Bookshelf Battle

I am an old alien.

I’m young for my species but ancient compared to you humans.

You hairless apes have no idea what a spec of dust your existence is in relation to the vast reaches of time and space.

And alas, the existence of my colleague, the human whose safety I was sworn by my ruler to make my highest priority, was in doubt.

My species is one that thinks rationally and logically, yet we are not devoid of emotion.

Thus, I understood the weeping of Video Game Rack Fighter as she sat by Bookshelf Q. Battler’s bedside, holding her loved one’s hand as his unconscious body rested in bed.

I have no junk. No genitalia of any kind. My only orifice is my mouth. Other than that, my body is water tight.

Yet I am in a relationship, of sorts. Back on my home planet, I have a government mandated life mate, Alien Rozencrantz.

There’s nothing sexual going on there, since my species is comprised of asexual beings that reproduce through a laboratory based cloning process.

The Mighty Potentate pairs us off at random, mandating that we watch out for one another as replacing a clone is expensive.

Even so, were anything to happen to Alien Rosencrantz, I would be mildly perturbed for an appropriate mourning period before reporting to His Potentosity for vaporization for failing to protect my life mate.

So I was able to relate to VGRF’s sadness at the possibility of losing the partner with which she engaged in a primitive fluid exchange ritual.

“Perhaps you should rest now, human,” I said.

“No,” VGRF said. “I want to be here when he wakes up.”

Blandie, the other human female, stretched her arms out and yawned.

“Oh, look at the time,” she said. “We might as well get going Bernie. It’s not like BQB is going to get any less comatose if we hang around.”

“Nah boo,” Bernie replied. “I wanna get my homie’s back.”

Blandie’s voice turned shrill.

“I said, ‘Let’s go!’”

“Fine! Damn girl.”

Bernie was already….what’s that expression humans use when the females run the show? Ah, yes. “Whipped.”

I too headed for the door.

“I’ll be back,” I said to Video Game Rack Fighter.”

“Where are you going?”

“I must call another zombie author and continue BQB’s interview series. He’d of wanted it that way.”

Hauser was dead as soon as he hit the ground. The zombies tore him apart, leaving little more than a pile of bones and shreds of meat.

I landed on my shoulder and felt my head smack the floor. The pain was so intense, but I fought through it and was able to get away while the walking corpses were distracted with Hauser.

I crawled under the scaffold. Cowardly, I know, but I hoped it would provide me with some cover. Maybe they wouldn’t notice me.

Fat chance.

As soon as they were done with Hauser’s remains, they grabbed the bars that held the scaffolding together and shook it until it collapsed on me.

A heavy metal bar knocked me in the head. Pinned to the ground by the wreckage, I couldn’t move and felt myself drifting into unconsciousness.

I heard gunfire. I turned to my right. There was a small area I could see out of.

I came face to face with a person wearing a gas mask. Man? Woman? I didn’t know. Said individual reached a gloved hand toward me.

Then I passed out.

“TWO NERDS ENTER! ONE NERD LEAVES! TWO NERDS ENTER! ONE NERD LEAVES!”

So went the chant of the unruly crowd, my former friends, neighbors, and townspeople turning into monsters worse than the zombies on the gym floor below.

I don’t know if it’s the lack of law and order, or the never ending danger, but something about a zombie apocalypse sure brings out the worst in people.

The scaffold was rickety. One wrong step was going to send me sailing to the ground.

WHIFF!

Hauser’s mop handle passed an inch above my head.

“Why, Hauser?” I asked. “Why did you cut a deal with Morganstern? You didn’t have to frame me!”

BQB took another wack at me. I deflected the attack.

“BQB, from the moment you stepped in here, I’ve been plotting your demise! I was going to kill you whether the General got involved or not!”

I jumped over a thrust that was meant to knock me off my feet.

“You really think I’d allow a little piss ant like you take away my statue?”

CRACK! Our mop handles met in the heat of battle. We were at a stalemate, pushing our weapons against each other, holding each other back.

It reminded me of the time Capt. Kirk and Dr. Spock had to fight each other on the old Star Trek TV show. I can say stuff like that because I’m a nerd.

“I had nothing to do with that!” I cried.

“Bullshit!” yelled. “You know you lobbied Bramble to take down my statue and put up one of you in its place!”

“You’ve got to believe me, Doug,” I said. “I’ve ALWAYS believed that there isn’t a finite amount of success. There’s plenty of room for everyone to make it, so I’d never bring someone down just to prop myself up. I talk about this on my blog all the time.”

