Category Archives: BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal

BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 31 – (Part 3)

It was late.

I sat in my office, the magic bookshelf behind me, the tiny characters who inhabited it fast asleep.

NN1 was on my TV, various commentators weighing in on all the consequences that General Morganstern was in for.

On my computer, I typed the following words:

Johnny Gunhands:  A Farewell to Hands

Draft #2

VGRF came in.

“You foiled a corrupt general’s plot, saved us all from being blown up, and destroyed the zombie menace,”  she said.  “Don’t you think you’ve earned some sleep?”

“I can’t,”  I replied.  “I’m too wired.  Besides, you know with the Mighty Potentate up my ass the world will never be safe from alien invasion until I finish this book.”

I opened up iTunes and turned on my favorite show, The Self Publishing Podcast.

Notorious indie authors Johnny B. Truant, Sean Platt, and David W. Wright were discussing the latest news in the world of do it yourself publishing.

“I hate you all,” grumbled Dave.

VGRF picked up the space phone and handed it to me.

“What?”  I asked.

“Go on,”  she said.

“Oh please.  The world has already given me too many miracles tonight.  I doubt an interview with one of these illustrious scribes is in the cards.”

“The worst that can happen is they say no,”  VGRF said.

I let out a loud, obnoxious sigh.

“Fine.  Here goes nothing.”

I looked up the number for Sterling and Stone, the SPP trio’s publishing company.

I dialed it.  The phone rang.

“Hello?  Yes. Bookshelf Q. Battler here.  I’m doing a zombie author interview series and I’d like to talk to Dave about Z2134….uh huh….uh huh….uh huh…Dave’s at Target?  Uh huh….sure I can hold…”

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BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 31 – (Part 2)

“All the lights and sounds drove every zombie in town here,”  Alien Jones said.

“Great,”  I said.  “We’re safe from being blown up but now we’re going to be ripped apart by the undead.”

“Not quite,”  Alien Jones said as he punched a button on his space phone.  The pilots’ voices were back.

“God I hope there’s some hot chicks at the ‘Cool As Shit Fighter Pilot Bar’ tonight,” Buzzkill said.

Alien Jones handed me the phone.

“You can communicate with them now.  Human signals are notoriously easy to hack.”

“They are?”  I asked.

“Of course.  How do you think the Mighty Potentate has been getting free cable all these years?”

“Umm,”  I said into the space phone.  “Come in, good buddy?”

“Who is this?”  Buzzkill asked.

“This is Bookshelf Q. Battler,”  I said.

“This is a secure channel.  How did you hack into it?”

“Umm…there’s an app for that?  Hey listen, Cool As Shit Fighter Pilots, I need you to come back and waste some zombies.”

“10-4,”  Buzzkill said.

Alien Jones leaned over me and punched a button.  A non-lethal red laser shot out of it.

“What the hell is that?”  I asked.

“A laser target designator,”  Alien Jones explained.  “Point it at the zombies and the Cool As Shit Fighter Pilots will do the rest.”

“Damn it,”  I said.  “This thing has everything.  Where can I get my own space phone?”

“Eh,”  Alien Jones said.  “They’re fun at first but then they become a pain in your back quarter.  Every year they tweak it a tiny bit and expect you to buy a whole new one.”

I pointed the laser at a house down the road.

“Wait,”  I said.  “We should let the zombies get closer.”

“Why would you want them to get closer?”  VGRF asked.

“Because they’re right by…the house…”

VGRF glared at me.

“You know, the one that sorority rented and they all just lie around on the roof and sunbathe topless all day?”

VGRF slapped me for the fourth time this month.

“So I’ve heard!  Ahh, screw it, those babes are probably all zombies by now.”

I pointed the laser at the sorority house.  The zombies were tearing it apart, looking for survivors.

“Buzzkill, I’m painting the target now.”

“How does a civilian have a laser target designator?”  Buzzkill asked.

“I uh…bought it on eBay?”

“Shit,”  Buzzkill said.  “Probably some disgruntled Russian sold it.”

The F-15s did another flyby.

“Locking on…”


The sorority house went up in a fiery blaze, taking the majority of the town’s zombies with it.

The F-15s flew off.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Bookshelf Q. Battler.  Stop by the Cool as Shit Fighter Pilot bar sometime.  First round’s on me.”

Alien Jones launched his space phone into the air again and dropped a funky, smooth beat.  It was reminiscent of one of Barry White’s soulful 1970’s love jams.

3.5 readers, you might remember from the beginning of this tale that Alien Jones sounds exactly like Barry White.

“What are you doing?”  I asked.

“Now it’s time to celebrate,”  the Esteemed Brainy One replied.

The alien levitated himself in the air.  Still in his hipster garb, he broke out into song.


By:  Alien Jones, The Esteemed Brainy One

Aww baby…don’t you know you make me feel…fresh.




Aww baby, don’t you know you make me feel…frisky!




Aw baby, don’t you know you make me feel…FUNKY!

I’m gonna funk you up woman, funk you up and down.

Funk you all over the place, all over this funkin town.

Funk you up in the mornin’

Funk you up at night!

Goddamn baby don’t you know our funky love

Will be one funky ass sight!

Funky love baby!

Funk you all night long!


Funk you all night long!


Funk you the funkin hell up while I’m singing this funky ass song!

I don’t know how I’ll do it, because I got no junk!


He’s got nothin’!


But you know my ass will find a way because I’m one funkin funky ass hunk!

The space phone dropped into Alien Jones’ hands.

“That was unlike you,”  I said.

“Sometimes an alien just has to funk.”

