Tag Archives: horror

Oct 01 2016
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#31WaystoDefeataVampire

#31WaystoDefeataVampire – Number 1 – Garlic Farts

By: Count Krakovich, Asshat Vampire

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Count Krakovich hates his fellow vampires. Stop by bookshelfbattle.com all October long for the count’s advice on how to defeat them.

Bleh!

As you have heard 3.5 readers, vampires despise garlic. One bite of the stinky stuff and we are done for.

Why does garlic hurt vampires?

Many reasons.

  • Garlic has long been thought to have healing properties for humans.  Ancient medicine men used it to treat all kinds of diseases and ailments. Hell, you can even buy garlic pills today. I have no idea if it is good for you or not, I’m a vampire, not a doctor. What I do know is as a general rule, if something is good for humans, it is bad for vampires.
  • Long ago, people used garlic as mosquito repellant.  It stinks, so mosquitos, the bloodsucking vampires of the insect world, buzz away from it.
  • Bram Stroker mentioned its use to ward of vampires in Dracula.

Now, vampires aren’t fooled easy.  Put it in a pizza or in some food to disguise it and they’ll sniff it out immediately and throw you out before you can get your garlic laden food all over them.

But – what if the garlic is inside you already?

Yes, 3.5 readers. That’s right. Before you meet a vampire, eat copious amounts of pizza, lasagna, pasta, and garlic bread – lots and lots of gooey, cheesy garlic bread.

Then when you visit a vampire, let it rip.  You can launch a full on assault with a loud one or take out every vampire in the room with an SBD (silent but deadly.)

Personally, I recommend the SBD approach.  Going full blast ruins the element of surprise.

Garlic farts, 3.5 readers. I’m telling you.  They work.

And if you’re not one to take this smelly fight to the vampires, at least protect yourself.

Never go out at night without ingesting an entire garlic clove.  True, your social life will suffer as you’ll be so smelly that no one will want to kiss you but at least you’ll be able to gas a marauding vampire at a moment’s notice.

 

 

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Sep 29 2016
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Zomcation

Zomcation – Chapter 15

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A middle-aged man sat Indian style on the floor of his office with his arms spread out, his hands held with the palms up.

“In with the good,” he said in an Eastern European accent as he breathed in deeply.

“And out with the bad,” he said as he exhaled loudly.

The man’s head was bald save for a patch of blue dyed hair in the middle of his head that came down to a curl over his forehead. His boney, nearly nude body was covered by nothing but a pair of tight, white underpants and a floral patterned silk kimono.

“Yes, very good, Mister Reynaldo,” the man said, referring to himself in the third person. “And now in with the ying….and out with the yang.”

Mister Reynaldo stood up, stepped into a pair of floppy yellow crocs and put on a pair of red shutter shades, the kind with the slats that go right across the eyes that were popular in the 1980s.

“Oh Mister Reynaldo,” the man said as he gazed upon his less than impressive physique in a full length mirror. “You are looking so utterly fabulous. How you do not just stay in this room and have sex with yourself all the live long day I will never know.”

A fist knocked on the door.

“Who dares disturb Mister Reynaldo?”

“Kevin, sir.”

Mister Reynaldo sashayed to his door and opened it to find his young, sweater vest wearing intern Kevin waiting for him with a water bottle, a clipboard and a Segway.

“Hydrate me, darling,” Mister Reynaldo said as he clapped his hands together. “Chop, chop.”

Kevin, who’d clearly done this many times and knew the drill, held his hand up in the air with the water bottle pointed downward. Mister Reynaldo, much like a thirsty hamster, wrapped his lips around the spout and sucked away for a full minute.

“Ahh,” Mister Reynaldo said as he wiped his lips on his forearm then mounted his Segway.

Kevin shut the door to his boss’s office. Stenciled on the glass were the words, “Mister Reynaldo: Coordinator of Wombat World Performances.”

“Tell me of my schedule this fine day, darling,” Mister Reynaldo said as he took off on his personal conveyance.

“The Power Action Ninja Soldiers have stunt shows at ten, noon, and three,” Kevin said as he studied the notes attached to the clipboard and jogged just to keep up with his boss as he zoomed down the hall.

“Oh those has-beens,” Mister Reynaldo said. “All the jumping and punching and kicking. So blasé. What else?”

“Sal the Sloth’s Ridiculously Slow Hoedown is at one-thirty,” Kevin said as he broke a sweat.  “But the performer who usually plays Sal called in sick.”

“Sweet Streisand’s saggy knockers, Kevin,” Mister Reynaldo said. “I swear, no one is willing to suffer for their craft anymore. What’s he got?”

“A mild head cold, sir,” Kevin replied.

“Pshaw,” Mister Reynaldo said. “I once starred in the role of Lazarus Houlihan in an off, off, off, incredibly off broadway show of Sally’s Got a New Harpsichord with a severe case of pneumonia and a herpes sore on my lip the size of a pomegranate and not only did I not complain but the theater critic for Village Semi-Weekly Tattler wrote that my performance was among the best seventeen renditions of that role that he’d ever witnessed.”

“That’s impressive, sir,” Kevin said.

“Call this fool at once and tell him to drag his oily hide here this instant,” Mister Reynaldo said.

“I already called his understudy,” Kevin said.

“Ahh,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Even better. Give another actor a chance to breathe new life into the role of a hilly billy sloth who sings and dances country tunes in a ridiculously slow manner. What would Mister Reynaldo do without you?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Kevin said.

A.J, B.J, C.J, and Davey, the four shaggy haired members of Boyz a’Plenty walked down from the opposite side of the hall. Mister Reynaldo flew into a rage when he saw Davey chomp down on a candy bar.

“Davey!” Mister Reynaldo shouted as he screeched his Segway to a halt. “What is that?”

Davey balled a fist up around the candy bar and then quickly hid both hands behind his back. “What’s what?”

Mister Reynaldo tipped his Segway forward, which allowed him to stare Davey down until the boy band member started leaning back himself.

“Don’t take me for a nincompoop, darling,” Mister Reynaldo said. “I saw that unapproved chocolate treat that you were shoving in your gaping maw as if you were some kind of put of control gorilla with an insatiable appetite.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, bro,” Davey said.

Mister Reynaldo scoffed. “Swear on one of Liza Minelli’s nine thousand black dresses that you are not being a little piggy!”

“What?” Davey asked.

“Swear to me!”

“OK,” Davey said. “I swear!”

The coordinator looked the boy band over. “Weigh-ins are now twice a week.”

The boys groaned in disgust as they walked away.

“Damn it,” A.J. said.

“And I was going to have an almond on Thursday,” B.J. added.

