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

Oct 27 2015
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BQB's Zombie Apocalypse Survivor's Journal

Alien Jones’ Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 27

Night came and went and eventually Video Game Rack Fighter passed out from exhaustion, lying in bed next to her beau, Bookshelf Q. Battler, holding him tightly.

BQB, the illustrious host of a blog with a mere 3.5 readers, barely held on.  I scanned him with my, well, I’ll keep calling it a space phone because that’s about all your insignificant human brains could ever possibly understand.

The nerd’s life pulse was growing dim.

Suddenly, a hole was vaporized in the ceiling by a red beam of light.  Another beam of gold light took its place and my Supreme Overlord, the Mighty Potentate, materialized in the room, golden scepter in hand, oversized crown on his head.

Three of his best security aliens materialized as well.  The MP is too important not to have protection.

I dropped to my knees and proceeded to flagellate myself, as is the custom of my home world whenever one is in the presence of The Potent One.

“Oh Great Potentositude!”  I said as I flailed my arms up and down.  “I am not worthy of your presence!  Why do you honor one as lowly as I with your magnanimous appearance?”

The Mighty Potentate only had one volume – LOUD.  He didn’t have a quiet setting.  He shouted everything he had to say in the tone of a being that was planning to murder you.

Probably because most of the time he usually is but let’s not get bogged down by semantics.

“JONES!  SPARE ME YOUR RUMP SWABBERY AND STAND AT ONCE!”

I did.  My ruler pointed at BQB, who was lying there with his mouth agape.

“Why is the Chosen One is such a horrid state?  Explain yourself immediately or be vaporized!”

The security aliens cocked and locked their vaporization blasters, ready to turn me into a fine mist.

Vaporization was the Mighty Potentate’s solution for everything.  I can’t say it didn’t work for him.  My home world ran like a well oiled machine, thanks to constant, non-stop threats of vaporization.  In fact, your human leaders might want to look into this practice.

“Oh He of Vast Potent Powers,”  I said.  “Please forgive me for my failure.  Bookshelf Q. Battler, er, ‘The Chosen One’ was forced into a trial by zombie combat and was injured.”

“And you let it happen!”  the Mighty Potentate said.  “Do you know if the Chosen One dies, I’ll be left with no choice but to break Intergalactic Space Law, separate our planet from the Intergalactic Space Organization, and conduct a full scale invasion of Earth just to prevent the spread of reality television to the rest of the universe?”

“Mighty Potentate,”  I said.  “I am so sorry I have failed you.  Truly, an insect such as I does not deserve to bask in the glorious rays of your pleasant visage.  It’s just that you’ve put down so many edicts that sometimes I get confused.  ‘Protect the Chosen One.’  ‘Don’t do anything that will draw too much attention from the humans.’  ‘Do not interfere in human affairs.’  It’s like I can’t follow one of your orders without breaking another one.’”

The Mighty Potentate’s face turned into one of furious anger.  His volume went off the charts.

“DO YOU DARE QUESTION THE COMMANDS OF YOUR SUPREME OVERLORD?!”

I trembled.  The Mighty Potentate was the only being in the universe that ever made me afraid.  I’m not sure if it was because I was scared of vaporization, saddened by the possibility of disappointing a ruler I had tremendous respect for, or a combination of the two.

“No!  Not at all, oh Mightiest of Potentates!  It was my brain, much inferior to yours, that wasn’t able to figure out how to protect the Chosen One and follow your edicts at the same time!”

“Believe it or not, Jones, but the last thing I want to do is conquer Earth,”  the Mighty Potentate said.  “Are you aware that Zamfram’s Intergalactic Real Estate Guide lists Earth as the cheapest property in the entire universe?  I won’t even be able to pay a junk service to haul this miserable excuse for a planet away.”

I could tell the Mighty Potentate was ready to rant.  I didn’t interrupt.

“Do you know these hairless apes have been around for nearly two hundred thousand years and they only figured out six hundred years ago that if they sail from one side of the planet to the other they won’t fall off?”

“Imbeciles for certain,” I said.  “Humans surely rival the Moloklaxons as the dumbest species.”

“Holy Flarking Shazbo,”  the Mighty Potentate continued.  “They destroy their protective ozone layer with products that make their hair shinier.  They wage war after war in the name of one invisible man in the sky because they don’t like the idea that another group of humans would believe in a different human in the sky.  And they consume cheese stuffed crust pizza by the truck load then wonder why they’re fatter than space cows.”

“It’s a real mess down here, MP,”  I said.  “I’ve done the best I can to inform the humans as to how they can change their ways with my ‘Ask the Alien’ column.

“All of this nonsense I can put up with,”  the Mighty Potentate said.  “But having my television invaded by programs about supermodels with large behinds who go shopping, plumbers who fix toilets, grizzly pawn shop owners, and stereotypical Italians from New Jersey who do nothing but party and get spray on tans is where I draw the line.  I will send my entire armada to take over this planet to prevent that from happening.”

“I understand, Mighty One,”  I said.  “You’re very protective of your beloved scripted programming.”

“Damn straight!”  the Mighty Potentate said.  “Why would anyone watch reality TV show when they can take in a drama full of twists and plot turns?  It makes no sense!”

“Another human mystery I suppose,”  I said.

“This is a sad state of affairs,”  the Mighty Potentate said.  “The Chosen One is the only human holding my back from a global conquest.”

I had a question and as I’m sure you realize, posing a question to an unquestionable ruler is a sticky wicket to be sure.

“Mighty Potentate,”  I said.  “Know that I, your humble servant, would never question your mandates, but I have a question that will help my pitiful brain understand your declarations better.  Are you certain that BQB is, in fact, the Chosen One?”

“DO YOU DARE CAST DOUBT ON YOUR MIGHTY POTENTATE?”

“No!  Not at all!”  I said.  “It’s just…well…all BQB does is go to work then come home, watch TV and eat nachos.  Once in awhile he tries to write, gets a sentence or two down, then announces, ‘F%$k it!  I’m watching Game of Thrones!  If there is greatness in him, it must be buried deep as I have yet to see it.”

“Rest assured it is there, Jones,” the Mighty Potentate said.  “I have foreseen in a vision that this nerd will write a book so witty, so charming, so amazing that the humans will rise up and demand better from the entertainment industry, and reality television will be no more without the need of an alien invasion!”