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BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 31 – (Part 1)

High atop the south wall of Bookshelf Battle Headquarters, I dialed the number for Network News One.

“Hello?” a lackadaisical operator answered.  “Network News One.  How may I direct your call?”

“I need to speak to the Hot Ass Blonde Chick With Big Titties!”

“Ugh, the hundredth time tonight,”  the operator said.  “Sir, I’m going to tell you what I told all the other perverts. Yes, we realize that the Hot Ass Blonde Chick is quite fetching but she’s a serious journalist and doesn’t have time for…”

I cut her off.

“My name is Bookshelf Q. Battler,”  I said.  “She’s been working an angle on the East Randomtown Zombie Apocalypse, trying to prove my fellow Funky Hunk Bernie Plotznick and I and a bunch of survivors are still within the East Randomtown limits!  Get her on the phone before I’m blown the hell up!”

“One minute sir.”

Some muzak played.

“La, la, la…muskrat love,” I sang to myself.

The voice of a hot chick picked up.

“Bookshelf Q. Battler?” the blonde reporter asked.

“Yes.  Is the Hot Ass Blonde Chick With Big Titties?”

“It is.  My God, you really ARE alive!”

“I sure am and Bernie Plotznick, my girlfriend, my deformed kid, and over a thousand survivors are at my house!”

“I knew General Morganstern was up to something,”  the blonde reporter said.

“Do you have a chopper?”  I asked.

“Sure.  The NN1 Sky Copter is parked at the West Randomtown Shop N’ Slop.”

“I need you to get in that helicopter and get to the address I’m sending you,”  I said.

“You’ll come outside so we can catch you on film?”  the blonde reporter asked.

“Better,”  I replied.  “My associate and I are going to put on the greatest concert East Randomtown has ever seen!”

“I’m on my way.”

I handed the space phone to Alien Jones.  He released it and it floated into the air.

“Can it work as a microphone?”  I asked.

“Yes,”  Alien Jones replied.  “I’m syncing it to pick up your voices now.”

“How the hell…CAN IT DO THAT?”  I asked, noticing my voice was being broadcast all over the compound.  “Whoa!”

Three F-15s ripped across the sky.

Alien Jones snapped his fingers and the pilots’ transmissions were played over the space phone.

“Overlord, come in overlord.  This is Buzzkill.  On my six are ShockinAwesome and Limpwrist.  Over.”

“Guys,”  Limpwrist said.  “I thought we talked about this.  My call sign is ‘Hellfire.’”

“Screw you, Limpwrist,” Buzzkill said.  “You show up late for ‘Cool Ass Fighter Pilot Call Name Assignment Day,’ you end up as Limpwrist.  Suck it up.”

Below, I could see the townspeople standing around my yard, listening intently.

“I read you, Buzzkill.”

I recognized that voice.  Morganstern was Overlord.

“Overlord we’re over the target now.  Ready to turn East Randomtown into a crater and fry those zombie freaks.  Over.”

The survivors gasped and started to panic.

“Copy,”  Morganstern said.

“Overlord, you’re sure there’s no one alive down there?”  Buzzkill asked.

The F-15s made another pass over BQB HQ.

“Affirmative,”  Morganstern replied.  “Jesus Christ, are you one of those hippies who whines about blowing up a whole town?  Light that shit up already!”

“Preparing to light it up, sir…”

Alien Jones snapped his fingers and his space phone produced a dazzling strobe light effect.  It also cast two spotlights on Bernie and I.

“Ready?”  I asked Bernie.

“Shit son, you know my ass was born ready!  FUNKY HUNKS IN THE HIZ-OUSE!”

Alien Jones wiggled his fingers again and the space phone shot up dazzling holograms of fireworks straight up into the sky.  They were fake but to the untrained eye, they looked like the real thing.

“What the hell was that?”  Buzzkill asked.

“What?”  Morganstern asked.  “What’s going on?”

“Come on all you East Randomtown survivors!”  Bernie shouted, his voice amplified through the magic of alien technology.  “Put your hands together and make some noise like your lives depend on it!”

It’d been years since my days as a Funky Hunk, but seeing Bernie in his element brought it all back.

“Because it does, yo!”  I shouted.  “Yo, yo, yo I’m Read N’ Plenty!”

“And I’m MC Plotz,”  Bernie added.

Together, we said in unison, “AND WE ARE THE FUNKY HUNKS!”

The F-15s made another pass.

“Overlord, there appears to be some kind of nerd show going on down there,”  Buzzkill said.  “Over.”

“Bullshit,”  Morganstern said.  “You’re seeing things.  Blow it all up!  Now!”

“Are you nerds ready?”  Alien Jones asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said.

VGRF kissed me.

“For luck.”

“Thanks baby,” I said. “But Read N’ Plenty don’t need no luck because he got mad ass skills!  Hit it!”

Alien Jones snapped his fingers and the space phone laid down a hip hop beat.

In the distance, I saw a light and heard helicopter blades whirring.  The NN1 SkyCopter drew closer, coming to a hover over BQB HQ.

“Aww shit,”  Bernie said.  “The Funky Hunks reunion show broadcasted live.”

Suddenly, it was like we were both in our early twenties again.  We were jumping, running around, performing sick dance moves, all the while debuting Bernie’s latest jam:


Yo.  2015.  Funky Hunks back on the scene.

Check it!

You’re out on a date with a fly ass honey.

But damn that girl be lookin’ at yo ass hella funny.

I wonder what the hell does she see?

Awwwww shit!  It’s a rogue chick pea!