Mister Reynaldo and his intern continued down the hallway.

“Was I too hard on them?” Mister Reynaldo asked.

“Not at all, sir,” Kevin said.

“I hate to be such a catty bitch but I like to think that one day those boys will be in movies and when they’re having the sexy sex with all the ladies they’ll thank me for keeping them from becoming little piggies,” Mister Reynaldo said.

“I’m sure they will,” Kevin said.

“I once lived on nothing but broth and storm drain water for an entire year while I played the role of a lean longshoreman in a high school production of Love on the Wharf,” Mister Reynaldo said. “The authorities eventually escorted me out of the building when they realized I was forty-seven but still, if I can suffer my art then those boys can too.”

“An excellent story, sir,” Kevin said.

“Oh Kevin darling,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Promise me you’ll get out of show business. The entertainment industry has become such a dirty whore in bargain basement pumps that I perish the thought of her getting her claws in another soul.”

“I promise, sir,” Kevin said.

A dozen very angry little people wearing medieval cloaks walked down the hallway towards the duo.

“Mister Reynaldo,” a little person said as he held up a pair of pointy plastic ears in his left hand and a stapler in the other.

“What?” Mister Reynaldo asked as he stopped his Segway. “Why are you vermin in Mister Reynaldo’s way?”

“I need a word with you,” the little person said.

“Fine, fine, Marvin darling,” the coordinator said. “But make it snappy, for Mister Reynaldo is busier than a one-legged prostitute on a pogo stick and he does not have all day to listen to your foolishness.”

“Would you care to explain why the wardrobe manager just informed us that the studio is no longer willing to spring for the non-toxic glue we use to fasten our pointy elf ears?”

Mister Reynaldo clutched his chest. “Surely you are pulling Mister Reynaldo’s leg!”

“No,” Marvin said. “And then we were told if we want to keep our jobs, we need to staple our elf ears onto our regular ears. We realize that most people are too ignorant to treat us with the respect we deserve, Mister Reynaldo, but its downright unconscionable for a multi-national corporation worth billions of dollars to expect us to maim ourselves just so they can save a few bucks on glue.”

“This is an outrage, darlings,” Mister Reynaldo said. “I shall not stand for this. I shall demand that ear glue be ordered posthaste. Ohh…”

“What?” Marvin asked.

“It’s just, when the children visit the elf grotto and don’t see any elves there…”

“We can still dress like elves,” Marvin said.

“Oh no, darling, no,” Mister Reynaldo said. “I appreciate the thought but you see without the pointy ears you are just teensie weensie little people that God took out of the oven too early before you were all fully baked and the children will begin to doubt whether or not elves are real and frankly, they might lose faith in Wombat World altogether.”

Marvin and the rest of the little people looked down at their feet in sadness.

“Gee Mister Reynaldo,” Marvin said as he looked up. “We wouldn’t want that.”

“I know darlings,” Mister Reynaldo. “But really, its fine. We must put your ear comfort above the hopes and dreams of baby children.”

“We’ll do it,” Marvin said as he led the little people off. “Come on, gang, it will only hurt for a minute.”

“Oh what wonderful tiny men you all are,” Mister Reynaldo said as the diminutive actors walked away. “I shall tell everyone they are wrong about little people. They have souls after all.”

“Should I order more elf ear glue, Mister Reynaldo?” Kevin asked.

“Are you kidding me?” Mister Reynaldo asked his intern. “I cut that shit out of the budget because it was either that or my morning espresso and we all know Mister Reynaldo can’t make the magic happen without his jolt of va va va voom.”

The pair pressed onward. As they turned a corner, the sounds of a girl fight filled their ears.

“Ally, you bitch!” Jess shouted. “Take that dress of right now or I will roundhouse kick you right in the cooter!”

“I’d like to see you try it, slutzilla!” Ally replied.

Mister Reynaldo gasped at the sight of Jessica and Ally, both clad in pink Princess Paulina dresses, blonde wigs, and crowns, locked in a rigorous slap fight.

“Ladies, ladies!” Mister Reynaldo said as he beeped the horn of his personal transport. “What is the meaning of this? You know that the only drama Mister Reynaldo wants to see is on the stage.”

“Mister Reynaldo,” Jess said. “Tell this psycho hose bag that I am Princess Paulina.”

“No, Mister Reynaldo!” Ally said as she stomped her foot. “You already gave this part to me.”

Jess’s nostrils flared. “What?”

Mister Reynaldo slowly backed his Segway up, then stopped. Jess confronted him.

“Is that true?” Jess asked.

“Darling,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Didn’t you get the memo?”

“What memo?” Jess asked.

Mister Reynaldo slapped his cheeks with both hands. “Sweet Mariah Carey’s underwire! You didn’t get the memo.”

“No,” Jess said. “I did not get a memo.”

The coordinator turned to his lackey. “Kevin! Why did you not send Miss Flynn a memo?”

“What memo?” Kevin asked. “I didn’t know I was supposed to send anyone a memo.”

Mister Reynaldo looked to the ceiling and rested the back of his hand over his forehead, took a deep breathe, then looked at the young man.

“Darling boy,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Whenever an actor or actress turns thirty they’re supposed to be sent a memo explaining official Wombat World policy which clearly states they aren’t able to play a human character anymore.”

“I’m so sorry sir,” Kevin said.

“Yes,” Mister Reynaldo said. “You really should be darling.”

“Are you kidding me?” Jess asked.

“No darling,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Yesterday, you hit the big three-oh so you playing Princess Paulina is now a no go.”

“But I’ve been playing this part for ten years,” Princess Paulina said.

“Ugh,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Don’t remind me darling. You’re not helping your case at all.”

The coordinator turned to the younger princess.

“Alyson, you are dismissed.”

“Hooray!” Ally said as she strutted away. She assumed a Princess Paulina voice. “Tra la la la la!”

“This is bullshit!” Jess shouted as she took her wig and crown off and spiked them both on the floor. “That is my ‘tra la la la la!’”

Mister Reynaldo’s lips pouted. “Oh you poor, precious thing. You’ve yet to wrap your little brain around the fact that you are aging.”

“I’m thirty,” Jess said.

“Oh please, darling,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Don’t say it so loud. People might hear you. Eat your fruits and vegetables and you might pass for an out of shape twenty-nine year old for at least two more years.”

“This…this…you can’t do this.”

Mister Reynaldo turned his conveyance around and started back the way he came.

“Walk with me, darlings.”

Kevin followed on his boss’s left. Jess took Mister Reynaldo’s right.