“Your visions are never wrong,”  I said.

“Of course they aren’t!  Did I not foresee that the Moloklaxons would become the A-Holes of the Universe?”

“You did.”

“Did I not foresee that Morloff Delta would become a safe haven for intergalactic space prostitutes?”

“No one but you saw that one coming, Oh Wise Potentate,”  I replied.

“And who foretold that a race of sentient iguanas would overthrow the Voscari System?”

“You did, MP,”  I said.  “The Prime Iguana is truly a bloodthirsty ruler.”

“Then stop questioning your unquestionable ruler and get with the program, Jones!”  the Mighty Potentate said.  “Help this nerd get his writing career off the ground or it’s the vaporizer for you.”

“I understand,”  I said.

“Good,”  the Mighty Potentate said as he put a hand on my shoulder.  “Jones, I would not have tolerated a failure like this from any of the other aliens under my command.  I hope you know that.”

“I had a feeling.”

“Do you know why I give you such leeway?”  the Mighty Potentate asked.

“I hope you will enlighten me, oh Great Enlightened One.”

“I am in the twilight of my life, Jones,”  the Mighty Potentate explained.  “Beings of our species rarely last longer than a million years.  I’m just shy of my 990,000 birthday.  I’ve got about ten grand’s worth of years left before my body’s organs liquefy into a putrid stench.”

“Oh Potentate,”  I said.  “Please don’t say such things.  Why, you barely look a day over 500,000.”

“Well I work out,”  the Mighty Potentate said.  “Even so, while I have conquered much of the universe, I cannot conquer death.  I must know that my empire will be in good hands when I scream the great scream of death as my body turns itself inside out as happens to all of our elderly.”

“I cannot fathom the idea of a Mighty Potentate-less world,”  I said.

“You won’t have to,” the MP said.  “For all this time, I have been grooming you to become the next Mighty Potentate.”

My life juices boiled with shock.

“Me?”

“You,”  the Mighty Potentate said.  “Why do you think I appointed you to the Esteemed Council of Potentate Advisors?  There’s the Esteemed Warmonger One, who leads all of my troops into battle.  The Esteemed Medical One, who advises me on the latest advancements in medicine, and so on.  But there can only be one Esteemed Brainy One, the alien capable of advising me on ALL matters and that is you.  Surely you’re aware of the tradition that the Esteemed Brainy One always advances to the position of Mighty Potentate upon a Mighty Potentate’s demise?”

“I am,”  I said.  “But you’ve been so efficient with your threats of vaporization that I assumed you’d just threatened the Esteemed Medical One to find a way to keep you alive indefinitely.”

“The thought had crossed my mind,”  the Mighty Potentate said.  “But honestly, I look forward to the sweet release of death that will come when my body explodes and its innards congeal into a viscous slop.  I’ve been Potentating for far too long and I need a break.”

“I shall do all I can to live up to this great honor,”  I said.

“See that you do,” the MP said.  “I’m in my golden years, Jones, and the last thing I need to do is be worrying about trying to find a buyer for a planet full of hairless apes who only figured out how to fly a hundred years ago.”

The Mighty Potentate held up his scepter and the golden beam of light returned, whisking him and his security detail away.

I dialed up another zombie author on my space phone.

“Me, the next Mighty Potentate, as long as I help the Chosen One with his writing career,”  I said.  “Let’s up BQB’s blog stats with another interview

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Oct 26 2015
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BQB's Zombie Apocalypse Survivor's Journal

BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 26 – Part 1

I’m not going to lie. I have body issues.

I was told I’d have to be shirtless for my trial by zombie combat.

I stood there in the locker room, staring at the mirror.

“Crap. I have man titties.”

“You look fine,” VGRF said as she wrapped her arms around me.

“I’ll never have the stunning physique of Johnny B. Truant, author of The Beam, Fat Vampire, and other works.”

VGRF slapped me across the face.

“Damn it, man! I love you just the way you are. Stop comparing yourself to the prime physical specimen that is Johnny B. Truant, co-host of the Self-Publishing Podcast! He has pecs that no man could ever achieve!”

“I wish I could call the SPP guys on the space phone right now,” I said. “They’d probably have some good advice to get myself out of this. Alas, such world renowned media moguls would never be bothered to talk to a lowly nerd like me.”

“Stop selling yourself short, BQB.”

Our conversation was cut short by the sounds of giggling. We followed the sound to the shower room, where Bernie and Blandie were smooching furiously.

“WHAT THE?” was my response.

“Yo!” was all Bernie could get out. “What up, G?”

Blandie blushed.

“You two? Really?”

“BQB,” Blandie said. “You and I never worked out because you’re too smart and independent.”

Blandie put an arm around Bernie.

“All I’ve ever wanted was a man with a brain full of mush that I can play and easily manipulate.”

Bernie smiled a stupid grin.

“And all I’ve ever wanted is to touch some tit-tays.”

“How long has this been going on?” I asked.

“A few days,” Bernie said. “Sorry playa, I shoulda blasted you the deets sooner.”

“Nah, it’s cool,” I said as I drew VGRF close to me. “I’ve found my soulmate. Blandie, you’re a godawful human being, but every human needs someone.”

“Thanks?”

“And Bernie,” I continued.

“Yeah?”

“It’s your funeral, dude.”

George and the DiStefanos walked in.

“It’s time, maggot,” George said.

VGRF hugged me so tight she practically pushed herself through me.

“Be safe and come back to me, my nerdy stallion!”

I looked at my she-nerd lover. The tears were coming.

“Buck up, buttercup. I’m off to kick some zombie ass.”

Alien Jones tugged on my arm.

“BQB, I’ve traveled all over the universe and…”

“I know,” I interrupted. “You’ve never met a warrior more capable than me?”

“Actually, I’ve met thousands better than you,” AJ said. “But remember. You’re fighting a Moloklaxon warlord here. You’re taking on a man in his fifties. If you can’t take out an AARP card carrier, you should be incredibly ashamed of yourself.”

I put my hand on AJ’s shoulder.

“Thanks, Esteemed Brainy One.”

George grabbed my arm.

“Come on! There’s no time to bond with your deformed kid!”