Time for the chorus:

Straight up flossin!  Straight up flossin!

Now here’s some advice that yo ass better not be tossin!”

Alien Jones twirled his finger again and the space phone displayed the Network News One feed on a holographic monitor large enough for the whole crowd to see.

Kurt Manley was in studio.

“Sources say that the Congressman located his pants and issued a contrite apology to his constituents.  In other news…”

Kurt pressed his finger down on his earpiece.

“Hold on.  Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going live to the NN1 SkyCopter where the Hot Ass Blonde Chick With Big Titties is covering a breaking story.  Hot Ass Blonde Chick With Big Titties, are you there?”

The F-15s swooped overhead once more.  Bernie and I kept jamming, keeping an eye on the coverage.

The crowd didn’t care for us at all, though some of the forty something moms in denim stretch pants in attendance did sing along.  The faux fireworks continued to brighten up the night sky.

Wearing a pair of headphones, the blonde reporter, sitting in the back of the helicopter, appeared on screen.

“Yes I am, Kurt,”  the reporter said.  “I’m reporting live over the home of East Randomtown resident, Bookshelf Q. Battler.  As you recall, General Morganstern told me earlier this evening that there are no survivors remaining in town, thus clearing the way for an aerial strike, yet as you can clearly see below…”

The camera man zoomed in on BQB HQ.  We could see ourselves on the screen.  Bernie and I waved.

“…the poorly reviewed late 90’s/early 2000’s rap duo known as ‘The Funky Hunks’ are performing an impromptu performance of their wholesome hip hop to a large group of survivors.”

Bernie and I kept rapping.

When you hang up yo toothbrush yo job aint done.

Get that floss on that bicuspid, son!

There’s all kinds of shit behind your incisor.

Cavities between teeth can be a real surpriser!

“Damn,”  Kurt said.  “That is the worse music I have ever seen.”

“Agreed,”  the blonde reporter said.  “But these nerds have blown the lid off a vast conspiracy tonight.”

Morganstern’s voice came over the space phone.  Alien Jones amplified it loud enough that the blonde reporter’s mic was able to pick it up way up in her helicopter.

“Buzzkill, blow that bitch out of the sky.”

The F-15’s tore up the sky once more.

“Overlord, have you lost your mind?”

“She has entered a restricted area!  Do it!”

“ShockinAwesome.  Limpwrist.  Let’s head back to base.”

“I HAVE GIVEN YOU A DIRECT ORDER!”  Morganstern hollered.

“Court martial me if you want, General,”  Buzzkill said.  “But I’m not about to murder a bunch of civilians, especially the Hot Ass Blonde Chick With Big Titties.  She’s a national treasure.”

Bernie and I wrapped up our song and I looked at the holo-screen.

“Kurt, did you get all that?”

“We sure did, Hot Ass Blonde Chick With Big Titties.  General Morganstern has a lot of explaining to do.  We’re going to stay with this story as it develops.  Meanwhile, is your cat trying to sit on your face and suffocate you while you sleep?  A prominent veterinarian will weigh in after this commercial break…”

The NN1 SkyCopter banked right and took off.

The crowd cheered and celebrated.  Alien Jones cut our mics off and caught the space phone as it landed in his hands.

“Um, nerds?”  the Esteemed Brainy One said as he pointed his finger towards the neighborhood.

AJ pressed an app that turned his phone into a powerful pair of binoculars.  I looked at the screen to see a legion of hungry zombies marching down the road.

“It’s not time to party yet,”  AJ said.

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BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 30 – (Part 3)


Attorney Donnelly was all about proper etiquette.  As long as I’d known her, she never referred to me as anything other than”Mr. Battler” without fail.

Somehow, the announcement of an impending air strike designed wipe out my entire home town didn’t cause the gravity of my situation to sink in the way hearing my lawyer, the dependable, unshakeable rock I’d grown accustomed to leaning on in times of crisis, call me by my first name did.

“I take it you saw the news?”  I asked.


“You sent a copy of Jake’s manuscript to Morganstern?”  I asked.

“I did,”  Delilah said.  “He didn’t budge.”

“Damn,”  I said.

“Never fear, Bookshelf,”  Delilah said.  “I have full confidence that your brilliant mind will devise a way out of this conundrum.”

“You really think so?”  I asked.

“Of course.”

“Thanks Delilah,”  I said.  “I have to go save East Randomtown now  Goodbye..”

“Godspeed sir.”

I kept listening as Delilah fumbled with the phone.  Just before she hanged up on her end, I distinctly heard her say, “Mr. Hatcher, I do believe we’ll be in need of a new client soon.”

Thanks a lot, D.

The space phone rang.

“Battler, you moldy sack of tarantula crap.”

“Morganstern,”  I replied.

“You really thought you could blackmail me with a threat to disperse the details of Operation Fuhrerpunschen to the world?”

“It crossed my mind,”  I said.  “I thought the man you answered to wanted to keep that info hush hush.”

“He does,”  Morganstern said.  “But he also realizes that even if that strumpet ambulance chaser of yours does release Hatcher’s manuscript, you’ll just be written off as some dopey, hair-brained conspiracy theorist.  Hatcher.  That alien.  Uncle Hardass.  No one believes any of the so-called ‘writers’ on your blog are real.  Everyone just assumes you’re some dumb ass who pretends to be others just to drag traffic to a blog that will never, EVER attract more than 3.5 readers.”

“So why kill me at all?”

“Because if you keep going, you might attract a large enough audience that people might start listening,”  Morganstern said.  “And the man I answer to can’t have that.”