“My dear Miss Flynn,” Mister Reynaldo said. “An actress’s career is beautiful, yet tragically short. Like a daisy in a grassy field, she grows, she blooms, she dazzles, she inspires and then, BZZZT! She’s cut down by the lawn mower of time and a prettier, younger flower grows in her place.”

“Thirty is not that old,” Jess said.

“Oh darling,” Mister Reynaldo said. “If you insist on advertising your ghastly age to the world there’s little Mister Reynaldo can do to help you.”

“I can’t believe this,” Jess said.

“Darling,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Little boys come to Wombat World to ride Wombat Copters and dance the Willy Wombat shuffle but little girls? They come to dream…yes! Little girls dream of being beautiful, of being rich, of being famous, of being a princess married to handsome prince but do you know what they don’t dream of?”

“Having self-worth?”

Mister Reynaldo laughed. “Oh good for you, darling,” Mister Reynaldo said. “You made a funny. That, but also, little girls do not dream of being thirty. No one wants to age past twenty-ninee. Darling, Mister Reynaldo is fifty-two and he would slaughter a thousand adorable baby kittens with a rusty butcher knife and drink their blood if doing so would cause him to remain twenty-nine or younger forever.”

“Age is just a number,” Jess said. “Its how you feel, isn’t it?”

The coordinator laughed again. “Oh stop it darling! You shall have to try out to be a comedienne of the deaf comedy jams.”

“I’m glad my pain amuses you,” Jess said.

“It doesn’t, darling,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Mister Reynaldo also knows what it is like to be aged out of show business, to one day be twenty-nine, in the starring role of Bartleby Ashcroft in the Sheboygan Dinner Theater production of Bartleby’s Back from War to being thirty and being cast as random peasant number twenty-seven in an indie film about the dark ages produced by three college students. By the ring of Beyonce, so many people were naked on that set and…Kevin?”

“Yes sir?”

“When we’re done here Mister Reynaldo needs you to look into whether or not he might have accidentally starred in a pornography film.”

“Right away, sir.”

The trio entered Mister Reynaldo’s office. The coordinator parked his Segway, hopped off, took Jess’s hand and led her to the full length mirror.

“Do you know what I see, darling?” Mister Reynaldo asked.

“No,” Jess said.

“A beautiful butterfly that is aging slowly, gracefully, thanks in large part to good habits and excellent body maintenance,” Mister Reynaldo said.

“Well,” Jess replied. “I do work out.”

“Oh and it shows, darling, it shows,” Mister Reynaldo said as he placed his skeletal hands on Jess’s cheeks.

“What are you doing?” Jess asked.

“Such distinct features,” Mister Reynaldo said. “Such high cheekbones…such porcelain skin…”

“Umm,” Jess said. “Thank you?”

“But look!” Mister Reynaldo said as he pinched a bit of Jess’s cheek flesh between his left thumb and forefinger. “A wrinkle!”

“You’re making that,” Jess said as she watched the coordinator pinch her cheek in the mirror.

“Am I?” Mister Reynaldo asked.

“You clearly are,” Jess said.

“Oh,” Mister Reynaldo said as he took his hands away. “Aren’t you a smart one.”

“So that’s it?” Jess asked. “Ten years of working for this company and I get tossed out like a piece of trash because I’m not in my twenties anymore?”

Mister Reynaldo chuckled. “Oh darling, don’t be so dramatic. Just because you can’t be Princess Paulina anymore doesn’t mean you can’t still perform.”

“What did you have in mind?” Jess asked.

The coordinator wagged his finger in the air. “Wait right here. I have the perfect role for you.”

Mister Reynaldo opened the doors to a large, luxurious walk-in closet. Kevin and Jess stood in the office and watched as Mister Reynaldo threw all kinds of crazy garbs out of the closet and onto the office floor.

“Where is it?” Mister Reynaldo asked as a big, gray Ernie Elephant mascot suit came flying out of the closet, followed by a Zed Zebra outfit, a Ginger the Fox suit, and a set of leather BDSM gear complete with chains and a red ball gag.

“Woopsie!” Mister Reynaldo shouted. “That last one is Mister Reynaldo’s! Ahh! Here it is!”

Mister Reynaldo walked out of the closet holding a large, furry, googly-eyed Willy Wombat mascot head in his arms.

“No,” Jess said.

“Yes,” Mister Reynaldo said.

“Not happening,” Jess said.

“Darling, please,” Mister Reynaldo said. “You’ll be the star of the show! The character that everyone comes to see.”

“I refuse,” Jess said.

“I’m sorry, darling,” Mister Reynaldo said as he placed the mascot head down over Jess’s head. “But its either this or the unemployment line.”

Jess gagged as she sniffed the putrid, sweaty stink of at least twenty of the past wearers of the suit.

“Son of a bitch,” came Jess’s muffled voice from inside the mascot head. “Do you people even wash these things?”

Mister Reynaldo sighed. “Kevin, you’re not washing the funny animal character suits?”

“Umm,” Kevin said. “I was supposed to?”

Mister Reynaldo threw his hands in the air. “Mister Reynaldo needs an espresso.”

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Sep 26 2016
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Zomcation

Zomcation – Chapter 14

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A beautiful woman with short black hair road a motorcycle onto the backlot of Wombat World. It was a big old hog, with shiny chrome plating and exhaust fumes belching out of the tail pipe.

She didn’t wear a helmet. She didn’t believe in them. She felt the wind in her hair was worth the risk of damage to her brain. She did wear a pair of torn, scuffed up jeans and a leather vest over a plain white tank top.

Naturally, her biker image wouldn’t have been complete without the requisite tats. “Life” was spelled out with a different letter on each of the four fingers of her left hand. “Death” was written out with a letter on each of her four right fingers and her right thumb.

“Jess” was scrawled in neat cursive across her bicep, surrounded by a red heart with a dagger stuck through it.

To complete the look, her eyes were hidden under a pair of aviator shades and a cigarette dangled out of her mouth.

As she putted her bike slowly through the backlot, all the magic was happening around her as cast and crew got ready for the day. Actors, actresses and miscellaneous performers wandered about in a hurry. There were kings and queens, aliens from outer space, monsters, demons, clowns, jugglers, acrobats, and of course people in full furry mascot suits. There was a Ferdinand Ferret, a Chester Chimp, a Lonnie Llama, a Jimbo Frog, even a Wanda Wombat but curiously, Willy Wombat was nowhere to be seen.

The rider parked her bike in front of Studio 1A, a large, warehouse style building. Her leather boots hit the ground and she strutted inside. She passed four teenage boys, each one wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

They were in the middle of a rehearsal.

“Girl…don’t you know I need you girl, girl you’re my entire world, oh girl, oh girl, tell me you’ll be my girl.”