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Oct 25 2015
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BQB's Zombie Apocalypse Survivor's Journal

BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 25

Our hands were bound behind us as Hauser’s goons lead us into the gym.

A small card table was set up. Hauser sat in a folding chair in the middle. To his left was Mario Guzman, the settlement’s accountant. To his right was Janet Melman. As a nurse, she was the only one left in town with any medical training. Mario and Janet were Hauser’s two closest advisors.

Hauser banged an empty beer can on the table. I guess that was the closest thing he had to a gavel.

Esteemed Mayor Hauser

The Right Honorable Mayor Hauser

“Eduardo Ricardo Papageorgio Von Finklestein,” Hauser said.

“That’s Bookshelf Q. Battler to you, failed actor,” I replied.

“Fine. Bookshelf Q. Battler. You stand accused of grand larceny of community property and treason against Fort Hauser. How do you plead?”

“That this is all some bogus bullshit,” I said. “You know you framed me, Doug.”

“Oh sure, blame me for your treachery,” Doug said.

Mario intervened.

“BQB, your only options here are guilty or not-guilty.”

“Fine. Not guilty.”

Mario took over.

“Video Game Rack Fighter aka Victoria Gloria Somersby Stratenhaus. Bernard Plotz. Bland Life Settler. And uh, I’m sorry BQB, what’s your deformed kid’s name?”

I sighed.

“AJ.”

I leaned down to whisper to Alien Jones.

“Just so we’re clear, you could totally vaporize these clowns, right?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re not going to?”

“Sorry. Potentate’s orders. No vapey vaping the humans in public unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“It’s looking pretty necessary.”

“Nah, you got this, nerd,” Alien Jones replied.

Hauser banged his beer can.

“The prisoners are ordered not to talk to each other!”

“Bernie, Blandie, and AJ, you’re accused of conspiracy and aiding and abetting BQB in a criminal enterprise. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” Bernie said.

“Not guilty,” Alien Jones said, turning heads with his Barry White-esque voice.

“Question,” Blandie said. “If I say whatever you want about BQB, will you let me go?”

“No,” Hauser said. “We’ve pretty much convicted all of you dirtbags in our minds already.”

“Fine, not guilty then.”

“OK, so now what?” I asked. “I get flogged? Horse whipped? Put in the stockade? Sent to bed without my supper, what?”

“This was just your arraignment, BQB,” Mario said. “Your trial is tomorrow.”

Hauser leaned in and said ominously, “A trial by… zombie combat!”

“Oh come on!” I said. “You’re going to make us fight zombies? Isn’t that a little ridiculous? All because of what?  A little alleged toilet paper theft?”

Janet shuffled a few papers and looked at me.

“Our settlement might not be much, but we’re nothing if we don’t have law and order, BQB,” the nurse said.

“But what the hell will making us fight zombies even prove?” I asked. “That’s the worst idea for a trial I’ve ever heard of!”

“What kind of a trial do you suggest?” Mario asked.

“A real one! One with facts, witnesses, evidence and rational arguments!”

“You’re losing me,” Mario replied.

“Hear me out and I will prove to you that none of us had anything to do with the supply theft…”

I pointed at Hauser.

“…and that that piece of shit set us up!”

“That’s an outrageous charge, BQB!” Janet said. “Why, without Mayor Hauser’s leadership I doubt any of us would have lasted this long.”

Hauser laid it on thick.

“Oh, Janet, that’s ok. The young man knows not what he does.”

“BQB,” Mario said. “This idea of an ‘actual trial’ you raise. That was the way of the old world. We’ve built a new society since then and the old world’s ways just don’t apply any more.”

I felt like I was in an insane asylum.

“It’s only been twenty-five days!” I said. “The apocalypse only affected this stupid town! The world still exists! We’re still in America! You can’t force us to fight zombies!”

“Not ‘us,’” Mario said. “Just one of you.”

Mario looked around.

“Who will be the champion of Fort Hauser?” he asked.

“I will,” Hauser said. “Douglas Hauser. I took thirty seconds worth of punches in the 1980’s, I can certainly take on a pathetic book nerd.”

“I’ll round house kick your face, old man!”

I leaned down to AJ.

“Still ixnay on the ape-vay?”

“Up-yay.”

“Amnit-day!”

“Will you be your group’s champion, BQB?” Mario asked.

I turned to my group.

“Don’t try to talk me out of this.”

Pause.

“No one is,” Blandie said.

I turned back.

“Yes. I will be the Champion of All Nerds, as I have been since the day I was born.”

“Then it’s settled,” Mario said. “Zombie combat at dawn!”

“Wait,” I said. “How is this zombie combat if I’m fighting Hauser?”

“You and Mayor Hauser will fight each other AND zombies,” Mario explained.

“Oh you people suck so much ass,” I said.

George and the DiStefanos had been watching us the entire time. Mario looked at them.

“Take the prisoners away.”

“With pleasure,” George said.

“It’s going to be ok,” VGRF said.

“I hope so,” I said as George prodded me in the back with the butt of his rifle. “But I’d better call a zombie author for some encouragement first.”

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Oct 24 2015
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BQB's Zombie Apocalypse Survivor's Journal

BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 24

I tied a string to the locked door handle and carried the other end to the middle of the locker room.

“Call me MacGyver because I’m about to turn something into nothing,” I said.

“You’re going to encourage them to floss?” Alien Jones asked.

“No,” I said, handing the Esteemed Brainy One the string. “You yank on this when I’m in position and as soon as our captors open the door to investigate, I will round house kick them in the face, steal their weapons, and we’ll make a run for it.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” VGRF said.

“Not really,” Alien Jones replied. “Funny story, but that’s actually how the Tardoznians conquered Solano.”

“Not exactly a MacGyver move though,” VGRF said. “MacGyver would take like a paper clip and a milk carton and make a tactical nuke.”

“Does anyone have a better idea?” I asked.

Hearing none, I took a spot next to the door.

Alien Jones yanked the string. The handle rattled a bit.

Everything was quiet for a minute, then from the other side of the door, Carl yelled, “Hey! Stop rattling the handle!”

I looked at Alien Jones and nodded. The little green guy yanked the string again.

“Seriously!” Carl yelled. “That’s mildly annoying! Knock it off!”