With one swift motion, Hauser swept my leg and I was down, the scaffold shaking as I heard the board.

“You know only 3.5 people read that shit!” Hauser said.

The crowd was divided on who it wanted to win.

“Miami Vice forever!” yelled one lady from the bleachers. “Doug Hauser is a God that walks amongst men!”

“LIES!” shouted another spectator. “Bookshelf Q. Battler’s 3.5 readers have put East Randomtown on the map!”

And it degenerated from there.

“Finish him, Hauser!”

“Kick his ass, BQB!”

Hauser raised his mop handle/bo staff high in the air, preparing to bring it down in a crushing blow.

“Let’s see you try to blog your way out of this, EDUARDO!”

I did the only thing I could think of.

I brought my leg up fast and kicked my opponent…right in the wang.

The Johnson. The Twig and Berries. Mr. Happy.

“Ugh,” Hauser said as he dropped his handle to grab, well, his other handle. “That was a bitch move!”

It was. It really was. Men understand how much that hurts so its definitely reserved for life or death situations.

This certainly was one, as the zombies below were grabbing hold of the scaffold and rattling, hoping to shake us loose so they could snack on us.

Hauser’s face was one of tremendous pain and he staggered backwards, misjudged the amount of space he had left, and ended up stepping off the scaffold.

I stood up and investigated. There was a single hand clutching the board.

I knelt down and looked over the side.

Hauser was barely holding on as a pack of dirty zombies, at least a dozen or so, were snapping their teeth at an expected treat.

The crowd cheered at the possibility of an impending fatality.

I reached down.

“TAKE MY HAND!”

Hauser looked up at me, confused.

“You’d…you’d save me?”

“Yes! Let’s end this madness!”

Hauser used his free hand to grab mine and began using the leverage to lift himself up.

But then he removed the hand he was using to hold the scaffold and used it to grab the back of my neck.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

Hauser’s had a dead look in his eyes.

“I’d rather us both die than see my statue replaced by a dirty stinking loser with only 3.5 readers!”

Down we both went, hurtling to the ground below, where the snarling undead were waiting for a feast.

n the middle of the gym, a ten foot tall scaffold had been set up. Loose boards on the top served as a rickety, makeshift floor.

Hauser and I stood on the gym floor, waiting for the spectacle to begin.

Hundreds of survivors poured in to observe the competition. They took the top row of seats on each side and then the remaining rows were retracted in so the zombies wouldn’t be able to reach them.

George, the DiStefanos and a few more armed goons took up high positions, guns at the ready to take down any zombies that tried to attack the spectators.

The crowd cheered as the master of ceremonies walked in.

He was Leo McKoy, a wild haired, crazy eyed bum and East Randomtown’s most notorious drunk/barfly.

He’d fashioned a white bed sheet into a toga and carried a ram’s horn, which he blew into as soon as he reached the scaffold.

“Where the hell did you get a shofar?” I asked.

“Bitch, I never leave home without my shofar!” Leo replied.

To say Leo wasn’t right in the head was an understatement. Before the fall of East Randomtown civilization, the cops arrested him every other day for public indecency. He’d spent many a night in the drunk tank.

“Citizens of Fort Hauser!” Leo shouted. “A great accusation has been leveled at Bookshelf Q. Battler. And now, as is our custom, he will prove whether or not he is worthy to stay in our settlement by taking on his accuser! Should BQB defeat Hauser, he will then have defeat an entire zombie horde to win back his life and his freedom.”

“Just going to go on record again as saying a trial with facts and evidence would have been the more civilized approach,” I said.

Leo handed us each a long wooden stick.

“Your weapons!” Leo said. “You will each compete using the ancient bo staff, just like the ninja masters of old!”

“Is this a mop handle?” I asked.

“It’s a bo staff!”

“This IS a mop handle,” I said. “The part where it clips to the mop head is right here!”

“Shit, Battler, must you ruin everything?” Leo asked. “Just like you two ruined my life?”

Leo had a longstanding grudge against Hauser and I.

“I volunteered for this duty as I truly hope that BOTH of you usurping bitches will become zombie food and then I, Leo McKoy, will take my rightful place as East Randomtown’s Most Famous Citizen!”

Doug slapped his forehead.

“Oh for the love of God, Leo. Not the James Van Der Beek story again.”

Leo raised his hand into the air.

“The James Van Der Beek story!” he yelled. “In the year of our lord, I, Leo McKoy, was employed as a delivery driver for Schultz’ Delicatessen, home of the all you can eat cheese platter!”