“Hello Boyz A’Plenty,” the rider said.

“Hello Jess,” the boys sang in return.

Jess moved on, right past a gaggle of clowns. There were male clowns. Female clowns. Happy clowns. Sad clowns. One particularly crazy looking clown with yellow eyes, red hair and a face painted all white but for some simulated red blood drops on his chin jumped out in front of Jess’s path and screamed a guttural guffaw.

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

Reflexively, Jess kneed the clown in the groin, which knocked him flat on his ass.

“Oh Jesus, Ted,” Jess said as she helped the clown up to his feet. “I’m sorry.”

“Oww,” Ted replied. “No, its ok.”

“Seriously though, buddy, you know I can’t help it,” Jess said.

“I know,” Ted said.

“I see clown and my body immediately goes into ‘knee him in the dick’ mode,” Jess said.

“Most people do that,” Ted said. “It cool. I just have to find a better gig.”

“Feel better, man,” Jess said.

“I will,” Ted said as he limped away. “I need some ice for my clown nads.”

Jess took a right and headed down a long hallway. She passed by a man wearing a pink bunny costume. His human head was visible. He carried his bunny head under his arm.

“How goes the battle, Pete?” Jess asked.

“Eh,” Pete said. “There are worse jobs I suppose but I swear the kids keep getting meaner and smellier.”

“I’ve noticed that,” Jess said.

“I blame the Internet,” Pete said. “There are some things you just shouldn’t be able to look up until you’re able to legally buy enough beer to forget what you just saw.”

“Agreed,” Jess said as she pressed forward down the hall.

An old man wearing a neon orange suit and a ridiculously large top hat stopped Jess and held up two ties, a red one and a purple one.

“Look at these, will you?” the old man asked.

“I’m looking,” Jess said.

“Which one do you like?” the old man asked.

“Norm,” Jess said. “You’re Mayor Diggsley. Mayor Diggsley always wears an orange tie.”

“Yes,” an annoyed Norm said. “But an intern spilled cottage cheese all over my orange tie so now Mayor Diggsley will have to change it up for the first time in his long history as leader of Fancy Town.”

“Oh,” Jess said. “Then you can’t go wrong with purple.”

“I knew it,” Norm said as he tossed the red tie aside. “Purple it is.”

“Break a leg,” Jess said.

Jess walked past a few more weirdoes until she finally reached her dressing room.

It was a tiny space, little more than a glorified closet, but it was hers. She turned on the light and shut the door behind her.

Soon, she was out of her boots and biker duds. Her shades were off and her smoke was extinguished.

In her underwear, she sat in front of a mirror and put on some makeup, being sure to put some nice rosy color in her cheeks. She coated her lips with red lipstick and smacked them  together until the color was just right. She finished the look with some mascara, long eyelashes, and just a hint of glitter on her cheeks for a sparkly effect.

An adorable pink, fluffy gown hanged on a coat rack. She stood up and put it on, then put on a blonde wig, followed by a golden crown.

The dress was long sleeved so Jess’s bicep tattoo was covered.  She pulled on a pair of long white gloves to cover up her knuckle tattoos.

Jess then returned to her chair, stared at her reflection in the mirror, and batted her eyelashes.

A bottle of water sat on her table. She took a swig, then coughed to clear her throat.

She changed her voice to a Marilyn Monroe-esque baby doll pitch and proceeded to get into character.

“Tra la la la la, tra la la la la! Animals of the forest, how I’ve missed you! What’s that, boys and girls? You’d like to have your picture taken with me, Princess Paulina? Why I would be delighted.”

Jess ran her lines for awhile longer until she heard a disturbing sound coming from the hallway. It was another woman speaking in a Marilyn Monroe-esque baby doll voice.

Yep. Another woman was singing, “Tra la la la la” and it wasn’t her.

Jess stood up, threw open her door and stepped out into the hall way only to find herself staring at another woman dressed as Princess Paulina.

At a time like this, Jess was only able to think of something very un-princess like to say.

“What the fu…”

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Sep 25 2016
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Zomcation

Zomcation – Chapter 13

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The Wombatorium, an immense plexiglass structure built high into the sky in order to resemble the large, luxurious mountain Willy Wombat lived on in the hit animated show, Willy Wombat and Friends, served as a majestic marker to indicate to one and all that they had arrived to America’s number one theme park dedicated to a cartoon marsupial.

Inside, there were a few gift shops, a stroller rental stand and Freezey the Penguin’s Ice Cream Parlor, none of it nearly as appealing as the exterior.

Underneath, there was a long, wide walkaway that connected the front entrance to the park itself.

And in front of that walkway, Wombat World Security Guard Doug Crocker went above and beyond (many often said way above and much farther beyond) in earning his eleven dollars an hour.

Doug’s pink uniform was neatly pressed. His boots were polished until they shined like mirrors, as was the wombat shaped badged pinned to the right side of his chest. His baby blue clip on tie was stain free.

And his shades? Mere coverings to mask the disgust he felt at all the potential threats he perceived around him.

“Mother of God, Earl,” Doug said as he rested his hands on the shiny belt buckle that sat underneath his protruding belly. “Look at all these rule breakers.”

Earl, a Wombat World Security guard in his mid-sixties, shook his head and sipped his morning coffee from a styrofoam cup while doing his best to ignore Doug.

Oblivious to Earl’s desire to be left alone, Doug prattled on. “Any one of these people, any one of them could be an undercover messenger of doom.”

Earl rolled his eyes.

“That sweet little old lady over there in the motorized scooter?” Doug said. “She might walk just fine. Maybe she’s an assassin trained in the ancient art of kung-fu sent by some vicious crime syndicate to take us all down. We’d never see it coming.”

“Oh Lord,” Earl mumbled.

“See that little boy wearing a Ferdinand Ferret backpack?” Doug asked.

Earl didn’t respond.

“Do you see him?” Doug asked.

Earl groaned. “Yup.”

“How do I know that there isn’t a pair of deadly nunchucks in that backpack?” Doug asked. “Here everyone is laughing it up, having a jolly old time like a bunch of morons while this kid could be preparing to nunchuck us all to death.”

“All bags are checked at the front gate,” Earl said.

“Oh,” Doug replied. “Right. But, do I know that kid’s backpack was actually checked? Perhaps he slipped the guard at the front gate a fiver to look the other way.”

Earl silently closed his eyes and prayed for strength.

“What about that little girl with that balloon?” Doug asked. “How do I know that balloon is filled with helium? How do I know that it isn’t filled with poison gas?”

Earl sighed. “Because poison gas wouldn’t make the balloon float.”