Alien Jones yanked the string again.

“Fine!” Carl yelled. “You all want to be a bunch of jerks and make noise all day? Fine by me! Rattle away!”

We gave up.

“OK,” I said. “That was a shit plan.”

“What now?” Blandie asked.

“Sit here and wait for our imminent demise,” I said.

Everyone huddled around Alien Jones’ space phone to watch Netflix.

Bernie hanged back.

“Yo homie, I got yo back.”

“Thanks Bern.”

“Nah G,” the wannabe rapper said. “I been thinkin’ a lot about that shit you said to me back at Price Town. You was mad right yo.”

“I was?”

“Hellz to the yeah,” Bernie said. “I need to get my shiznitty together. Get a day job. Pay my bills and get me a fresh crib so I can work on the Funky Hunks revival in style.”

“I thought I said to give up the Funky Hunks.”

Funky Hunks represent.

“You was wrong about that, playa,” Bernie said. “It’s Funky Hunks or die as far as I’m concerned. But you’re right. I need a job until that happens. And luckily, thanks to the Internet and technology, I can kick my fresh rhymes and deliver them straight to the public without the middle man.”

“You’ve got a point,” I said. “I run a blog for 3.5 readers. You could probably find 3.5 forty something ladies in blue denim stretch pants who’d appreciate the Funky Hunks’ wholesome style, just as the soccer moms of the past did.”

“Damn straight, sucka,” Bernie said.

He bumped my fist and then we performed an elaborate handshake.

“You still remember our shit?”

“You know it.”

Bernie turned himself into a human beatbox, dropping a beat with his mouth. Then he launched into our signature song, “We Be Recylin.”

WE BE RECYCLIN

MC PLOTZ:

Yo. 1999. It’s Funky Hunk time!

Check it!

You mixed in your cans with a banana peel.

Fool, you why you givin’ Mother Nature a raw ass deal?

Recyclin’ is what you need to do.

To save the world and make a difference too

Bernie paused and handed me an imaginary mic.

I was reluctant at first.  It’d been so long since I picked up the mantle of Read N’ Plenty.  But then I just went for it.

READ N. PLENTY:

Give me the mic!

And let me recite

About the trash in my can that I pack in tight!

I keep the bottles from the cans and the cans away from paper!

We only got one world and it’s up to us how we’ll shape her!

We turned to the group, struck the classic 90’s rapper folded arm pose and said in unison:

Word to Gaia, bitch!

Alien Jones scratched his head, unsure of what to make of the spectacle. Blandie rolled her eyes. VGRF stood up and clapped her hands.

Carl piped in from the other side of the door.

Read N. Plenty

Read N. Plenty

“Are you guys doing that Funky Hunk stuff? Aww, I loved those songs! That’s so cool and non-threatening! Reminds me of the simpler days of my youth! Can you do, “Look Both Ways Before Crossing the Street, Bitch?”

“Umm,” I said. “OK.”

“Cool.”

We heard the door unlock.

“Hold on,” Carl said. “I’m going to come in and watch.”

I ran into position next to the door. We all looked at each other, unable to believe Carl was this stupid.

The hill billy walked through the door and BAM! I round house kicked him right in the face, sending him crashing to the floor.

I grabbed his rifle.

Quickly, we made it to the hallway only to find George and Billy coming up from the other side.

“Damnation!” George said to Billy as soon as he spotted us. “I leave your idiot brother in charge for two seconds and look what happens!!”

George and Billy took a few shots at us. I returned fire. All three of us were terrible shots. NRA memberships were definitely not in our futures.

In the middle of the hallway, there was a door. I grabbed the handle and covered the group as they ran in, sending a hail of suppressing fire at our captors.

I learned that move from watching Video Game Rack Fighter play War Shooter for hours on end.

Finally, when everyone was in, I locked the door.

George and Billy and pounded their fists on it.

“Believe you me,” George yelled. “That ‘aint a room you want to be in, Battler!”

The room was pitch black. We couldn’t see anything.

Groans. Grunts. Ugghs.

“Did you leave one of your pornos going on the space phone?” VGRF asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Um, I mean no, I don’t watch stuff like that.”

“Humans, I sense a problem,” Alien Jones said.

I found the light switch and flicked it.

We were in an empty room filled with at least twenty zombies. They all lunged at us. There wasn’t much room to fend them off.

“Ideas?” VGRF asked.

“The Mayor isn’t ready for you to meet them yet!” George shouted.

I opened the door. My group and I returned to the hallway to find George and Billy pointing their weapons at us.

George locked the door. The zombies on the other end pounded on it.

“They’re for your trial,” George said. “The Mayor’s going to have some fun with you, boy.”

“Can you stop calling me, ‘boy?’” I asked. “No offense, but it makes you sound like you’re from Deliverance.”

George grabbed me by the back of the neck.

“Come on, nerds! Back to the showers with you!”

We were returned to the girls’ locker room. Carl’s knocked out body was collected and we were locked in.

“Try another stunt like that and every last one of you will be executed where you stand!” George warned.

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you, guy who used to cut my hair for five dollars and hand me a lollipop when I was a kid. Good to see the zombie apocalypse has worked its magic on everyone.”

I looked at Alien Jones.

“Do you have to hack it up again?”

“Nope,” the Esteemed Brainy One said as he handed me the space phone. “I just stashed it in my pocket this time. These cargo pants are fun AND functional!”

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Oct 23 2015
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BQB's Zombie Apocalypse Survivor's Journal

BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 23

We were all exceptionally bored.

Uncle Hardass

Uncle Hardass

A long day rolled into evening, nothing but a drip from the nearby showers to entertain us.

OK, there was also a plethora of streaming media content from Alien Jones’ perpetually charged space phone, but while the rest of the gang watched a movie, I wasn’t into it.

I felt an overwhelming urge to be alone and walked off into the shower room.  Once I was by myself, the tears flowed freely and I openly cried.

From behind me, I heard the voice of a grumbly old man.

“Waaahhh…waaah waaah!”

I turned around.

“Uncle Hardass?”

For those above and beyond this site’s average 3.5 reader count, I was raised by my Aunt Gertie and her husband, my Uncle Hardassimo “Hardass” J. Scrambler.