“I’ve taken that challenge many times,” I said.

“It shows, Man Tits,” Doug said.

“Oh shut up, Mr. Gray Chest Hair.”

“Silence, bitches!” Leo said. “For your better is speaking. I was charged with the task of delivering a reuben sandwich on wheat bread with extra cole slaw, a bag of barbecue potato chips, and a bottle of Sprite to room thirty-one of Motel Nine, just off of Route Twelve.”

“That’s the shittiest area of town,” Hauser said.

“I reached my destination, knocked on the door and what should greet me but the angelic, cherubic face of one James Van Der Beek, who at the time was known for his role as Dawson Leery on the hit WB Network show, Dawson’s Creek. God bless the WB, may it reign supreme for years to come!”

“The WB went off the air years ago,” I said.

“Damnation!” Leo said. “Anyway, I said, ‘Mr. Van Der Beek, I hope you enjoy this reuben sandwich with extra cole slaw and might I add that I think it is bullshit that Joey Potter refuses to give you the love that you so obviously deserve! To wit, Mr. Van Der Beek replied, ‘Yeah buddy, it’s just a TV show.’”

“That story’s crap,” Hauser said. “An in-shape star like James Van Der Beek would never eat a reuben sandwich with extra cole slaw.”

“The man was famished!” Leo replied. “His car broke down and he was waiting for it to be repaired. He hadn’t eaten all day.”

“You do know that it was probably just that guy from the gas station, Ted Bickerstaff, right?” I asked. “That guy looked a lot like James Van Der Beek. He was always going to clubs and passing himself off as Dawson Leery to all the chicks back then.”

Leo lost it.

“HOW DARE YOU QUESTION TO RECOGNIZE JAMES VAN DER BEEK, AMERICA’S TOP HEART THROB TURN OF THE MILLENIUM?”

“Chill out man.”

Leo moved his robe aside and pointed to a signature across his chest. Emblazoned in blank ink, it read, “James Van Der Beek.”

“Behold, the evidence!” Leo said. “I asked Mr. Van Der Beek to sign my chest with a magic marker as proof of our encounter and his kind reply was, ‘Sure man. Whatever it takes to get you out of my face faster.’ I then went straight to the tattoo parlor to have the signature traced over permanently so as to be preserved for the ages.”

“For Christ Sakes, Leo,” Hauser said. “Are we going to get this thing started or what?”

“Hauser!” Leo said. “You got the shit beaten out of you on a cop drama over thirty years ago. What have you done lately?”

Hauser sneered.

“And BQB, you run a WordPress website that attracts the attention of 3.5 readers. So what? I bet half of them are just there to spam your site with comments about discount penis enlargement cream!”

“That’s uh…actually accurate.”

“This,” Leo said, pointing at the signature, “Is the reason why I truly hope both of you asshats will die horrible deaths, for both of you have been vying for the position of East Randomtown’s Most Famous resident for far too long when everyone knows the title belongs to me!”

“I could give a shit,” I said. “It’s all yours.”

“It’s all mine,” Hauser said. “It’s always been mine.”

“Take your positions!” Leo commanded.

Hauser climbed a ladder to the top of the scaffold. I followed. Leo handed our mop handle bo staffs up to us.

“Two nerds enter! One nerd leaves! THAT is the way of…ZOMBIE DOME!”

The crowd went wild.

“This isn’t even a dome,” I said. “It’s a gym.”

“BQB,” Leo said. “Come on…you know? You’re being a turd in the punch bowl.”

Leo held up an air horn.

He pointed to a set of double doors.

“When I give the ceremonial signal, those doors will be opened, and a zombie horde will be set loose! Our competitors will fight to the death and whoever survives shall take on the zombie menace!”

The crowd clapped and stomped their feet.

“Do you bitches have any last words?” Leo asked.

“I will ALWAYS be East Randomtown’s Most Famous Citizen,” Hauser said.

I looked down at Leo.

“Everyone knows that the true heart of Dawson’s Creek was Joshua Jackson in his role as Dawson’s incorrigible troublemaking pal, Pacey Whitter!”

Seething with rage, Leo blared on the air horn.

The double doors open and like a herd of gazelles, the undead creatures charged into the room.

“Shit,” Leo said. “I probably should have gotten to high ground first.”

Those were the drunk’s last words before one of the zombies chomped on his neck.

stand by 3.5 readers as I’ll have to post 31 zombies day 24 and 25 tomorrow