“I’m sorry, Earl,” Doug said. “I didn’t know you were a scientist. I wasn’t aware that you had a degree in Advanced Knowledge of Which Gases Make Balloons Float-a-nomics.”

Earl winced, quietly counted to ten, then took another sip of his coffee.

The duo of security guards stood there quietly for awhile, watching as one happy family after another passed by.

“Hey Earl?” Doug asked.

No response.

“Earl?”

Still, no response.

“Earl, buddy?”

Coffee sip. No response.

“Hey!” Doug shouted. “Earl!”

“What?!” Earl shouted back, finally losing his cool.

“Geeze,” Doug said. “No need to be snippy.”

“I’m not deaf,” Earl said.

“OK,” Doug said. “I just thought maybe you were, due to your advanced age and all.”

“I ought to advance age your ass,” Earl said.

“Remember from before, when I mocked you for not being a balloon gas scientist?” Doug asked.

Earl grunted in the affirmative.

“I just want to apologize for that,” Earl said. “It was uncalled for. We’re a good team, you and I…me, a young white man in my prime, you a decrepit, elderly black man with one foot in the grave…”

“You’re almost forty,” Earl said.

“I’m thirty-six, Earl,” Doug said. “No need to round up so vigorously.”

“Good lord I wish I could just have five minutes of peace,” Earl said.

Doug was oblivious to Earl’s wish.

“It’s just, you’re Murtaugh to my Riggs, you know?” Doug said. “Buddy cops. A duo of unlikely partners who somehow make it work.”

“Son,” Earl said. “Let’s get a few things straight. We’re not cops. We’re not partners. We’re private security staff who are paid to stand around, look presentable, make the tourists feel safe, and occasionally if asked, we give someone directions or help a lost kid find his family. If shit were to ever go down, we’d call in real, actual cops. That’s it. That’s all there is to it.”

Doug frowned. “You just took a whopper of a dump in my creme brulee, Earl.”

Earl sipped his coffee. “It needed it. Did I ever tell you what I did before this job?”

“No,” Doug said.

“For thirty-five long ass years, I worked for a portable toilet company,” Earl said. “I delivered them. Set them up. Picked them up when they were no longer needed at a site and worse, I had to clean them. Let me tell you boy, you know how people don’t give a shit about the condition they leave a public bathroom in?”

Doug nodded.

“Well multiply that times a hundred and that’s how people treat a damn porta-potty,” Early said. “I’m not just talking about the two substances you’d expect to find in a privy, no sir. I’m talking drugs, used needles, dead raccoons, dead rats, dead porcupines, dead animals of every kind including humans.”

“Dead humans?” Earl asked.

“Three times in my life I opened up a door to a stank ass toilet only to have an overdose victim fall the hell out of it,” Earl said. “That shit messes with a man for life.”

“That’s terrible, Earl,” Doug said.

“It is,” Earl said. “And I haven’t even mentioned the baby.”

Doug’s jaw dropped. “You found a dead baby in a portable toilet?”

“No,” Earl said. “I found a live baby in a portable toilet.”

“How did the baby get there?” Doug asked.

“I don’t know,” Earl said. “Do I look like Creskin? I walk up to the John. I hear a baby crying. I open it up and a damn baby is lying on the floor. I don’t know how it got there. I assume the kid’s mother didn’t want her. I called the police and they came and took her. I hope they found a happy home for the kid.”

“I had no idea you had it so bad, buddy,” Doug said.

“Yeah,” Earl replied. “So you can imagine the elation I felt when I retired, moved to Florida, and was able to find a nice, do-nothing job at a theme park where the only requirement is that I remain standing and smile politely at the tourists for eight hours.”

Earl took another sip. “But I guess like everything in life, there’s a catch. This job was nice for about a year. I stood here. I was nice to everyone. I had my coffee. I enjoyed the sun on my skin…then they had to go and post your dumb ass here, a Goddamn police academy washout who won’t stop running his mouth, never giving me a second of peace.”

A twelve-year-old girl walked up to Earl. “Where’s the arcade?”

Earl smiled and turned around to face the underpass. “Why, all you need to do is walk right underneath the Wombatatorium here, then keep going straight until you see the Willy-Go-Round. Take a right and you can’t miss it.”

“Thanks,” the girl said.

“No problem,” Earl replied. “You have a good time, now.”

Doug flipped the top of his shades to reveal the regular prescription glasses hiding underneath. Doing so gave him a better look at the mouth full of gum the girl was chewing on.

The girl started to walk away.

“Hey,” Doug said.

The girl ignored Doug, so he took a whistle that was hanging around his neck and blew it loudly, to an ear splitting degree.

“Hey,” Doug repeated. “Stop!”

“What?” the girl asked as she turned around.

“There’s no gum showing allowed in Wombat World, missy,” Doug said.
“But I just put it in and it still tastes like watermelon,” the girl said.

Doug hunched over and stared the girl right in the eyes. “Do I look like I care, delinquent? Spit it out right now.”

The girl puckered up, sucked up some wind, then spit the gum out…right at Doug. It landed square on his right lens.

Doug stood upright and slowly picked the spittle covered wad off of his glasses.

“Behavior like that is going to get you thrown into juvie right quick you know,” Doug said.

Earl slapped his forehead in protest of the spectacle that was unfolding in front of his eyes. The old man then reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a small booklet, and flipped open the cover.

“Oh, you’re in for it now, girly,” Doug said. “My partner’s going to write you up. You’ll be banned from Wombat World for life.”

“I’m all out of Willies,” Earl said. “You like Chester or Ferdinand?”

“Ferdinand,” the girl replied.

Earl pealed a ferret sticker out of his booklet and stuck it to the girl’s sleeve. She smiled, then skipped away.

“Nice, Earl,” Doug said. “Take the enemy’s side.”

“Enemy?” Earl asked. “She’s a little girl. And there’s no rule against chewing gum.”

“There should be,” Doug said. “This whole park is living history. I’m not going to stand idly by while ne’er-do-wells cover the Caruthers Brothers’ masterpiece with chewed up bubblegum.”

“Observe,” Earl said. “Report illegal shit. Help people with their problems to the best of our ability. That’s all we’re required to do.”

“You should get your partner’s back,” Doug said.

“You’re not my partner,” Earl replied. “You’re a guy assigned to stand in the same vicinity as me. That’s all.”

“That hurts, Earl,” Doug said.

“Don’t care,” Earl replied as he sipped his coffee.

A few minutes passed. Doug spotted another troublemaker. A dude in his early-twenties listening to music through his ear buds.

Doug blew his whistle but the dude paid him no mind.

“Sir,” Doug said. “It’s not really smart to walk around and listen to music at the same time. You might not pay attention to where you’re going and hurt yourself.”