Before he died of a massive heart attack, Uncle Hardass’ favorite past times included:

  • Complaining about hippies, commies, and others he deemed no goodniks who didn’t work hard enough.
  • Slaving away at the salt mines.  Literally, he worked at Salt Mines, Inc. and his job was to dig hunks of salt out of the ground everyday.
  • Reminding me how much he did and how little I did in comparison.  I tried not to take it too personally, because he’d of reminded everyone else in the world too had they been willing to listen.

Despite watching his casket get lowered into the ground, I’m still haunted by his ghost to this very day.

That’s not a metaphor.  He actually just shows up at BQB Headquarters unannounced to bitch about whatever I’m doing, inform me that I’m doing it wrong, and to demand an answer as to when I’m going to abandon writing and take a job at the salt mines.

Writing, of course, to Uncle Hardass, is a pursuit beneath “real men” and is something that only hippies and commies do.

Ironically, despite his protestations against writing, Uncle Hardass, from time to time, manages to log on to my blog uninvited to offer his, Things That Really Frost My Ass column. It’s not really a column so much as it is a laundry list of things that are pissing him off at a given point in time.

“Yeah it’s me,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “Holy shit, look at you, ya’ blubbering crybaby! This really is the girls’ locker room, isn’t it?”

“Whatever,”  I said.  “Hit me while I’m down.  That’s what you do.”

“I’m not hitting you, Nancy.  What gives with the waterworks?”

“You want to know why I’m crying?”  I asked.  “Because you were right.”

“I always am,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “About what this time?”

“Writing.”

“Bahh!  Writing!”

Uncle Hardass raised his voice a few octaves, pretending to be all girly and mocked me.  “Oooo la dee da!  Look at me!  I’m a writer!  The world needs my thoughts and opinions!”

Then he reverted to his old, miserable self.

“Baloney.  Give me the salt mines any day.  Write a thousand words and you’ve got nothing but a bunch of shit on paper.  Yank a hunk of salt out of the ground and Salt Mines, Inc. will give you just compensation for it.  That’s the problem with your generation.  Everybody wants something for nothing.  Everybody thinks they’re so damn special.”

I laughed.

“Ohhhh, don’t worry about that, old man,”  I said.  “You worked on me long enough to convince me that I’m not special.  Every day I wake up and the first thing I think about is how exactly un-special I am.”

Uncle Hardass snapped his fingers and a table appeared in the middle of the showers.  There was a basket with cold cuts and bread in it.  He took a seat and proceeded to make himself a sandwich.

I took the other chair.

“Well,”  Uncle Hardass said as he spritzed a slice of bread with some mustard.  “It worked, didn’t it?”

“It worked?”  I asked.  “That I’m acutely aware of how little I matter to the world?  Yes.  Yes it worked.”

“Do you have a job?”  Uncle Hardass asked.

“Yeah,”  I replied.  “At Beige Corp.  It’s boring as hell and pays shit.”

“But does it pay the bills?”  Uncle Hardass asked.

“Yes,”  I admitted.

“You’ve got a girlfriend?”  the old man inquired.

“Yes.”

“You don’t take her for granted do you?”

“No.”

Uncle Hardass cut his sandwich in half.

“Why?”

“Because she’s smart and pretty and could have anyone and if I don’t make her happy she’ll leave me because I’m not…”

Uncle Hardass perked up and pointed a knowing finger at me.

“Say it.”

“…special.”

“You’re welcome,”  Uncle Hardass said as he bit into his dinner.

“Oh whatever,”  I said.  “You’re really going to eat that?”

“I’m dead,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

He took another bite, then picked up a napkin and dabbed some mustard off his chin.

“Son, when you were growing up, every adult in your life had a job.  Your teachers were supposed to make you feel special because the idea that you could do anything made you study more.  Your aunt made you feel special because it made her feel special to see you smile but me?  I had the hardest job of all.  Life will take its size twelve boot and wedge it straight up your ass if you’re not careful and it was my job to dissuade you of all this ‘I’m special’ bullshit so that you were prepared for all the crap the world throws your way.  In spite of a world designed to tear the little guy apart, you’re still here..  You’re alive.  You have a roof over your head and people that give a shit about you and none of that came from writing so you’re welcome, Lord Fauntleroy.  My work here is done.”

“I’m never going to write again,”  I said.

“Glad to hear it,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “Writing is for weirdoes, primadonnas, and women.  But uh, just out of curiosity, why?”

“Writing got me into this mess,”  I said.  “A corrupt general conspired with the corrupt mayor of this settlement to frame me because he didn’t like something that was written on my blog.  Now my friends will pay because I had a big enough ego to think people would want to read my dumb blog in the first place.”

Uncle Hardass picked up the other half of his sandwich.

“You know, son, writing is a girlish hobby to be sure but, if it makes you happy and it’s legal then it’s your God given right as a citizen of the United States of America, the greatest f%^king country on the face of the Earth to do it if you want to.”

“You hate writing,”  I said.  “You don’t hate writing.  Make up your mind.”

“Oh it’s made up,”  Uncle Hardass said.  “Writing is stupid and unmanly.  But all I ever wanted for you was to be able to survive on your own, pay your own way through life and find a woman that can look at you for five seconds with puking and now that you’ve got all that, I could give three shits what you do in your spare time.  Personally, a real man would get a second job but if you want to mince around and tap out words like you’re the next Oscar Wilde have at it.”

“You’re the most complicated man I’ve ever met,”  I said.

“Not really,”  Uncle Hardass said as he made himself another sandwich.  “I like money.  I like to work hard for it.  I like being independent and that only comes from working hard for money.  Also, I like that now that I’m dead I can eat as much as I want and not get fat.  You want one?”

“Nah, I’m good,”  I said.

“Seems like the only thing a real man in your situation could do now is spring his friends out of this hooscow and get them out of harm’s way,”  Uncle Hardass said.

“Why?”  I asked.  “Apparently if you die you just get to visit your relatives and bitch at them.”

Uncle Hardass smiled.

“Am I really a ghost, BQB?”  Uncle Hardass asked.  “Or subconsciously, has your mind focused the practical, pragmatic tough-guy side of yourself into an apparition that looks like the only adult you knew when you were growing up that warned you that the real world doesn’t hand out participation ribbons?”

