Chuzz grins, mainly because he has no choice. His body is pressed into the big seat, squishing the toy against his back. It gasps and then giggles in his ear. Chuzz’s lips peel back in a G-force-induced leer. He howls with glee.
Sheriff Smoochole stops his stolen Hummer next to the abandoned Humscalade, which is parked in the space between Satan’s ass and his enormous face. Bud and Leon climb out after the sheriff.
“That’s pretty fucking lucky,” Bud remarks as they slam their doors and arm the ground-to-air missiles.
“About fucking time we get some luck,” Sheriff Smoochole grumbles behind his shades. He misses his dedicated deputies. He adjusts the rearview mirror and focuses on a cloud of dust behind them. A skinny hooded man on a horse is leading what looks like a platoon of zombies. Then General O’Coddle comes into view, and the blood in Smoochole’s veins turns to fire.
“Change of plans, boys,” Smoochole says, climbing back out of the Humscalade.
Leon follows and asks, “Nipple bite demon suck face?”
“Don’t worry about me, Leon,” Smoochole says as he turns back to the general’s Hummer. “I got some unfinished business with that barrel-chested dead guy behind us. Go on now, Leon, and take care of that Devil face sticking up out of the desert. I’ve been waiting for this.”
“Devil cock sin shit shower, Bud,” Leon says as he slams on the gas leaving Smoochole alone to face the approaching zombie horde.
“Huh, I would have wanted the missiles if I had that many zombies running me down,” Bud says, watching the horde grow in the rearview.
“Corpse fucking demon day,” Leon tells him.
Two eyes as dark as moonless nights turn and watch them approach. A smile spreads across lips that look thin even on such a giant face. Two long horns reach from the Devil’s forehead to the smoke-filled sky above, and a long goatee swings off his chin and snaps at the Humscalade as Leon turns it off.
The Road Runner sails into the abyss with a roar from the eight-cylinder engine. The sound of AC/DC echoes across the canyon. The men in the car scream all the way to the bottom of the chasm. It’s a nice day; the sun glints off the red hood. Death is pretty sure he and Jesus can’t die. After all, what is he going to do, reap himself?
But that ground is coming at them awfully fast.
He clutches the scythe to his hand and prays, then he remembers who his traveling companion is.
Jesus picks that moment to throw up hours’ worth of booze. Death dodges to the left, but some of it splatters across his face and shirt and gets in his nose and his mouth, which he doesn’t close in time. Death joins in the pukefest.
Then the car hits the ground, and the world goes black for a while.
Drool flies from Pestilence’s gaping mouth as he and his horde descend on the two Hummers. The fancy one heads toward Satan’s face, and atop the other stands a small man in a g-string and aviator sunglasses. The strange fellow pulls two .357 Magnums and starts firing into the zombie horde, dropping dead soldiers left and right.
“It’s the hippy who killed me!” General O’Coddle growls when he sees Sheriff Smoochole taking shots at his now twice-killed men.
“Well, kill him!” Pestilence roars back. “I’m going after the other.”
General O’Coddle’s gray lips curl into a smile under his handlebar mustache. Half the dead soldiers follow Pestilence, and half follow General O’Coddle toward Smoochole. Not far behind them, the giant shit monster approaches.
Death opens one eye to see a scorpion checking him out. He reaches out to flick the thing away, but pain races up his arm. Then up his shoulder, into his head, down his back and into his legs. It terminates at his feet and then starts in his arm again, like he is lying a in a giant pile of fuck you. He rolls onto his back and stares up at the sky, which starts the pain cycle all over again.
A hand comes into view and touches his forehead, and suddenly he feels a hell of a lot better. He is still buzzed half out of his noggin, but at least he doesn’t feel like he was just in a car wreck. He remembers going over the cliff and plummeting to earth. He also remembers a river of puke flying into his mouth and throws up again.
“That hurt more than I thought it would.” Jesus groans and touches his own forehead for a few seconds before sighing in pleasure.
“You can fix yourself?” Death asks. He groans as he sits up but wonders why, since he feels a hell of a lot better.
“Being the J-man has its advantages.”
“Why didn’t you heal yourself when you were on the cross?”
“Wasn’t supposed to break the rules.”
“Stupid fucking rules.”
“Well said. Time to break a few today.”
Death sits up and stares around at the giant stretch of nothing. What looks like a couple of birds flying far above turn out to be some sort of winged demons that swoop down to check out the two men. Damn vultures.
“Piss off, you clowns!” Jesus yells and then blesses them. The demons are ripped apart from the ass first. Parts plummet to the ground, and Jesus and Death jump aside to avoid being splattered with demon goo.
“Gross.” Death smiles.
The sun is nice and high, but it still has that red tint to it. It is also still hot as fuck! Death would kill for a beer right about now or a glass of water. He cranes his head around to look over his shoulder and sees the head of Satan himself. He turns back to Jesus, who somehow managed to save the vodka and a bag of Red Bull. He cleans puke off his face and then reaches for an energy drink.
“Let me ask you a question. So you died once.”
“Yep.”
“On a cross, surrounded by assholes who could only sit around and weep.”
“Yep.”
“While you did all the hard work by dying for everyone’s sins.”
“That about sums it up. So what is your question?”
Death stares at him for a moment.
“Are you a fucking zombie?”
“Yep.”
“I knew it!”
Leon jumps out of the Humscalade with his battleaxe held high. Bud opens his door, dives across the sand, and then rolls to his feet, M-16 trained on Satan’s forehead. Satan scoffs at the pair.
“You guys are at the wrong end,” the Lord of Darkness informs them coldly. “You might as well just go jump in my ass.”
“No,” Leon says shaking his head. “Titty fuck bang hole demon done.”
“Fuck you, then,” Satan says, and his giant black orbs roll in their sockets as he looks for his spider demon. He can’t see Stan anywhere, but out of the corner of his giant eye he sees a glory hole demon, a pet project of his, and he whistles to it as one would a dog. In a flash, the demon is standing between Satan and Leon and Bud.
“So I guess I’m a goner,” Satan says in a quaky voice. “Might as well get your dicks wet before you kill me.”
Leon scoffs and raises his axe to charge, but Bud hears soft cooing from the holes on the box in front of him, and it calls to him like a horny siren song. He leans his M-16 against the side of the demon and begins unbuttoning his jeans.
“Bud,” Leon says, nodding to the long red Devil face regarding them with no emotion, “cock suck slutty demon hole.”