“Eat a dick, Rent-a-Cop!” the dude shouted as he walked through the underpass.

Doug shook his head. “Did you hear that? The mouthes on some of these kids today.”

“Son,” Earl said. “Let me help you out with this. The thing you’re failing to realize is that it costs one-hundred and sixty-eight dollars to step foot in this park for one day. Just for one day. So if I’m one of these people and I shell out all that dough to come to a theme park and then some turkey in a pink uniform with a wombat shaped badge tells me not to listen to music, I’d probably tell him to eat a dick too.”

“No one has any respect, anymore,” Doug said as he pinched his thumb and pointer finger together. “I was this close to being a real cop, you know.”

“I know, kid,” Earl said.

The old man sipped from his cup again, then stoically stared up at the sky for a moment.

“But when it comes to horseshoes or life, ‘close’ doesn’t mean Jack shit.”

Doug nodded. “You’re a wise man, Earl. Tough, but wise. I needed to hear that.”

“You’re welcome,” Earl said.

“I’m glad you’re my partner,” Doug said.

“I’m not you’re…you know what? Forget it. I don’t have the strength to argue anymore.

A few more minutes passed until another family made its way to the underpass. Mack was being regaled by his niece and nephew with tales of everything they wanted to do first, while Abby slurped soda out of an extra-large Gassy Gulp cup.

“Look,” Dylan said. “If we get in line now, we’ll beat the rush to the wombat copters,” Dylan said.

“But it’s going to take at least three hours to Princessify myself,” Paige replied.

“Paige, you can slather makeup over your face all day long back home,” Dylan said. “This is my one and only chance to ride a wombat copter.”

“Kids,” Abby said. “Just stop. We’re here all week. Everyone will be able to do everything they want.”

Doug’s heart fluttered when he spotted Abby. As he watched her sip her convenience store soda and walk away, a 1980s hair band power love ballad played inside his head.

“Damn,” Doug said.

“Yeah,” Earl said. “I saw it too but don’t make a fool of yourself.”

“Huh?” Doug asked, his mouth still slightly agape.

“That lady brought an outside beverage into the park instead of buying one from a Wombat World concession stand,” Earl said.

“She did?” Doug asked.

“Yeah,” Earl said. “So don’t blow your damn whistle at her because you know it will just end up with her dumping the soda on your head or something. For a hundred and sixty-eight bucks, she can keep her soda.”

“I didn’t even notice that she had a soda,” Doug said.

“Oh,” Earl said. “Then why are you staring at her like an idiot for?”

“She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” Doug replied.

Earl squinted at Abby as she and her family approached the end of the underpass.

“Who are you talking about?” Earl asked.

“Her,” Doug said as he pointed at Abby.

“The hefty white bitch in the Lonnie Llama tank top built for a skinnier white bitch?” Earl asked.

“That’s the one,” Doug said. “Damn, I wish I could get me some of that.”

“You’re serious?” Earl asked.

“That I am,” Doug said. “I may come across as a cold blooded, unrelenting champion of justice, but my heart beats like anyone else’s and that woman has just stolen it.”

Earl shook his head. “To each their own I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Doug said as he shrugged his shoulders. “But what can I do? You see the big, musclebound lummox she was with?”

“Yup,” Earl said.

“I swear, Earl,” Doug said. “Only the stupid jocks get the hot babes.”

“Son,” Earl said. “I think you really ought to get your head examined.”

Earl’s walkie-talkie squawked.

“Earl,” came the gruff voice of Chief Weber, Head Supervisor of Wombat World’s Security Guard force.

“Chief?” Earl replied.

“Got a Funky Cola truck coming in soon at the loading dock,” the Chief said. “Bobby usually handles that but he’s out. You think either you or shit for brains can take care of it?”

Earl looked to his right only to witness Doug blowing a whistle at a woman for wearing sandals.

“Open toed shoes are definitely going to get your feet sun burnt, ma’am. You really should be wearing sneakers or perhaps a nice pair of boat shoes.”

The old man sighed. “I’m on it.”

 

 

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Sep 25 2016
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Zomcation

Zomcation – Chapter 12

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Jim Bob Tucker was a redneck trucker and all around good old boy. He wore a stylish trucker’s cap that read, “I Break for Titties” and a sleeveless shirt that showed off a pair of flabby biceps that would have looked better covered up.

He was making good time, so he rewarded himself by tuning to a country station so that he could croon along with one of his favorite songs.

“Oh, I got up in my pick-up truck, the clutch got stuck, I ran over my duck, oh if it weren’t for bad luck I’d have no luck at all…”

Jim Bob paused for a beef jerky break and gnawed on a hunk of dried up meat for a few seconds before carrying on.

“But when I see my sister, oh mister, you know I’ll kiss her, then slap her ass for cheating on me…”

An open cooler sat on the passenger’s seat. Jim Bob reached in, pulled out a beer, popped the top and sipped.

“Because if there’s one place she should keep it, whoa, oh, oh, it’s in the family…keep it in the family! Yessir, keep in the family…”

A siren interrupted the trucker’s good time. Jim Bob checked his mirror and sure enough, a black and white police cruiser was on his tail.

“Shit,” Jim Bob said as he tossed his brew out the window and shut his cooler. “A God damn smokey.”

Jim Bob slowed down, pulled over, and brought his rig to a stop on the shoulder. He then turned off his engine, rolled down his window and fetched his paperwork out of the glove compartment.

Soon enough, a cop with blue eyes and platinum blonde hair was standing outside Jim Bob’s window.

“License and registration.”

“Sure thing, officer,” Jim Bob said as he handed the documents over.

The cop inspected them, then set them down on the dash.

“Step out of the car, sir.”

“I do something wrong, officer?” Jim Bob asked. “Don’t believe I was speeding.”

“Step out of the car,” the cop repeated.

Jim Bob opened the cab door and stepped out.

“Assume the position,” the cop said.

“What the…”

Before Jim Bob could finish his sentence, he was being slammed up against the side of the trailer.

“Shit,” the trucker said as the cop patted him down. “Police brutality!”

“You got any weapons?” the cop asked.

“Just a forty-five in the glove box,” Jim Bob said. “But I got a permit for it on account of my second amendment rights as a God fearing American. Obama wasn’t able to take it way from me in eight years and you won’t either, fella.”

The cop sneered. “What are you hauling?”

“Ladies’ undergarments,” Jim Bob groused as he pointed to the side of his trailer. It was emblazoned with the words, “Funky Cola.”

“Soda pop syrup,” Jim Bob said. “What else?”

“I need to take a look,” the cop said.

