Sheriff Smoochole wants to yell more, but he recognizes Officer Johnson’s headless corpse on the ground behind the general. His heart breaks, and he spits through gritted teeth, “You… killed… my… deputy.”
General O’Coddle glances at the headless man and turns back to Sheriff Smoochole with a laugh. “Yeah, I did. What in the clubbin’ baby seals fuck are you gonna do about…”
Before O’Coddle can finish his tough talk, Sheriff Smoochole brings the butt of his shotgun up to the general’s chin with a crack. The general stumbles back, swinging wild haymakers. Smoochole dodges one, but a second knocks the sunglasses from his face and splits his cheek wide open like a menstruating vagina. General O’Coddle bellows in fury and stomps the ground, trying to crush Sheriff Smoochole as he rolls back and forth. Smoochole catches one of the general’s raised feet and kicks him in his balls hard enough to pick him up off the ground.
O’Coddle falls in a heap, clutching his crushed testicles. Sheriff Smoochole pulls his knees to his chest and rolls onto his hands and shoulders. He thrusts his legs out, and the momentum springs his body upright as he shouts, “Hi-yah!”
The sheriff kicks the general in the forehead, and it seems to jolt the big man from his daze of agony. O’Coddle stands and tackles Smoochole in one quick movement, driving the air from the small sheriff. O’Coddle climbs onto Sheriff Smoochole’s chest and pummels him with big meaty fists. The general slams fist after fist into Smoochole’s face while his men massacre every person they catch moving in the tangled mass of the orgy. Eventually Smoochole’s skinny arms fall to his sides and his body trembles.
General O’Coddle’s eyes are wild and crazy. Scanning the chaos around him, he adjusts his fully erect prick and bends over to unclip the walkie from Major Arseblister’s belt. While he is doubled over, Sheriff Smoochole delivers a cowboy boot to the back of the general’s thigh. Surprised and hurt, O’Coddle turns, giving the sheriff the perfect opportunity to kick him in the face. The general spits out a mouthful of blood and teeth as he tries to recover.
Sheriff Smoochole dives for his shotgun, and General O’Coddle dives for his walkie to order an airstrike to quicken the massacre.
Smoochole reaches his shotgun first, and he turns it on O’Coddle just as the general snatches the walkie.
“This is General O’Coddle,” he yells into the walkie as Smoochole brings the butt of his shotgun down hard across the general’s face. A fan of blood splatters the sand around the general’s head, and he moans.
A distorted voice answers him through the static. “Yes, sir, awaiting orders.”
“Don’t you… fucking… do it,” Smoochole warns the general down the barrel of his shotgun as O’Coddle brings the walkie to his lips.
General O’Coddle looks at the shotgun-wielding sheriff and tells him, “Fuck you, flat ass.”
He then grabs the gun by the barrel and screams, “Launch air strike! Now!” into the walkie. Sheriff Smoochole struggles to aim the shotgun at the squirming general’s forehead, but O’Coddle throws the walkie at Smoochole’s face. It hits the target hard, and the sheriff’s fingers fall away from the shotgun.
Sheriff Smoochole rolls back and forth on the ground while General O’Coddle struggles to his feet. The general can’t walk straight or even see straight, but he still manages to kick Smoochole in the ribs as the first of many planes flies over, raining bullets down on the orgy. Behind it is another and another and another and another.
General O’Coddle laughs at the carnage, and he picks up Sheriff Smoochole with one hand and the shotgun with the other. He raises both in front of him so Sheriff Smoochole’s shotgun is pointed at his own chin.
The ground below them rumbles and quakes, but the general just tightens his grip. Fire and brimstone spurt weakly through every open space in the mass of naked corpses. The ground howls and cracks, but as it opens, the bodies slip down and plug the hole. A mighty, evil scream thunders far beneath the flesh-clogged crevice. Small streams of fire melt through dead bodies, but more fall to replace them, snuffing the flames. More evil howls fill the air, and the soldiers panic and scream.
“Your boys are losing it, General,” Smoochole mocks through chipped teeth. “Of course, that is the fucking Devil down there screaming. So they should be freaked out.”
“Shut the fuck up, you hippy… fuck,” the general yells into Smoochole’s face.
“Fuck you,” Sheriff Smoochole says with a broken smile. General O’Coddle growls, but before he can pull the trigger on the shotgun, the hard thick plastic of Officer Morks’s nightstick cracks across the back of his skull. The general’s eyes roll back in his head, and he falls to one side, dropping Smoochole and his shotgun.
Sheriff Smoochole extends his hand to a wild-eyed Officer Morks, who still wears his uniform but has also acquired a bright red ball gag that looks fused to his face and skull.
Sheriff Smoochole picks up his shotgun and forces the barrel into the semi-conscious general’s mouth.
“I want you to know, you Apocalypse-stirring shitbag,” the sheriff says with a grin, “I’ll be taking them purty fucking guns.”
General O’Coddle mumbles something around the gun barrel, but Sheriff Smoochole pulls the trigger, sending small gray chunks of brain splattering across the bloodstained sand.
Did You Hear the One about a Bunch of Guys Who Visited a Militant Lesbian Camp?
Summer. Hot as fuck. Woods everywhere like God shit big green arrows. Edwina, Ed to her new friend, perches behind one of the shit sticks and sights a buck with an arrowhead. The shaft is pulled back and tucked right up against her cheek. She exhales slowly as the point settles on his center, envisioning a big target there. The bastard is big, and he has a big old swinging dick, which pisses her right off. Charlie had a swinging dick too, and he put it in every hole he could find.
Thoughts of the asshole cause her to twitch and loose the arrow. It leaps away from the bow like a rocket-propelled grenade. Slams the buck high in one shoulder. The beast freezes for a half second and then takes off, not realizing it’s lost a leg, and collapses with a cry that should tear at Edwina’s heart.
If she had a heart.
“Jesus fuck!” She exhales and throws the bow on the ground.
“It was a good shot!” Darla calls. She steps out of the woods like an apparition. She is dressed in full camouflage except for a bright orange bandana around her bald head.
Chemo did that to her, but now the cancer is gone. So is one breast and part of her uterus. Not like she was ever going to use that. She tried a wig for all of a day and claimed it made her look like some piece of ass right out of the slam. So she started sporting blood-red lipstick to draw attention to her mouth and away from her shiny head. Worked too. When Edwina got a look at her, all she could think about was uses for those lips. All kinds of uses.
The camp is nestled between the rocks of Craggy National Forest and Juniper Hills or, as some called them, mountains. Some called them mounds, but really they were just rises that poked out of the ground and provided great vantage points for hunting. Probably pretty popular back when Native Americans lived here. Or later, when ranchers had to find stray sheep so they could butt fuck them into the next morning.
Now, by and large, Camp Luzon is the sort of place where the members can go and forget all about their troubles. Take Edwina for instance. She had a happy home with her man. Made him coffee every morning, vacuumed and even had aspirations of getting a job. Oh, the nerve!