,” Arseblister says. Then into his walkie talkie, he screams, “KILL THE MOTHER FUCKERS!”
The dark green tarps that cover the troop transport trucks are tugged down in unison, and each truckload of soldiers opens fire at the orgy. Bullets tear flesh away from bone and blood away from body as they cut large gory swaths in front of the vehicles. The general whoops and takes headshots at members of the mass that refuses to stop fucking like crazy. Major Arseblister shoulders his semi-auto rifle and unloads into the fuckfest. He steps forward into the blood and semen left in the orgy’s wake, and he doesn’t notice the skinny man wearing a cowboy hat and a tiny leather g-string crawling out of the mass of corpses on his hands and knees, with a shotgun in one of those hands.
Arseblister holds his trigger down until the rifle clicks empty. When he lowers it to reload, the blood- and jizz-covered Sheriff Smoochole looks up at him from the ground over the barrel of his shotgun.
“Asshole,” Smoochole shrieks and pulls one of the two triggers.
Major Arseblister’s neck and shoulders disappear in a smear of blood and bone. His eyes grow wide as his head rolls forward and he sees his body fall to the ground before his head hits the sand, where it rolls to General O’Coddle’s feet. The general turns on the balls of his feet, picks up Major Arseblister’s head by the hair, and stomps toward a slowly standing Sheriff Smoochole.
“You are one slam-your-dick-in-a-drawer dumb fuck, son.” General O’Coddle says as he thrusts the dead major’s head at Smoochole.
Sheriff Smoochole shakes with fury. “You stupid sono’ bitch! You’ve doomed the entire world!”
“I doomed this tiny little corner of Babylon, and I’ll burn it to the sand and then burn the sand to glass,” the general says as the two men come nose to nose and hat brim to hat brim, “and since this is where you are, this must be where you want to die!”
Tanks turn their turrets on the miles-wide orgy and fire heavy rounds into the crowd, sending fiery geysers of body parts and pulp into the sky. Soldiers scream as they empty clip after clip into the crowd, but no one makes an effort to flee. It is as though the hippies have resigned themselves to being massacred, and they want to go out fuckin’.
General O’Coddle towers over Sheriff Smoochole, and his wide barrel chest keeps the skinny little sheriff back a few inches as the men lean into each other and scream, empty shells pinging all around them and tank fire filling the air with the smells of smoke and blood.
“I don’t choose to be here, you slippery shit stain,” Sheriff Smoochole says, “I was here when the shit went wild! I lost two men to this fucking monster of a fuckfest. It kept growing every day, more cocks, more pussies, more mouths, and more assholes!”