“Well shit, Mister,” Jim Bob replied. “I done heard that black fella, what’s his name? Jay Zed? He’s got that song about his ninety-nine problems other than a bitch and he said the back’s locked so you’re gonna need a warrant for that.”

“Damn it,” the cop said. “Foiled again by Jay-Z.”

“You’re darn tootin,” Jim Bob said. “Now if you’re done hassling a decent, hard working, law abiding taxpayer, I’ll be on my way.”

“Not so fast,” the cop said. “We’re going to sit tight right here until I can get a warrant issued.”

Jim Bob shook his head. “How long’s that gonna take?”

“Don’t know,” the cop said. “Hours. At least the whole morning.”

“Ahh hell,” Jim Bob said. “If I’m late the company docks my pay.”

“Not my problem,” the cop said.

“Aww screw it,” Jim Bob said as he walked toward the back of the trailer with the cop behind him. “What do I give a shit? It’s just a bunch of bags of sticky goo that will give you diabetes. It’s just the principle of the thing is all.”

Jim Bob fumbled with the keys on his ring until he found the right one.

“I do not take kindly to being treated like a common hoodlum when there are plenty of Al Qaedas out there that you could be chasing,” Jim Bob said as he unlocked a padlock.

The trucker opened the door and walked in, followed by the cop.

Inside the trailer, the cop and the trucker found themselves surrounded by hundreds of cardboard boxes marked “Funky Cola.”

“Here you go,” Jim Bob said. “I don’t know what you thought you were gonna find back here, Mr. Big Shot, but as you can see I got no drugs or guns or illegal Mexicans or what have you. Just Funky Cola juice and plenty of it.”

The cop looked around.

“You got your regular Funky Cola,” Jim Bob said. “That’s the most popular. Then you got your Orange Funk, Cherry Funk, Grape Funk, Strawberry Funk, Fruity Funk, and Diet Funk for those watching their waistline.”

The cop took a knife off of his utility belt, then used it to cut one of the boxes open.

“Damn it,” Jim Bob said. “Be careful, will you?”

The cop pulled out a thick, heavy plastic bag filled with brown liquid. Printed out the side were the words, “Funky Cola – Syrup for Type 881P Soda Fountain Dispenser.”

“Where’s this all headed?” the cop asked.

“Wombat World,” Jim Bob answered. “Been doing a delivery there every Monday for twenty years. Those tourists sure love to get hopped up on this shit.”

The cop laughed. “The theme park?”

“Yup,” Jim Bob said as he turned his back on the officer and continued to walk through the trailer. “Goofy place.”

“Is it now?” the cop asked as he pulled out his pistol.

“Sure is,” Jim Bob said. “Bunch of dummies standing around in the hot sun taking pictures of themselves with some jackass in a wombat costume. Never cared for it much myself.”

“Is that so?” the cop asked as he attached a silencer to his pistol.

“Yup,” Jim Bob said. “Though my kids always go bonkers for it.”

“You have kids?” the cop asked.

“Yes sir,” Jim Bob said. “Four little varmints.”

The trucker turned around to find himself staring at a silenced pistol pointed straight at his face.

“Pity,” the cop said.

Tap. Tap. While barely making a sound, the cop put two silenced shots through Jim Bob’s head, sending the trucker to the floor of the trailer in a heap.

The cop smiled, then holstered his weapon. He then took out a plastic case. Inside, there was a hypodermic needle filled with a green liquid.

The needle pierced the plastic soda syrup bag easily. The cop pressed down on the plunger ever so slightly, then pulled the needle out. He then opened up another box, took out a soda syrup bag, injected it, and then repeated the process for awhile.

The silence was interrupted when the cop’s phone rang. He answered.

“Brother Klaus?” came a synthesized voice on the other end of the line.

“Guten Morgen, Herr Heretic,’ the cop said in German accent.

“Is your mission complete?” the Heretic asked.

“Performing the injections now,” Brother Klaus answered.

“Splendid,” the Heretic said.

After the phone call ended, Brother Klaus spent about an hour injecting every soda syrup bag in the truck.

Once his evil task was complete, he emerged from the back of the trailer, not in his police officer uniform, but rather, in the clothes that Jim Bob had been wearing – jeans, sleeveless shirt, and last but not least, the infamous “I Brake for Titties” cap.

Brother Klaus walked around the length of the trailer, hopped up into the cab, found the key on the ring he pilfered from his victim and started the rig. He pulled out into traffic and headed up the highway for awhile before getting on Jim Bob’s CB radio.

“Wombat World central dispatch,” Brother Klaus said in a southern accent. “Y’all got your ears on?”

A few seconds passed before a man replied. “Ten-four, good buddy, what’s your twenty?”

“About fifteen ticks out and ready to drop off a fresh batch of soda pop goo,” Brother Klaus replied.

“Ten-four,” the dispatcher replied. “Come on in. We’ll leave the light on for you.”

“Much obliged,” Brother Klaus said. “Over and out.”

Brother Klaus put down the radio, then noticed Jim Bob’s beer cooler sitting on the front seat.

“Don’t mind if I do,” the cultist said in his default German accent as he took out a beer and popped the top.

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Sep 22 2016
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Zomcation

Zomcation – Part 1 – Friday – Sunday

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Drummed out of his special ops squad on bogus charges, Jack “Mack” Mackenzie is having a difficult time adjusting to civilian life.

So far, he’s suffering the indignity of living with his sister, Abby, and has been fired from a series of low paying jobs due to his inability to fit in around regular people.

When Mack gets fired from his latest job as a cashier at Fatty Burger for telling a whiney kid one of his gory war stories, Abby convinces her brother to join the family on a trip to Wombat World, a Floridian theme park dedicated to America’s favorite furry cartoon marsupial.

Abby needs the trip to get her mind off of her impending divorce and her dissatisfaction at work.  She’s also hoping to bond with her teenager – Paige, who speaks in hashtags and can’t stop posting everything she does on social media, and Dylan, a gangster rap aficionado who is convinced every thing that happens is a plot by “the Man.”

Meanwhile, “The Heretic,” the shadowy, anonymous leader of a doomsday cult known as “Day Zero” seeks to reset the calendar and cleanse the world by returning it to its natural state.

To that end, he’s stolen a top secret government formula known as “X48.”  This virus was originally intended to create a new breed of indestructible soldier but alas,  has only turned human test subjects into wild, maniacal brain chomping zombies thus far.

General Noah Merrick dispatches Phalanx Company, the squad Mack was drummed out of, to investigate.

Alas, the remaining members of Phalanx have more sinister intentions.

And much to Merrick’s dismay, the only thing that President Stugotz and Vice-President Pierce can agree on is that they’ll hang the general out to dry if the Heretic’s plans are successful.

