The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1) by Moon Jonathan & Long Timothy W

Author:Moon, Jonathan & Long, Timothy W. [Moon, Jonathan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Barn Burner Books
Published: 2012-04-22T23:00:00+00:00

Apocalypse Right Fucking NOW!

We’ve Come for Your Codes, Asshole

Thomas S. Phimpham, the president of the United States of America, the commander in chief, the man to whom the military reports, the person who wields more power than anyone in the world, is crouched under his desk in the Oval Office with a bottle of Lone Star in one hand and a Bible in the other.

A whole case of ice-cold goodness teeters atop a massive stack of papers. It sweats condensate on briefs and treaties. Piles of papers that were waiting to be signed are shuffled out of order, covered in spilled beer and the roaches from smoked joints. Bottles lie here and there like downed bowling pins, and when his advisors come into the office, they must take care to step over them or risk ending up on their asses.

The Oval Office smells like a brewery. And sex. Ass, to be exact.

The first lady is curled up under the massive desk next to him. He’s just finished fucking her silly over the desk, something he has wanted to do for years. He finally talked her into something different. It took a six pack and enough pot to choke a lifetime stoner, but she finally dropped her silk chastity belt.

“Bera, get yer ass up. The joint chiefs wanna shit down.” He smacks her butt. She rolls away from him and jabs him in the side with a very sharp shoe.

“Fuck off and let me sleep, Tommy.” She doesn’t sound sleepy; she sounds pissed off. Can’t blame her. He has always wanted to try the old Sodom and Gomorrah, but she never liked the idea and told him to go find some sheep if he wanted to butt fuck something.

“You said you’d be more careful.” She kicks him again.

“I didn’t mean ta, I swear! And don’t call me Tommy in my place of bidness. I told you about that.” He stifles a laugh. Didn’t mean to my ass. Or her ass. Haven’t heard her squeal like that in a good long time.

“Jerk.” She tugs her skirt down her legs with a wince.

“Get yer ass up. I got stuff to take care of. Got the damn Russians wantin’ to go nuklar, got the Chinese wantin’ to bring in a buttload of little slant-eyed bastards to help us. More like take over if I give ‘em half a chance.” He takes a long pull on the beer bottle, smacks his lips loudly and belches. “Sorry about the buttload comment.”

She kicks him again and pulls a joint out of the little cubbyhole under the desk. One of the forefathers may have used it to hide a weapon or a bottle, but Tommy Boy keeps a stash of weed and coke for rainy days.

The smell of ganja fills the Oval Office again.

The chatter of gunfire and explosions fills the streets outside. Grunts and screams filter into the room. Something slams into the side of the White House, but she can take it. Over the years, the

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