“He shouldn’t worry,”  I said.  “There are backroads in the Mojave Desert that get more traffic than my site ever will.”

“That’s what I told him but it’s too late,”  Morganstern said.  “You messed with the bull.  Now it’s time to get the horns…up your ass.”


Late to the party as usual, Bernie and Blandie walked in.  Bernie zipped up his fly while Blandie attempted to brush her hair straight with her hands.

“Aw sweet!”  Bernie cried.  “Seven layer dip!”

“Not now, Bern,”  I said.  “I’m stuck with a problem I can’t solve.  Everyone’s going to die and I couldn’t feel worse about it.”

“Shit dawg,”  Bernie said as he dipped a chip.  “Whenever I feel bad I just kick a funky beat.”

I jumped up.

“That’s it!”

I ran to my bedroom, which was stuffed full of East Randomtown residents, and opened my closet.  There in the back in a plastic dry cleaning bag was an obnoxiously bright yellow track suit I hadn’t worn since the early 2000’s.

It was my Funky Hear wear.  Bernie didn’t need any.  He never stopped dressing like a Funky Hunk.

VGRF walked in.

“What are you doing?”  she asked.

“I’m going to save our asses,”  I said. “Bernie, think of the funkiest rhyme you can while I call a zombie author.”

“No,”  VGRF said.  “That’s ridiculous.  Stop interviewing zombie authors.  We’re all about to be blown sky high.”

“I made a promise to my 3.5 readers, woman!”  I said.  “I swore I’d interview one zombie author a day for 31 days and I’ll be damned if a corrupt general is going to stop me!”

“It’s too late!”  VGRF said.  “You’ve blown the 31 Zombie Authors Challenge!  All the zombie authors are fast asleep!  It’s 11:50 p.m.!”

“Maybe here,”  I said.  “But it’s already tomorrow in Australia.”

VGRF slapped me across the face for the third time this month.

“Damn it, you magnificent bastard!  Stop being so brilliant!”

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BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 30 – (Part 2)

Kurt Manley, perfect as always, was behind the Network News One Anchor Desk.

“Tonight’s top story…East Randomtown to be leveled!”

We all let out a collective, “WHAAAAAT?!!”

“A Hot Ass Blonde Chick With Big Titties is on the scene at the Army’s base of operations in West Randomtown.  Hot Ass Blonde Chick With Big Titties, are you there?”

A blonde reporter meeting the aforementioned description (NN1 really doesn’t even try to hide it anymore) appeared on screen, microphone in hand.

“Yes I am, Kurt.”

The camera pulled out to reveal that corrupt jackass General Morganstern standing next to her.

“General, the President has just given you the go ahead to carpet bomb the ever loving shit out of East Randomtown.  Is such a drastic move really necessary?”

“It certainly is, Hot Ass Blonde Chick With Big Titties,”  the General said.  “We’ve looked at this situation every possible way and lighting this crap hole burg up is the only option available that will keep the zombie menace from spreading to the rest of the nation.”

Cut to the studio.

“Hot Ass Blonde Chick With Big Titties?”

Split-screen between Kurt and the reporter.

“Yes Kurt?”

“What about the reports we’ve been looking to, that a resident of East Randomtown named Bookshelf Q. Battler is alive and well in town, as are a substantial number of survivors under his care?”

Back to the base.  The reporter held the mic up to the military man.

“What about it, General?”

“Utter malarkey, Hot Ass Blonde Chick With Big Titties,”  the General replied.

“But we’ve received reports that Bookshelf Q. Battler has been blogging from within East Randomtown every day for the past month,”  the reporter said.

“Poppycock,”  the General said.  “My team of experts reviewed that so-called blog.  We found it to be nothing more than a pile of hot, steamy unintelligible crap.  Bullshit about a nerd who think’s he’s an alien dictator’s chosen one, the best friend of another alien, that he has a Yeti living in his basement and so on.”

“He’s got me there,”  I said.

“I can think of a few ladies who disagree with you, General,”  the reporter said.

Cut to a park in West Randomtown, where several hundred forty something year old ladies in blue denim pants where holding a candlelight vigil.  They sang hymns and carried homemade signs.  Some of the more clever slogans included:

Funky Hunks 4-Eva!

The Funky Hunks LIVE!

Marry Me, MC Plotz!

Recyclin’ Be Dope!

I’m Bookshelf Q. Battler’s .5th reader!

Mary Flundersen, the President of the North Dakota Funky Hunks Fan Club, was standing next to a beautiful red headed reporter.

“Hot Ass Red Headed Chick With Big Titties?”

“Yes, Hot Ass Blonde Chick With Big Titties?”

“Tell us what’s going on behind you.”

“Hot Ass Blonde Chick With Big Titties,”  the red headed reporter said.  “I’m reporting from West Randomtown Park, where fans of the Funky Hunks have gathered to protest any and all military action against East Randomtown until it is confirmed that Bookshelf Q. Battler and Bernard Plotz are escorted to safety.  Ma’am, tell us how your demonstration is going.”

Mary started in with her North Midwestern “Fargo-esque” accent.

“Oh, Hot Ass Red Headed Chick With Big Titties,”  Mary said.  “It’s going well so far.  I put the call out and Funky Hunk Fans all over America and as far away as Bangladesh have flocked here to tell the world that what the General is doing is wrong.  I’m one of Bookshelf Q. Battler’s 3.5 readers, dontcha know, and I’m telling you our beloved Funky Hunks are alive and if one hair is harmed on their precious heads…”

Mary’s eyes, expression, and tone of voice all took a dark turn.


