Free The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1) by Timothy W. Long, Jonathan Moon Page B

bastard. When she is done, there are nine bodies in chairs and not a one has breath left. The man who held out the longest begged and begged. Even when Marcel slit his throat, he forced his head down against the strain of the ropes and managed to keep the blood from gushing out. But his breathing became troubled as the plan backfired and blood pooled in his lungs.
    The women have no survivors, but they do have an awful lot of info. They know where the dumbasses came from. They know what they planned—as ridiculous as it sounded. And they know where to find the rest of the fuckers in the cult. The Sons of Satan’s Reedeming Cock are about to get a wakeup call.
    Later, Marcel gets the ladies together and gets them all worked up. This is something she is good at and the reason she is the leader.
    “Ladies, they thought they could come up here and kill us in our sleep. They planned to rape and strangle us. How does that make you feel?”
    Edwina gets a chill when the cries of outrage come back. Fists pump in the air and hurled shoes and flung rocks batter the corpses.
    “I say we pay a visit to these wackos and teach them a lesson they won’t forget because we are going to shorten their lives!” She cracks the whip, and the girls come to their feet, ready to rain unholy terror on the cretins who brought this on themselves.
    The quake is so small it could almost be mistaken for the thudding of the women’s enthusiastic feet, but Edwina knows better, having lived in earthquake country her entire life. It is the barest of shimmers at first, but it builds and rumbles. It feels like it is right beneath them. She stares at the floor and watches the blood draining between the slats of wood, dripping onto the solid ground underneath.
    The shimmer goes on for a long time.

 
    Antichrist Comes a- Callin’
     
    Lorna Jean Swallows is having a shitty day. Rose from 212 stopped by earlier and asked if she could borrow some sugar, just a half cup. Lorna is used to the frequent requests and gave her some. The old bat stops by at least three times a week, and she is sick and goddamn tired of it.
    So today she went off on a rant about how her friend should quit mooching off her all of the time. How she should plan ahead and keep stuff in her cupboard. Then she remembered that Rose is senile and can barely recall what she baked yesterday. She has been losing it for about a year now. Should get tested for Alzheimer’s, that bastard disease, but Rose can’t remember long enough to make the appointment.
    Lorna has been knitting a little sweater for her dog, Buttchunk, for a few days while the programs play on television. His lazy English bulldog eyes roll around when she holds it against his side like he is saying, “If you dress me in that thing, I will crap in your shoes.” But she knows the old boy will put up with it; he has for many years.
    It’s later in the day when, still knitting and with yarn in hand, she wanders down to Rose’s apartment. She wishes she could step outside for some fresh air, but the blazing sun over Las Vegas is an inferno that would send her panting to her air-conditioned room in about fifteen seconds.
    She strolls past Reverend Danske with his pipe hanging out of his mouth. Damn thing hasn’t had tobacco in it in an age, but he sucks on it just the same. He offers her a fine day and she offers him a blowjob. He declines, as always. Too bad; she hears from her male friends that her dentureless mouth is like a fine slice of heaven.
    The carpet has been freshly cleaned since Leonard Shelton went and had his little accident. Not much of an accident; he got himself one of those crazy spells and ran up the hallway with shit pouring out of his backside. Made the whole wing smell to high heaven.
    The shit stink still permeates the hallway, she swears it does. They need to pull out the drapes and hang them outside for a day. Let the scent of old Leonard’s crap filter out. But does anyone listen to her? No they do