Billie whispers to Jake, “I can save you, soldier.” He leans forward, and Leon’s backswing cleaves his dainty head from his shoulders. His headless corpse falls on Jake’s mangled wings, and the battle angel screams into the floor.
“Leon!” Bud and Father O’Coddle yell at the exact same time.
Leon turns to face them with his chest heaving and madness dancing in his eyes. He raises the bloody double-bladed axe and smiles at them.
They both nod to the floor, Bud in the direction of Billie’s head, which rolls facedown into the growing puddle of Frank’s blood, Father O’Coddle in the direction of the headless corpse and the dying angel beneath it. Leon looks at the head, then the body, then back to Bud and Father O’Coddle. “I’m keeping this axe,” he tells them.
“Jesus, Leon, that was insane,” Bud says.
“But now I’m really in a demon-killing mood,” Leon snarls back. “Better grab what you need, Bud.”
“Right,” Bud says, eyeing Leon nervously, “I’ll be right back.”
Bud disappears into his bomb shelter. Leon walks past Father O’Coddle to the janitor closet. He grabs his mug, slings his backpack over his shoulder, and walks to the soda machine, which was smashed open in all the chaos. He grabs a soda off the floor, pops the top, and fills his mug. As he snaps the lid back on the mug, he asks Father O’Coddle, “Are you coming with us, Father?”
“N-n-n-ooo,” O’Coddle stammers. “I’m going to absolve the corpses. The angels are from the Lord. His soldiers perished in his war. And Father Maniwhore served as a priest for decades, the good he must have done… sometimes… maybe by accident…”
Bud returns with an M-16 over/under fully automatic slung over one shoulder and two heaping backpacks over the other. A .44 sits snug in a holster around Bud’s waist, and a sheathed knife is strapped to each of his thighs. He’s even changed into his favorite Hustler tee shirt—the black one with the bright pink logo.
“Fuck yeah,” Leon says.
“You coming?” Bud asks Father O’Coddle.
“No. Leon and I just talked about it, and we think I should stay and absolve the dead,” Father O’Coddle says solemnly.
Leon says, “He’s going to see if Jerome has any tweek.”
Father O’Coddle winces. Leon and Bud start for the door.
Father O’Coddle calls out, “Leon,” in a high, needy tone.
“Oh, yeah,” Leon says, raising his straw to his lips. “He’s under all the dildos. And tell him,” Leon takes a long refreshing pull from his mug, “cock cock Satan cock.”
Apocalypse Right Fucking NOW!
We’ve Come for Your Codes, Asshole
Thomas S. Phimpham, the president of the United States of America, the commander in chief, the man to whom the military reports, the person who wields more power than anyone in the world, is crouched under his desk in the Oval Office with a bottle of Lone Star in one hand and a Bible in the other.
A whole case of ice-cold goodness teeters atop a massive stack of papers. It sweats condensate on briefs and treaties. Piles of papers that were waiting to be signed are shuffled out of order, covered in spilled beer and the roaches from smoked joints. Bottles lie here and there like downed bowling pins, and when his advisors come into the office, they must take care to step over them or risk ending up on their asses.
The Oval Office smells like a brewery. And sex. Ass, to be exact.
The first lady is curled up under the massive desk next to him. He’s just finished fucking her silly over the desk, something he has wanted to do for years. He finally talked her into something different. It took a six pack and enough pot to choke a lifetime stoner, but she finally dropped her silk chastity belt.
“Bera, get yer ass up. The joint chiefs wanna shit down.” He smacks her butt. She rolls away from him and jabs him in the side with a very sharp shoe.
“Fuck off and let me sleep, Tommy.” She doesn’t sound sleepy; she sounds pissed off. Can’t blame her. He has always wanted to try the old Sodom and Gomorrah, but she never liked the idea and told him to go find some sheep if he wanted to butt fuck something.
“You said you’d be more careful.” She kicks him again.
“I didn’t mean ta, I swear! And don’t call me Tommy in my place of bidness. I told you about that.” He stifles a laugh. Didn’t mean to my ass. Or her ass. Haven’t heard her squeal like that in a good long time.
“Jerk.” She tugs her skirt down her legs with a wince.
“Get yer ass up. I got stuff to take care of. Got the damn Russians wantin’ to go nuklar, got the Chinese wantin’ to bring in a buttload of little slant-eyed bastards to help us. More like take over if I give ’em half a chance.” He takes a long pull on the beer bottle, smacks his lips loudly and belches. “Sorry about the buttload comment.”
She kicks him again and pulls a joint out of the little cubbyhole under the desk. One of the forefathers may have used it to hide a weapon or a bottle, but Tommy Boy keeps a stash of weed and coke for rainy days.
The smell of ganja fills the Oval Office again.
The chatter of gunfire and explosions fills the streets outside. Grunts and screams filter into the room. Something slams into the side of the White House, but she can take it. Over the years, the old bricks and mortars were replaced by steel and a composite plastic that can stand up to a rocket-propelled grenade. A direct hit from one of those seek and destroy missiles would probably take her out. They told him that the first day in office. But the chances of one getting anywhere near the White House are about as slim as an anorexic donkey.
Something else hits the building and shakes it all the way down to the foundation.
“Holy shit balls! That dog had some bite!”
Bera scoots a little farther under the desk and pulls at the joint before handing it to her husband. He takes a deep lungful of the Carolina Pete blend that his cousin Johnny-Lee-Boy Phimpham grows in a trailer park. It’s good shit, the kind that makes you all happy, makes you care about fuck all. Just what he needs. Fuck all.
There is a polite knock at the door. The president peeks over the top of the desk and calls out a tentative “Yepper?”
“Sir.” A head pokes in. It’s Sinclair, one of his top secret service agents. Tommy likes him because he can drink like a fish and still tell decent racial jokes. But he once confided in the president that he likes to wear a diaper and a saddle while his boy toy Jethro rides him and tells him to head for the Alamo.
“What do you know, Sinclair?”
“Got a couple of emissaries to see you.”
“Emi-who? I’m fucking busy right now, buddy. Can they come back when the world ain’t going to shit?”
“Sir. They say they know why the world is going to shit. They have come to negotiate.”
“Monkey balls. Well who are they?”
“Sir. These guys are unusual. They appear to be demons like the ones we have seen on TV. One is named Quixotol and the other is named Mark.”
“Why the hell is one of them named Mark? If I were a demon I’d have a cool name like Assmurder or some shit.”
Sinclair sticks his head back out into the hallway and whispers something. Then he is yanked out of the doorframe, and the door slams behind him. There is a loud crash from the hallway, followed by a few seconds of silence, during which the president of the United States takes a long pull from his beer.
“I hope he’s all right. He’s a good man, that Sinclair is.” He punctuates his sentence with a lusty belch.