All the protesters shouted “YEAH!” in the background, followed by, “NO FUNKY HUNKS, NO PEACE!”

“Back to you, Hot Ass Blonde Chick With Big Titties,”  the red headed reporter said.

“Thank you, Hot Ass Red Head Chick With Big Titties.”

The blonde reporter and Morganstern were back on screen.

“General, our own independent NN1 investigation revealed the follow facts.  One.  Though it was not very popular, a rap duo known as the Funky Hunks did exist during the late 1990’s/early 2000s.  This duo included Bookshelf Q. Battler and Bernard Plotz, who rapped under the stage names of ‘Read N. Plenty’ and ‘MC Plotz.’  They found a niche audience with forty something soccer moms in blue denim stretch pants, due to the wholesome rhymes featured on their debut album, ‘Non-Threatening White Boys.’”

“All speculation and conjecture,”  the General interrupted.

The blonde reported carried on.

“Two,” she said.  “That Bookshelf Q. Battler’s and Bernard Plotznick’s last known addresses were in East Randomtown.”

“That means nothing,”  Morganstern said.

“Three,”  the blonde reporter said.  “Despite its incredibly low readership of 3.5 individuals, a blog known as ‘The Bookshelf Battle Blog’ does exist, and for the past month, an individual claiming to be Bookshelf Q. Battler himself has been making daily posts.  In those posts, he’s alleged that at least a thousand survivors are alive and well in East Randomtown.  Shouldn’t you hold off on destroying this town until it’s known for sure whether or not Mr. Battler’s claims are accurate?”

“Now you listen here, Hot Ass Blonde Chick With Big Titties,” General Morganstern said.  “I am telling you that every last person in East Randomtown is either deader than disco or has been turned into a ruthless brain sucking bastard!  Your information is false and surely a veteran journalist such as yourself should know better than to worry about what dumb asses say on the blogosphere.  No credentials whatsoever are required to start up a website these days.  Any asshole on his living room couch can tap a few keys and be online in an instant, spouting off whatever insane conspiracy theories come to his mind!”

“Thank God,”  I said as I looked at the screen of the laptop in my lap.  It read “Bookshelf Battle.”

“I realize this is a drastic measure but I want to assure the American people that bombing East Randomtown to smithereens is the only way to keep the zombie menace from spreading.  So put on your shades and grab some hot dogs because there’s going to be one helluva weenie roast soon!”

“But General,”  the reporter said.

The General walked off.

“No more questions!”

The blonde reporter turned to the camera.

“You heard it here, first, viewers,”  the reporter said.  “An American town is about to be blown up by our own military amidst allegations that survivors remain alive within the town limits.  Back to you, Kurt.”

Cut to Kurt behind the anchor desk.

“A shocking report indeed, Hot Ass Blonde Chick With Big Titties.  Stay tuned, as we’ll be following this story as it develops. Also, is there a brand of laundry detergent that could give you the Ebola virus?  We’ll tell you whether or not its your brand after these messages, plus the weather…”

A graphic blasted onto the screen:


The hottest chicks.  The biggest titties.

Oh yeah, and sometimes we report the news and shit.

VGRF turned to me.

“What now, fearless leader?”

“I need to make a call,”  I said.

“Now really isn’t the time to be calling a zombie author,”  VGRF said.

“Not an author,”  I said.  “My lawyer.”

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BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 30 – (Part 1)

October 30, 2015

11:00 p.m.

Bookshelf Battle Headquarters.

It all began years ago as a modest three bedroom, one and a half bath house owned by my Aunt Gertie and Uncle Hardass.

After Uncle Hardass died from a massive sandwich related heart attack, Aunt Gertie packed it in and moved to Decrepit Oaks, leaving me the home.

Lame that I never found my own place, I know, but you try getting by on the meager salary Beige Corp pays its assistant to the assistant of the vice president for corporate assistance.

Particularly noteworthy was the fact that Uncle Hardass expressly stated in his last will and testament that Aunt Gertie “should, under no circumstances, leave the house I worked my ass off for in the salt mines to Bookshelf Q. Battler, my lousy excuse for a nephew, so he can sit around and chase his hippy dream of becoming a writer.”

Gertie cared enough to take the matter before a Judge, who struck that particular provision down.  I wonder if that’s why Uncle Hardass’ ghost continues to haunt the house to this very day?  Can ghosts exert a supernatural claim to property?

Oh well.

Anyway, using the powers of my magic bookshelf (I’ll explain how later) I constructed a forty foot wall around the perimeter of my Aunt and Uncle’s former house.  The result was a monstrosity of a fortress I dubbed, “Bookshelf Battle Headquarters” or alternatively, “The Bookshelf Battle Compound.”

I prefer “BQB HQ.”  Sounds less culty.

Inside the walls, the thousand remaining residents of East Randomtown were camped out, using tents, sleeping bags, and blankets.

After checking on everyone, I entered my house, where I was able to squeeze in twenty of the town’s most frail and infirm citizens.  My chairs, bed, floor, there were few spots left in the joint that weren’t occupied by an old person.

Thanks to the magic bookshelf, we had plenty of electricity, water, phone service, cable, and so on.  Crap.  I probably should have brought the gang back to BQB HQ sooner.  Oh well.  The past month would not have been as entertaining for you 3.5 readers if I had.

“I’ve never liked those walls,”  Aunt Gertie protested from the couch.  “Don’t you think they’re a manifestation of your jaded, closed-off inner psyche?”

“No,”  I said.  “I just don’t like the idea of neighbors peaking through the windows when I walk around naked.”

