The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1) Read Online Free
Author: Timothy W. Long, Jonathan Moon
feet stomp and kick the fallen deputy as the mob bucks and sways. He bellows, and a skinny Mexican fella stuffs his dong down the cop’s gullet, muffling him with a wet groan. Officer Johnson disappears behind brown butt cheeks.
Sheriff Smoochole runs up the nearest hippy as though he were some greasy ramp and vaults to the top of the wild orgy. He scans the ground, but he can’t see either of his men in the brief glimpses of earth he can spot between the rolling flesh of hundreds of naked bodies. One strong hand reaches up and grabs one of the leather straps from his g-string, then another hand joins it. Sheriff Smoochole screeches and claws at the heads and asses on which he is standing, but more hands reach up from the sex and pull the skinny sheriff down and under.
The entire camp continues tripping off Cockbug acid while fucking their brains out. The ground moans along with the massive orgy. Smack in the middle of the bacchanal, the receiver to the solar phone is getting kicked and smacked, and it’s bouncing off of ass flesh and tits alike. An irritated voice is screaming on the other end, “I told you we will get there when we can! Now hang the fuck up!”
A pear-shaped man hears the crackling voice, and he reaches over and shoves the headset up his ass in one smooth motion. He groans as the voice from the phone screams more muffled words, which vibrate up his tailpipe, and he falls back in ecstasy and is swept away in the sea of sex .
Shit You Won ’ t See on Oprah
The end of the world started on a weekday, which was really inconvenient for a lot of people.
Of course there was a lot of warning. A lot of posturing. A lot of screaming that the end was here, the end was here! Sure there were signs and not just the ones over the freeways and in the hands of loons on sidewalks. But that was pretty typical for Los Angeles.
This day was different. The clouds hung around like they were bored. They cast dark shadows over everyone who looked up and generally did a good job of depressing the fuck out of the heavily medicated population below.
Around noon, the clouds parted to let in a ray of sunshine, which was quickly replaced by a blast of darkness that left a heavy pallor over the city. A section of sky over Hollywood opened up, and a burst of flame leapt across the sky. Surfing this line of fire rode four figures on horseback.
Some looked up, but others trudged to their jobs and ignored it, figuring one of the studios was just making a new movie. Gee, aren’t the special effects nowadays marvelous?
The four rode the flames down until they hit the freeway at a gallop. They leapt over cars and trucks, trailing smoke. The four riders stayed close together but managed to remain aloof, as if they were a family of dysfunctional siblings on vacation.
They left the freeway by leaping off the I-5 and hit the road in a cacophony of noise that resulted in car crashes and mayhem. A bus ran off the road and smashed into one of the pillars at thirty-five miles an hour. It struck a fire hydrant first, spun to the right, and wrapped around the long concrete pillar.
One of the H orsemen, a man with a giant sword poking over his shoulder, pointed to the west. The others veered that way at his lead. They went pounding up the street, chasing screaming pedestrians into the alleys along the way.
They came to a roaring stop at the gate to Sodomy Studios and waited impatiently for someone to let them in. When the gate didn’t immediately open, the man with the large sword ripped it off its hinges with one swing of his gleaming blade. They walked the rest of the way to the set.
“It’s the afternoon show with Kayla Mangabbler!” A hyper woman yells into the PA, voice rising and lowering until it punctuates the host’s name at a hundred and thirty-three decibels. The audience has been boisterous, but now they amp it up to a new level, the ones who don’t get immediate ear bleeds.
They milled around during the break.
Sheriff Smoochole runs up the nearest hippy as though he were some greasy ramp and vaults to the top of the wild orgy. He scans the ground, but he can’t see either of his men in the brief glimpses of earth he can spot between the rolling flesh of hundreds of naked bodies. One strong hand reaches up and grabs one of the leather straps from his g-string, then another hand joins it. Sheriff Smoochole screeches and claws at the heads and asses on which he is standing, but more hands reach up from the sex and pull the skinny sheriff down and under.
The entire camp continues tripping off Cockbug acid while fucking their brains out. The ground moans along with the massive orgy. Smack in the middle of the bacchanal, the receiver to the solar phone is getting kicked and smacked, and it’s bouncing off of ass flesh and tits alike. An irritated voice is screaming on the other end, “I told you we will get there when we can! Now hang the fuck up!”
A pear-shaped man hears the crackling voice, and he reaches over and shoves the headset up his ass in one smooth motion. He groans as the voice from the phone screams more muffled words, which vibrate up his tailpipe, and he falls back in ecstasy and is swept away in the sea of sex .
Shit You Won ’ t See on Oprah
The end of the world started on a weekday, which was really inconvenient for a lot of people.
Of course there was a lot of warning. A lot of posturing. A lot of screaming that the end was here, the end was here! Sure there were signs and not just the ones over the freeways and in the hands of loons on sidewalks. But that was pretty typical for Los Angeles.
This day was different. The clouds hung around like they were bored. They cast dark shadows over everyone who looked up and generally did a good job of depressing the fuck out of the heavily medicated population below.
Around noon, the clouds parted to let in a ray of sunshine, which was quickly replaced by a blast of darkness that left a heavy pallor over the city. A section of sky over Hollywood opened up, and a burst of flame leapt across the sky. Surfing this line of fire rode four figures on horseback.
Some looked up, but others trudged to their jobs and ignored it, figuring one of the studios was just making a new movie. Gee, aren’t the special effects nowadays marvelous?
The four rode the flames down until they hit the freeway at a gallop. They leapt over cars and trucks, trailing smoke. The four riders stayed close together but managed to remain aloof, as if they were a family of dysfunctional siblings on vacation.
They left the freeway by leaping off the I-5 and hit the road in a cacophony of noise that resulted in car crashes and mayhem. A bus ran off the road and smashed into one of the pillars at thirty-five miles an hour. It struck a fire hydrant first, spun to the right, and wrapped around the long concrete pillar.
One of the H orsemen, a man with a giant sword poking over his shoulder, pointed to the west. The others veered that way at his lead. They went pounding up the street, chasing screaming pedestrians into the alleys along the way.
They came to a roaring stop at the gate to Sodomy Studios and waited impatiently for someone to let them in. When the gate didn’t immediately open, the man with the large sword ripped it off its hinges with one swing of his gleaming blade. They walked the rest of the way to the set.
“It’s the afternoon show with Kayla Mangabbler!” A hyper woman yells into the PA, voice rising and lowering until it punctuates the host’s name at a hundred and thirty-three decibels. The audience has been boisterous, but now they amp it up to a new level, the ones who don’t get immediate ear bleeds.
They milled around during the break.
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