The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1) Read Online Free Page A

The crowd inhaled coffee, caffeinated water, and the goodies that advertisers left under their chairs. Little red bags with the studio name on them along with the logos from the forty-seven things crammed in the package. Chunks of high-fructose corn syrup, energy drinks, and even a batch of chocolates from the Ostergroup Corporation filled with a curious combination of guarana and high-grade cocaine.
    The host perches on her seat demurely. Across from her sit four people dressed like vagabonds. The audience is crowing at the top of their lungs like they expect them to start beating the shit out of each other at any second. Welcome to Hollywood. Welcome to the big show; have a nice fucking day—if you survive.
    She has questions for each of her guests prepared from their submitted profiles, although War’s handwriting was hard to make out. He would have been better served by using a crayon on a large sheet of paper.
    Death’s read like a serial killer’s.
    Cue the camera. Cue the sound. Cue the ultra-bright but energy efficient LED lights that make the place as bright as daylight in the Caribbean. Cue Kayla to sit back and look hot.
    “And we’re back. My next guests are the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Are they a motorcycle gang? A rock band? The beginning of the end?” She has to pause here, because the word on the teleprompter reads harbinger, and she is not about to unleash that intellectual bombshell on her audience. They might string her up and piss on her corpse Mussolini-style.
    The camera pans across the four guests. Two on a couch, large one on a padded seat, and the last on a metal chair. They tried to put the girl in that one, but she unleashed a string of profanities so long it made the audience actually shut the hell up for a few seconds. Besides, if her wide ass took that seat, it would probably collapse like a house of cards hit by a stiff wind.
    The producer points, indicating she is back on camera. Kayla leans forward and takes a sip of her drink, then slowly sets it down. The camera takes this moment to pan across the robed figures. It stops on the one directly across from her.
    He has a tattered cowl over his face. It hangs limply, and when he breathes, strings flutter from the sides. Strips of cloth dangle from his sleeves, and torn ends of his robe cover his black boots.
    “So Mr. War. Or do I simply call you War?” Her smile is in full effect. It is mocking in its severity. Her lips curl up in a smirk. The viewers at home have seen this look a thousand times. She is about to start some shit.
    “War is fine.” His lips are visible. One sneers down when he speaks, like half of his face has been left numb by a stroke. If he wore glasses, he would be the spitting image of Dick Cheney.
    “What do you bring? Why are you here? Do you have a message for the viewers?”
    “Prepare for the end, for we have arrived.”
    “The end of what, exactly?” She stares at the madman and lets a hint of concern quirk up her tweezed eyebrows.
    “The end of the world. We are here to beak the seals and usher in the Apocalypse. The Antichrist awaits the savior. When he arrives, you,” he points at the crowd and then at the cameras. He points and points, and at last his finger points directly at her nose, “are all kitty chow.”
    He sits back with a smug look on his face. The crowd is going nuts, laughing at the madman in the cowl.
    “You all know me! I’m War and I bring it!” He jumps to his feet and pumps his fist in the air as the crowd goes nuts. They scream and holler like he is a celebrity. Kayla shakes her head at the spectacle.
    “We are the four baddest mother fuckers to ever step onto the Earth. We are going to break the seals and trigger Armageddon. Where we go, cities fall and nations crumble. People die by the million. We bring pain, we bring misery, and we bring death.”
    “I bring death,” the man in the hoodie interjects. He doesn’t speak loudly, but his voice cuts through the air