“Ugh,”  Aunt Gertie said.  “You don’t really do that, do you?”

“All the time,”  VGRF said as she walked into the living room holding a bowl of tortilla chips.  “It’s disgusting.”

“Who wants seven layer dip?”  Alien Jones asked, carrying in a bowl of his own.  “The best thing about being stuck in that zombie apocalypse is there’s now a backlog of Scandal on the DVR to watch.”

FYI – Thursday nights are Scandal night at BQB HQ.  Alien Jones makes the dip.  It’s out of this world.  That’s not even a pun.

Thanks to “watch what you want, when you want it” technology, we were watching Scandal on a Friday night.


Another FYI – “The Yeti,” an international fuzzy war criminal who happens to be my arch nemesis, has been held captive in my basement ever since he broke into my house in March and held me hostage for a month.

The Yeti believes the world should be as boring as his home, the frozen wasteland of Siberia, and has been on a mission to bring my blog down as he believes it may one day grow beyond 3.5 readers and stimulate the world into new levels of awesomeness.

So he’s like the Mighty Potentate in that he also believes in me, but unlike the MP, he wants me to fail.

Hate to say it but so far things are coming up Yeti.

“I wonder what scandal Kerry will bury this week!”  VGRF said as she dipped a chip.

“DO NOT BOGART SEVEN LAYER DIP!”  the Yeti shouted.

The Yeti, who by the way, is ten feet tall and thousand pounds, yells everything with a guttural snarl.

It may seem odd that I give my fuzzy prisoner a reprieve to watch Scandal, but like the rest of the world, he loves Kerry Washington, and he loves his dip.  Just seemed cruel to not let the big lug in on the fun.

Besides, I’d gotten the impression that though the Yeti complains a big game about being held at BQB HQ, he’d secretly begun to enjoy it.

I mean, I just let him up to watch TV.  I don’t shackle him or anything and he doesn’t run off or try to kill me.  And you know, he is huge so, there’s a part of him that’s settled in.

The episode ended.

“Wow,”  Alien Jones said.  “What a scandal!”

“PUT ON THE NEXT ONE, GREEN WEIRDO!”  the Yeti commanded.

“Hold on,” VGRF said as she grabbed the remote.  “Let’s see what’s on the news.”

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BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 29

All eyes were on me as I walked to the center of the gym to address the survivors.

“People of East Randomtown,” I said. “First, thank you for voting for me to be your Mayor. Just want to say it’s a job I don’t want at all and as soon as the zombie apocalypse is over, I look forward to not being in charge of a town full of inbred dummies who nominate their leaders based on what TV show they appeared in for thirty seconds in the 1980s, or whether or not they have a blog with an audience of 3.5 readers.”

A random citizen shouted from the crowd, “Don’t forget the man who met James Van Der Beek! Leo McKoy will ALWAYS be better than you, BQB!”

“Damn,” I said. “This town is really divided. Anyway, I’d like to propose that we all pack up everything, take all the cars left in the parking lot, and travel by convoy to my home, the Bookshelf Battle Compound, where the forty foot high walls of my home base will keep us safe. There, we’ll ride out the zompoc together. What do you say?”

“You’ll never be as good as Doug Hauser!” a woman yelled. “I’ll never trust a leader who wasn’t in a 1980’s cop show for thirty seconds!”

I wasn’t without my defenders.

“Silence, all of you!” cried Father O’Neil, the parish priest at Our Lady of Random Suffering, East Randomtown’s Catholic Church. “Let he who is without 3.5 readers cast the first stone!”

“Thank you father,” I said. “So listen. Talk amongst yourselves, survivors. Hash it out, then take a vote.”

The survivors talked to each other. The conversations were loud, wild, and full of inappropriate hand gestures.

“BQB,” VGRF said. “What about Morganstern? Won’t he blow us all up if we leave the rec center with you?”

“He’d never kill all these people just to get to me,” I said. “Would he, AJ?”

“He totally would,” AJ said. “However, the zombie hordes outside the rec center fence grow larger and nastier every day. It’s only a matter of time before they crash through our defenses and gobble everyone up. Your plan to reconvene to BQB HQ is risky, but it is our only hope.”

A few minutes later, Mario called out from the crowd.

“Mayor Battler, we’ve reached a decision.”

“And?” I asked.

“The results are as follows,” Mario said, reading off a piece of notebook paper. “Suck It, Nerd. 499 votes. What the Hell, Let’s Go to the Geek’s House? 501 votes.”

“Wow,” I said. “Not exactly a mandate but it’s a majority. Thank you ladies and gentlemen. Take the rest of today and all day tomorrow to pack your things. Grab all the food and supplies. Don’t leave anything important behind. We’ll leave tomorrow night as soon as it gets dark.”

“Good idea, BQB,” Alien Jones said. “A night move will make it harder for Morganstern’s drones to spot you.”

“Are you going to call another zombie author?” VGRF asked.

“No,” I replied. “You know, I’ve been thinking. This zombie author interview series has been irresponsible on my part. Here I am, responsible for the whole town’s safety, and I’ve been wasting time promoting my blog with zombie author interviews. Sorry, but I can’t even spend one more second on zombie authors.”

Alien Jones forked over the space phone and pointed to a book with a massive, red eyed zombie dinosaur with a mouth full of enormous, razor sharp teeth.

“Holy Crap, that’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen,” I said. “Screw the town. Let’s get these dudes on the space phone immediately.”

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And Now a Message From Some Random Jerkface

By: Some Random Jerkface, Special Guest Contributor

Hello 3.5 readers.  Some Random Jerkface here.

