Read Online The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1) by Timothy W. Long, Jonathan Moon - Free Book Online

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, snuffi ng 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