I sat and thought about that.

Uncle Hardass smacked the table and laughed.

“BAHH HA HA!  I’m just screwing with you!  Of course I’m a damn ghost, you jackass!”

The old man handed me the basket, snapped his fingers and made the table and chairs disappear.

“My boy, the thing to remember is this.  Whether it’s writing some kind of fruity novel or saving your pals from an unjust fate, the only way to get something done is to realize that you’re not special enough for the universe to take an interest and make things happen for you.  YOU have to make them happen for yourself.”

“Thanks,”  I said.

“But seriously, stop crying.  You look like a homosexual.”

I snickered and wiped a tear off my face.

“You’re not allowed to say stuff like that anymore.”

“Aww who gives a shit?  I’m dead.”

Poof.  He was gone.

I carried the basket into the locker room and set it down.  It was a welcome sight for everyone as our captors hadn’t thought/cared to leave us any food.

“Where’d this come from?”  VGRF asked.

“Uncle Hardass.”

As the Bookshelf Battle Blog’s Second-in-Command, VGRF was familiar with my ghost uncle.

“Sweet!  Pimento loaf from the great beyond!”

“Guys, I have to cut movie night short,”  I said as I grabbed the space phone.  “I gotta bust us out of here but first?  I need to call a zombie author.”

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Oct 22 2015
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BQB's Zombie Apocalypse Survivor's Journal

BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 22 (Part 2)

The door read:

GIRLS’ LOCKER ROOM

The DiStefanos pushed us in and locked the door.

VGRF and I walked in. Blandie, Bernie, and Alien Jones were sitting around on changing benches.

“Aww, BQB,” Bernie said. “All through high school, I dreamed about living inside the girls’ locker room, but not like this, yo!”

Blandie stomped her foot and made her typical mad face.

Boo! Blandie is still the worst!

Boo! Blandie is still the worst!

“What did you do, BQB?! What did you do?!”

“Silence, blonde human,” Alien Jones said as he hopped off his bench. “BQB has done nothing wrong. Well, I mean he has done wrong in so many, many other ways. His life is a total mess but in this particular instance, he is blameless.”

“We’ve been set up,” I said. “Alien Jones, can you use your mind reading powers to detect who framed us?”

“It was Hauser,” AJ replied.

We all let out a collective gasp followed by a “WHAAAT?!”

“He’s struck a deal with Morganstern,” Alien Jones said. “The General contacted Hauser and threatened to blow up the rec center and all the survivors in it unless Hauser kills you and offers evidence of having done so.”

“So why doesn’t he just put a bullet in my head and get it over with?” I asked.

“Because you have replaced Hauser as East Randomtown’s favorite son,” Alien Jones explained. “You’ve brought a modest amount of glory to your burg by setting up a WordPress site that attracts the attention of 3.5 readers. It’s not much, but it’s more than Hauser’s done lately. His thirty-second stint on a 1980’s cop show is old news. Because you’re so loved by the citizenry, Hauser knows he can’t just shoot you. He needs to turn the public against you.”

“By making everyone believe you’re a dirty supply thief,” VGRF said.

“Precisely,”  AJ said.

“So now what?” I asked.

Alien Jones hopped back on a bench.

“We wait.”

“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “We need to bust out of here.”

“There’s no escape,” Alien Jones said. “The DiStefanos are guarding the door.”

“Vaporize their sorry asses with your powers!”

“Hauser is the only rec center resident outside this room who knows I’m an alien,” AJ explained. “Everyone else just thinks I’m a deformed human child. The Mighty Potentate would never approve of me outing myself.”

“Makes no sense,” VGRF said. “You out yourself on the Bookshelf Battle Blog all the time.”

“Only to 3.5 readers,” Alien Jones said. “And for the most part, they usually just assume BQB is pretending to be an alien and that I’m not real. The Mighty Potentate would be tried for violation of Intergalactic Space Law were it to ever come out that he’s interfering with Earthly affairs, namely by sending me to help Bookshelf Q. Battler. His Potentosity would certainly vaporize me on his way out.”

“A trial,” I said as I sat down. “So how bad could that be? We’ll just convince the jury we’re innocent.”

“It’s not that kind of trial,” Alien Jones. “Here, all issues of guilt are decided by…a trial of zombie combat!”

“Aw snap,” Bernie said. “I gots to bust some zombie ass?”

“Did you just say, ‘snap?’” Blandie asked.  “That’s so 1999!”

“OK,” I said. “We can get through this. I’d better call a zombie author for advice and…aw crap!”

Everyone looked at me.

“The space phone!” I shouted. “I left it out there!”

“No worries,” Alien Jones said. “I anticipated the evildoers’ moves and was able to smuggle it…”

“…in your pocket?” I asked.

“…inside of me,” Alien Jones said.

I shook my head.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “How? You don’t have a butt! You have no orifices to speak of!”

“I do have one.”

Alien Jones punched himself in the stomach and then started hacking up a lung. He sounded like a cat stuck on a hairball.

Hack…hack…hack…HACK!!!!

He looks like he's laughing but he's really barfing...up a space phone.

He looks like he’s laughing but he’s really barfing…up a space phone.

SPLAT!

The space phone popped out of the Esteemed Brainy One’s mouth and onto the locker room floor, covered with sticky alien spit.

“You may make your call now.”

“Um…thanks…you know…I think I’m going to pass on this interview,” I said, staring at the messy phone. “You wanna take this one for me, buddy?”

“Humans,” Alien Jones said as he picked up the device. “Such pansies. You’ll wear the same undies for a week but a little intergalactic spittle freaks you out.”

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Oct 22 2015
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BQB's Zombie Apocalypse Survivor's Journal

BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 22 – (Part 1)

The morning was off to a bad start.

George the Barber

George the Barber

George the Barber, accompanied by the DiStefano brothers, were in the office VGRF and I used as our bedroom. We were half-asleep on an old cot when they barged in, shouting and pointing their guns at us.

“Get your ass up, traitor,” George said.

“Excuse me?”

“Now!” the old man said as he slapped me across the face.

We got up and our captors marched us across the gym floor. Every survivor stopped what they were doing to observe the commotion.

“Want to tell me what this is all about?”

“NO TALKING!” Billy shouted as he mashed the butt of his rifle against my back.