For awhile now, there have been some rumors going about that Bookshelf Q. Battler isn’t real, that in fact he and his compatriots are all just the product of the imagination of some random jerkface blogging on the Internet.

Poppycock, I say!

But I understand the confusion.  I am Some Random Jerkface and I do work behind the scenes as BQB’s assistant, helping him to edit and package his posts to make the Bookshelf Battle Blog a bit more presentable and eye catching for the 3.5 readers.

Unfortunately, I’ve been on vacation for the past week and well, what with limited Internet access and to be honest, more fun stuff to do, I haven’t had the chance to put as much polish on #31ZombieAuthors for BQB the past week.

That means BQB’s zompoc journal hasn’t had any funny photos, there haven’t been as many links in the author interviews, a lot of the little touches that make the blog better have been absent recently.

Sorry BQB.  But don’t worry, 3.5 readers.  When I get back I’ll polish up the past week’s worth of posts.  Thanks to the 3.5 readers for understanding and also thank you to the #31ZombieAuthors for putting up with BQB’s lazy editorial assistant, Some Random Jerkface.

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BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 28 (Part 2)


From the other end of the line came the voice of a suave, sophisticated Yankee playboy.

“I say, Young Duffer.  Any chance you might be headed home soon?  We’ve eaten all your food and I dare say no one’s delivering a pizza what with all the creepy crawlies afoot.”

It was Sid Monroe, the protagonist of the 1920’s classic novel of fortune seeking, hard-partying ennui, The Incorrigible Monroe.

Or rather, a tiny version of him.

For those just tuning in, I’m the owner/caretaker of a magic bookshelf.  Whenever I put a book on it, the book’s characters come to life in tiny versions of themselves who then proceed to take up residence on my bookshelf and battle one another over limited shelf space.

Rarely a night goes by when I’m not woken up by the sound of itty bitty literary protagonists going to war.

“Sorry Monroe,”  I said.  “I’ve been bogged down by the zompoc out here.  I was stuck in a mall, then I had to try to find my Aunt, then I…”

“Yes, yes, that’s all well and good, Young Duffer,” Monroe interrupted.  “But what about my needs?  Anara hasn’t had anything to nibble on for quite some time now and unless she gets a snack I fear she won’t be nibbling on me anytime soon.”

If you’ve read the book, then you know that Monroe spent his life chasing money and throwing elaborate parties at his mansion for the sole purpose of winning the heart of his beloved Jenny, only for her to choose the conniving Gustavo instead.

F. Scott Fitzgerald?  Never heard of the guy.

Anyway, after my quest for the meaning of life, Monroe took my advice that “there’s more fish in the sea” and began seeing Anara “Annie” Mistwake, one of the main characters of Joel L.L. Torrow’s A Dirge of Murder and Betrayal series.

I’ve always admired Torrow’s ability to kill off a dozen characters every morning before he polishes off his breakfast burrito.

George R.R. who?  Stop asking dumb questions, 3.5.  You people make no sense.

I was glad that Monroe had moved on, but it made what I had to say next that much harder.

“Monroe, you guys might have to go back into your books for awhile,”  I said.  “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get back to the Bookshelf Battle Compound.”

“Well that’s a fine how do you do, isn’t it?”  Monroe asked.  “Hold on, Young Duffer, Tessa wants a word.”


It was a tiny version of Tessa Fireswarm, protagonist of the Young Adult series, Arrowblast.  The series, and the resulting eight movies, were based on the adventures of a group of plucky teenagers who, with little to no battlefield experience, were still able to take down the cruel dictator who ruled their dystopian future with an iron fist.

“Hey Tessa,”  I said.  “Are you getting along with everyone?”

Tessa was the shelf’s problem child.  The slightest insult made her reach for her bow.  It was a bad habit.  We’d been working on her anger management skills for awhile.

“Everyone except the guy from that new book you bought before you left,”  Tessa said.


“You know.  That guy from the sequel to that classic book that was a staple of high school English classes everywhere.”

“Oh that guy,”  I said.

“He used to be so nice,”  Tessa said.  “But now all he does is sit in his rocking chair and spout racist gibberish all day.  I really want to put an arrow in his ass.”

“No one’s putting an arrow in anyone’s ass,”  I said.

“But BQB!”  Tessa whined.

“Violence is never the answer.”

“Ugh!  Fine!”

“Put on Bookshelf Q. Battledog,”  I said.

“Hold on,”  Tessa said.

I waited a minute before I heard a “woof.”



“Status report.”

“Woof woof.  Woof.”

“The Bookshelf Battle Compound is secure and my arch nemesis, the Yeti, remains imprisoned in my basement?”


“You’re a top notch security chief, Battledog.”

“Woof woof.”

“What?”  I asked.  “No, I don’t have time to talk about philosophy.”


“Yes, I realize that Descartes, famous saying, ‘I think, therefore I am,’ or ‘Corgito ergo sum’ is trite insomuch as those who do not think continue to exist, but is there ever a time when anyone is not thinking?  Open up the mind of the lowliest dullard and you’ll find even he is thinking about something, even if it is not anything meaningful.”


“You know very well that Descartes never qualified his saying with a mandate that thoughts must be substantive in order for existence to occur.”


“Really?  Fine.  I’m just going to hang up now if you’re going to be a dick about it.”

I swiped right on the space phone and cut my furry security chief off.

“Am I the only one to realize that we’ve had access to the fortress-like compound that is Bookshelf Battle Headquarters the entire time?”  VGRF asked.

“No,”  Alien Jones said.  “I realized it October 1, but I wanted BQB’s stats to climb so the Mighty Potentate will see an improvement in the Chosen One’s writing career so I can avoid meeting the business end of a vaporizer.”

“That gives me an idea,”  I said.  “VGRF, tell Mario and Janet to call a survivor’s meeting tomorrow.”

“What are you going to do now?”  my dear video game loving girlfriend asked.

“What I do best,”  I replied.  “Interview another zombie author.”

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BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 28 – (Part 1)

I was awake.

My head felt awful.  My shoulder hurt like hell.  But I was finally sitting up in bed.

“Oh thank goodness,”  Alien Jones said.  “The Mighty Potentate won’t vaporize me!  Well, at least not for this, anyway.  He’ll probably get me on something sooner or later.”

VGRF was holding onto me like I was going out of style.  I should almost die more often.

There was a knock on the door.

In walked Mario, Janet, and a contingent of people wearing gas masks.  Whoever they were, they were the same people who shot all the zombies dead (as in dead,dead not just undead) in the gym, saving me from filling their bellies with my flesh.

“Who are you people?”  I asked.

One of them stepped forward and removed a mask to reveal the face of a kindly old woman.

“Don’t you even recognize your dear sweet auntie, bubalah?”

“Aunt Gertie?”  I asked.  “But how?  We couldn’t find you at Decrepit Oaks!  I assumed you were dead.”

“Of course you assumed I was dead, dearie,”  Aunt Gertie said.  “Everyone assumes that old people are weak and useless but that shows what you know.  The old folks and I formed the East Randomtown Prepper’s Society years ago and we were completely prepared for a zombie apocalypse!”

“But how?”

“We all had bug out bags ready to go,”  Aunt Gertie explained.

“Did you consult the sage advice of noted zombie fiction author and bug-out-bag expert Sarah Lyons Fleming too?”  I asked.

“Nah,”  Aunt Gertie said.  “You know I don’t bother with your dumb blog anymore, BQB.  I just grabbed some shit to eat, some shit to kill zombies with and stuffed it all in a bag.”

“Where’d you get the firepower?”  I asked.

“I uh..”  Gertie hesitated.  “I know a guy.  Let’s leave it at that, sweetheart.”

“Wait,”  I said.  “Who were those two bodies I found in your bathroom?”

“Hauser’s thugs,”  Gertie said.  “They tried to kidnap me and were going to hold me for ransom, demanding that you turn yourself into Hauser.  I whipped out my bowie knife and made quick work of those sons of bitches, let me tell you.  Too bad you were dumb enough to come here on your own anyway.”

“Wow Gert,”  I said.  “And here all this time I just thought you were all about knitting and bingo.”

“A gal can diversify.”

The remaining geezers removed their masks.  One old dude with a sea of white hair shook my hand.

“Bob Northrup,”  he said.  “Sorry to give you the news this way, but I’ve been sticking it to your Aunt twice a week for awhile now.  Nothing too serious, mind you.  I’m only seventy-eight so I like to keep my options open.”

Gertie furrowed her brow.

“You could have just told him we were good friends, jackass!”

“At this point I don’t care,”  I said.

Mario showed me a cell phone and clicked a button.  Up popped a video of Hauser, George, and the DiStefanos loading boxes of supplies into the Compensator, the SUV my friends and I drove to the rec center.

“BQB,”  Mario said.  “Your aunt and her friends had been surveilling the area for a long time, devising a plan to rescue you.  They shot this video that clears your good name.  On behalf of the whole settlement, I want to apologize for ever doubting you.”

“Pretty lame, Mario.  Pretty lame.”

“I know,”  Mario said.  “And I hope this makes up for it.  We took a vote and the decision was unanimous.  We’ve decided to change the name of this settlement from Fort Hauser to Fort Battler, and we’d like you to be our new Mayor.”

“Oh screw that,” was my instant response.  I didn’t even take a second to think about it.  “Like I want to lead a group of asshats who wanted to feed me to a bunch of zombies.”

VGRF, always the voice of morality, perked up.

“People make mistakes, BQB,”  she said.  “They need you now more than ever.”

Janet, who you might recall was a registered nurse as well as the settlement’s medical advisor, looked at me.

“BQB,”  Janet said.  “You created a WordPress site and promoted it to the point where it attracted an audience of 3.5 readers.  No one could ever possibly repeat that amazing feat.  Songs will surely be sung in your name for years to come.  Please, you must take the wisdom you used to build a substandard blog that people only read when they click on it accidentally and use it to guide us.”

“Oh fine,”  I said.  “But on one condition.”

“Name it,”  Janet replied.

“This place is not Fort Hauser.  It’s East Randomtown.  The thousand or so survivors on the property, they’re the last East Randomtownians left.  No more cults of personality.  No more dictatorships.  We’re a town again.  We’re a democracy.  All important decisions are made through a vote and we’ll call for elections as soon as possible.”

Janet and Mario nodded.

“You’re a good man,”  Mario said.  “You really do deserve that statue.”

“I don’t want a statue,”  I said.  “Will you people let me rest now?”

Everyone poured out of the room except Alien Jones and VGRF.

“Congratulations, Mr. Mayor,”  AJ said.

“This sucks,” I replied. “I hate politicians.  Whoever they are, whatever party they’re in, they’re all out to pick your pocket, promise you the world and deliver you a bowl of hot steamy crap instead.”

“Maybe this is your chance to make a difference,”  VGRF said.

“We’ll see about that.”

The space phone interrupted our conversation with a loud ring.

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