“F&*K!” I cried. “Is that any way to treat your Deputy Mayor?”

“Oh, I have a hankerin’ all your rights and privileges have been revoked, boy,” George said.

The trio lead us out into the parking lot where Doug, Mario, and a few armed goons were standing around the Compensator, the SUV my friends and I had driven over from the mall.

“Bookshelf Q. Battler,” Hauser said.

“Doug, I’m not supposed to be outside, remember? Morganstern’s been itching to get me away from the rec center so he can blow me to smithereens.”

“You think I care after your betrayal?”

“What?” I asked.

Doug nodded at Mario, who in turn, opened the back door of the Compensator. It was overflowing with pilfered stuff. Food. Boxes. Cans. Packages. Much needed supplies.

“I trusted you with a position of authority and you robbed us blind!” Doug shouted.

Mayor Hauser

Mayor Hauser

I didn’t know what to say.

“That’s not…I didn’t do that!”

“A likely story,” Doug said. “The three hoodlums you came in with are already in custody. We’ll give you some time to rot and think of what you’ve done until we can organize a trial. May God have mercy on your soul, Bookshelf Q. Battler.”

Carl grabbed me and Billy grabbed VGRF. We struggled as they dragged us back to the rec center.

“Wait,” VGRF said. “BQB didn’t do this!”

“That’s noble of you to protect your beau, girly,” Doug said. “But you need to start thinking about yourself. If he forced you to help out with this, now’s the time to come clean.”

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Oct 21 2015
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BQB's Zombie Apocalypse Survivor's Journal

BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 21

Another morning in the computer lab.

Coming Soon - Johnny Gunhands: A Farewell to Hands (hands to be edited out in post-production)

Coming Soon – Johnny Gunhands: A Farewell to Hands (hands to be edited out in post-production)

I paced the floor and slurped on stale coffee while Alien Jones typed the words as they flowed from my cake hole.

“Johnny Gunhands. He’s muscular, rugged, virile, and in his late twenties.”

“ERRRNT! Wrong!” the Esteemed Brainy One replied.

“Wrong?”

“Wrong! How could someone become such a skilled master at taking down criminals without a bit of life experience behind him?”  Alien Jones asked. “Personally, I picture Johnny Gunhands pushing forty.”

“Aww but then the young people won’t read it,” I said. “Everyone under thirty-five is convinced that everyone over thirty five is a bunch of corrupt old farts who’ve sold their souls to the man!”

“What does everyone over thirty-five think about everyone under thirty-five?” AJ asked.

“That all they do is snapchat and take selfies all day.”

“Are these assessments accurate?”

“Surprisingly so on both counts,” I said.

I took another sip of my java. Bleh. It was rank, but my only source of caffeine. It would have to do.

“Fine,” I said. “We’ll compromise. Johnny Gunhands is thirty-two. Old enough to get some respect from gray haired readers. Young enough that the selfie stick crowd won’t think he’s Methuselah. Can I go on?”

“Please.”

“So in the opening scene, we see a butcher’s knife. A random mobster holds it up in the air and a ray of moonlight glistens off of it. It comes down with a WHACK and then the mobster says, ‘That’s what you get for arresting the boss, see?’”

“SHIT!” Alien Jones cried.

“Oh like you could do any better.”

“No,” AJ said as he nursed his hand. “The mouse. It got white hot and…”

Sparks flew out of the monitor. To our amazement, a foot came out of the screen, then another one, then a torso, arms, and a head.

“What the F%$K is that?” I yelled.

“It’s an e-zombie!” AJ replied.

The monster let loose with a terrifying growl and then lunged at me.

I did what any man trained in martial arts could do.

I performed a round house kick to the beast’s head, knocking it clean off.

It rolled to the floor but it was still alive. It grunted and it’s eyes moved around.

I stepped on it, pressing my foot down until I felt the skull crack under my shoe, the damned creature’s brains going kerplooey.

“I’ve heard about a computer virus but this is ridiculous!” I said. “Who knew that e-zombies were even a thing?”

Alien Jones handed me the space phone.

“There’s an author who knows all there is to know about this.”

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Oct 20 2015
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BQB's Zombie Apocalypse Survivor's Journal

BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Journal – Day 20

10:00 a.m.

Delilah K. Donnelly, BQB's Attorney

Delilah K. Donnelly, BQB’s Attorney

For the first time in twenty days, I felt comfortable enough to sleep in.  VGRF was snuggled in close to me, her mouth wide open as she snored and blew a strand of her red hair up and down with each exhale and inhale.

There was someone I needed to check in with.  I was way overdue.

I punched a number into the space phone and a few moments later, I found myself staring at a video feed of a blonde woman. She was all class and elegance.  Her hair was such that it looked like she visited a salon daily.  Her dress was one of the finest that the Beverly Hills boutiques had to offer.

She spoke with style and grace with an undertone of Old Hollywood glamour.

“Mr. Battler?”

“Hello Ms. Donnelly.”

It was my attorney, Delilah K. Donnelly, Official Lead Counsel for the Bookshelf Battle Blog and my chief advisor on all legal matters.

“Are you quite alright?”  Delilah asked.  “I must say I haven’t heard from you in quite some time and after viewing the news reports regarding the tragedy in your hometown, I’ve grown dreadfully concerned.”

“I’m good for now,”  I said.  “But listen, I need your help.”

“Of course.”

“I’m being targeted by a crooked general, one Thomas Morganstern,”  I explained.  “He’s none too pleased that Jake spilled the beans about Operation Fuhrerpunschen and intends to use the zombie apocalypse as a cover to blow me up, thus shutting the Bookshelf Battle Blog down for good.”

“Good heavens,”  Delilah said.  “The 3.5 readers would be lost without you, sir.  What ever shall we do?”

“Tell Jake he needs to write down a rough draft of everything he can remember about the mission he went on to punch Adolf Hitler in the face,”  I said.  “Then get it to a secure location.  Let Morganstern know that if anything ever happens to me, no, to any of us, that the manuscript will be self-published.”

“Shall we price it at ninety-nine cents on Amazon?”  Delilah asked.

“Jesus Christ, Delilah,”  I said.  “What am I, a teenage girl hocking her love poems?  We’re talking about the scoop on a top secret government operation to punch history’s greatest monster in the face.  Surely we can get at least 2.99 for it.”

“Of course.  I shall recruit Detective Hatcher’s assistance immediately,”  Delilah said.  “I must say it won’t be easy, Mr. Battler.  He remains invariably displeased that you continue to withhold the secret of his sixty year nap from him.”

“You sound like you have something to say,”  I said.

Delilah lit up one of her long filtered cigarettes and took a puff.  I could tell she was stalling.

“Do you think its fair?”  she asked.

“That I string Jake along like a circus monkey, making him dance for the info he wants to know?”  I asked. “No, not at all.”

“He views you as some type of absurd villain,”  Delilah said.  “Toying with him just to drive your site’s readership higher than 3.5.”

“Then let him think that,”  I said.  “I don’t know what else to do.”

Delilah flicked some ash into a ceramic tray on her desk.

“Tell him the truth?”

“What?”  I asked.  “That a maniacal alien despot is threatening to conquer Earth unless my writing career takes off and that running a website featuring regular posts from a hard boiled noir style detective full of stories of his exploits might just be the one thing that puts me over the top?”

“I suppose it does sound foolish when you put it that way.”

“You’ve got a bigger heart than you’re given credit for Delilah,”  I said.  “But you know for the Pop Culture Mysteries posts to work, we need to insulate Jake from aliens, the Yeti, Dr. Hugo, really all the ridiculous nonsense that happens in the Bookshelf Battle world.”

“Very well, Mr. Battler,”  Delilah said.  “I must say I fear that Detective Hatcher may be in for quite a letdown when he discovers how he ended up here.”

VGRF stirred, stretched and yawned.

“Did you feel letdown when I told you how you ended up here?”  I asked.

Delilah’s large eyes looked down.

“At first, yes.  And for quite some time thereafter.”

“And now?”  I asked.

She looked up.

“I feel eternally grateful for the gift you’ve given me.”

“Jake will eventually share that feeling.”

Delilah scoffed.

“I doubt that indubitably.  Detective Hatcher is hardly as open minded as I am.”

“Hi Delilah,”  VGRF said.

“Good morning, Ms. Fighter,”  my attorney said.  “Did you sleep well?”

“I did.”

“I’m ever so glad to hear it,”  Delilah said.  “Will there be anything else, Mr. Battler?”

“Yes,”  I replied.  “Halloween is coming.  Can you see if Jake will find out why the hero in a horror movie just clubs the bad guy one time and assumes victory, only to find that the baddie has just discovered his second wind and is ready to fight again?  I’ll send you the details.  Tell Jake there’s a cool fiver in it for him.”

“Ever the big spender,”  Delilah said.  “I’ll deliver your requests to Detective Hatcher right away.  Good day Mr. Battler.  Ms. Fighter.”

“Good day,”  I replied.

I hanged up the phone.

“You’re lucky to have her,”  VGRF said.

“The top lawyer in Hollywood representing a guy with a blog that caters to a mere 3.5 readers?”  I asked. “Uh…yeah, I think so.”

“She’s very loyal,”  VGRF said.

“True,”  I said.  “And if there’s one quality you can’t get enough of in the zombie apocalypse, it’s loyalty.”

I dialed another number on the space phone.

“That reminds me.  Time to call another zombie author.”

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Oct 19 2015
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BQB's Zombie Apocalypse Survivor's Journal

Bookshelf Q. Battledog’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 19

MEANWHILE AT BOOKSHELF BATTLE HEADQUARTERS…

Bookshelf Q. Battledog, Head of Security for BQB HQ

Bookshelf Q. Battledog, Head of Security for BQB HQ

Woof.  Woof woof.  Woof.

TRANSLATION: Should I live to be a thousand years old I shall never and hopefully will never experience another happenstance as horrid as the East Randomtown Zombie Apocalypse.  The dead arising from the grave, evil beasts in the form of once trusted humans now engaging in that most repulsive activities, namely, the most brutal consumption of human brains.  Oh ye wicked cannibals, may you never know the wickedness of your heinous deeds lest ye weep until the end of time and forever more upon the grim realization of the atrocities you have committed as the result of your zombified condition most foul.

Woof woof.  Woof woof.  Woof!  Woof?  Woof woof woof woof woof.

TRANSLATION: Truly, an unenviable task is my charge, that of course being the safety and security of the Bookshelf Battle Headquarters, the menacing structure which houses a) BQB’s blogging operations b) his action figure collection and c) most importantly, his magic bookshelf.  The latter item provides the most difficult challenge, as surely there are many unscrupulous individuals in the world who yearn to get their unclean hands on a bookshelf that contains great power.  ‘Tis a burden I would not wish on my greatest enemy, a lowly cat, let alone myself.

WOOF!

TRANSLATION:  Outside, hideous zombies claw at the walls, trying to gain entry into BQB HQ.  As a layperson or rather, a laydog, I am uncertain of the science of it all.  If a zombie should bite me, will I become a zombie dog?  If a zombie bites Video Game Rack Fighter Cat, will he become a zombie cat?  If a zombie bites another zombie, does that zombie become a zombie zombie?  Fi, oh mine miserable mind, thou surely produceth questions of the utmost import and yet they go unanswered.  Despair, thy name is Bookshelf Q. Battledog and yet I must retain my composure and project forth a demeanor of intrepid fortitude for if those who call BQB HQ home learn that even their noble Head of Security is in doubt, then morale shall suffer greatly and all shall be lost.

Nay zombies, move on I say, move on!  For as the great Winston Churchill said, “We shall fight them on the beaches, we shall fight them in the air, we shall fight them in the streets, we shall never give up, we shall never surrender!” and while those wise words were made in relation to the Nazi scourge I for one argue that they are equally germane to the zombie menace lurking outside these fortified walls.

Woof.

TRANSLATION:  And thus, I must bring this post to an end, for parting is such sweet sorrow.  Bookshelf Q. Battler fear not, for thy HQ is in good paws – paws of a canine who pledge to do all within his power to protect your compound and especially your magic bookshelf from the zombified masses.  

Godspeed, good sir, for it is now time for you to contact another zombie author.

Woof woof.

TRANSLATION: P.S. I pooped on your bed.

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