Prologue

Chapter 1          Chapter 2         Chapter 3

Chapter 4         Chapter 5         Chapter 6

Chapter 7         Chapter 8         Chapter 9

Chapter 10        Chapter 11

 

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Sep 22 2016
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Zomcation

Zomcation – Chapter 11

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By late Sunday evening, Mack wasn’t being much of a bad ass at all. However, he and his sister were singing a classic Willy Wombat tune as Mack drove the family mini-van into Tampa.

“I’m a wombat, wombat! You’re a wombat, wombat…”

“Hashtag old people who don’t know they’re old,” Paige lamented from the back seat as she drafted a short essay about her favorite brand of lip balm to post onto Lifebox.

Mack ignored his niece’s snarky attitude. The air was warm, the temperature was perfect, and for the first time in a long time he was feeling as though it wouldn’t be terrible to let his guard down.

Dylan, riding shotgun up front next to his uncle, stuck with a Stank Daddy jam in his earbuds. “Clock that grip bitch, no it ain’t funny when yo ass owe me money, clock that grip bitch, better pay me fast or it’s the gun blast, clock that grip bitch…”

“Bringing down the vibe, Dill,” Abby said.

Oblivious to his mother’s protestations, Dylan continued. “…aint no joke when your ass gets smoked, clock that grip, bitch…”

“Check it out,” Mack said as he pointed to an official Wombat World billboard on the side of the highway. It featured a smiling Chester Chimp peeling a banana stating, through a cartoon bubble, “Two Miles to Wombat World. You’d be ‘bananas’ to turn back now!”

“Ha!” Abby said as she slapped her knee. “Because he’s eating a banana!”

“Hashtag corny,” Paige said as she typed away on her tablet.

“How are you kids not flipping out?” Abby asked. “I went bonkers when I saw that sign twenty years ago.”

“Hashtag so did the brontosaurus,” Paige said nonchalantly without looking up from her Lifebox posting session.

Mack spotted another bill board featuring a basketball player performing a sweet layup. Next to the player were the words, “The Wombat Dome: Home of the Tampa Bay Marsupials.”

“You and me, sneaking out to a game one night this week, buddy,” Mack said as he tapped Dylan on the shoulder. “What do you say?”

“Eh,” Dylan said as he lowered the volume on his phone. “Sports aren’t really my bag.”

“What?” a shocked Mack asked.

“The entire professional sports team industry is just a scheme by the man to subliminally impose a sense of loyalty amongst the populace to their geographic location,” Dylan said. “Thereby rendering the masses to nothing more than unwitting slaves to corrupt local governments.”

“Is he always this much of a contrarian?” Mack asked his sister.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Abby said.

The next billboard featured a picture of a grand, sprawling estate with the words, “Stay in the lap of luxury at the Imperial Wombat Spa and Resort.”

Dylan perked up as noticed it. “Are we staying there?”

“Nope,” Abby said.

“Aww,” Dylan said. “Cheap.”

“Hashtag super cheap,” Paige said.

“When you two get jobs you can upgrade to the Imperial Wombat,” Abby said. “Until then, we’re Ferret Lodge folk.”

“The Ferret Lodge?” Dylan asked incredulously.

“Hashtag just kill me now,” Paige said as her fingers worked her tablet.

“You kids complain about the Ferret Lodge,” Mack said. “But that time I was running a snatch and grab in Somalia,I had to sleep under a pile of dead…”

“Appreciate the help, Mack,” Abby said. “But I don’t need my kids to become warped for life.”

“I’d like to hear the rest of that story,” Dylan said.

“No you don’t,” Abby said.

Mack looked down at his nephew over the edge of his sunglasses. “Your mom’s right. You really don’t.”

Soon enough, Abby found herself gawking in awe at the sight of an enormous green rollercoaster that staggered up into the sky.

“Jimbo the Frog’s Hopper Coaster!” Abby exclaimed.

“Mom,” Dylan said. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Hashtag nerd,” Paige said.

“Do you remember that, Mack?” Abby asked.

“Sure do,” Mack replied. “We rode it twice and you barfed on me each time.”

Abby sighed. “Good times.”

Twenty minutes later, the family found themselves driving through Wombat Hotel Row. There was the previously mentioned Imperial Wombat, temporary home to only the wealthiest, snootiest Wombat World enthusiasts.

Then there were the more moderately priced hotels like “Lonnie Lllama’s Sweet Suites” and “Princess Paulina’s Castle.”

When Mack reached the end of the row, he pulled off onto a winding dirt road that led to a pathetic little collection of brightly painted mobile home trailers on blocks.

The kids’ pie holes dropped in despair.

“It’s the Wombat ghetto,” Dylan said.

“OMG,” Paige said. “I knew it. We’re poor, aren’t we?”

“Go hashtag yourself, Paige,” Abby said.

Mack pulled up to a guard station. A kindly southern gentleman wearing a ranger’s hat stepped out.

“Howdy folks,” the guard said. “Welcome to the Wombat Lodge. Who might you be?”

Mack showed the guard his driver’s license and replied. “The Mackenzies.”

“Lanes,” Abby corrected her brother.

“Right,” Mack said. “The Lane family…and a Mackenzie.”

“Oh wonderful,” the guard said as he studied his clipboard. “The Lane family. You’re in bungalow seven.”

The guard handed Mack a room key, some Wombat World maps, and a stick.

“Here you go,” the guard said.

“What’s the stick for?” Mack said.

“That’s your wombat bonking stick,” the guard said. “If you see Willy trying to sneak into your room, give him a good old bonk on the noggin and tell him to get lost.”

Mack replied with a mild chuckle. The guard leaned in and whispered, “That’s a little joke for the kids but seriously, these things are loaded with rats so if you see one don’t ask questions, just smack the shit out of it.”
“Got it,” Mack said.

“OK then, Lanes and Mackenzie,” the guard said. “Enjoy your stay.”

Mack passed out the maps, then drove to bungalow seven. He parked the car, then he and Abby checked out their new digs.

The bungalow smelled musty. Two beds replete with stained comforters. A big crack in the wall. And there was definitely a squeaking sound coming from inside the wall.

“Well,” Abby said. “At least the price was right.”

“One time in the jungle, I literally had to cut open a tiger’s belly and sleep inside,” Mack said. “This is nothing.”

“Again,” Abby said. “Appreciate the help but don’t want to warp the…hey…where are the kids?”

Mack and Abby walked out to the mini-van and opened up the side door to find a pair of rambunctious children who were excitedly reading their Wombat World maps out loud to each other.

“Paige!” Dylan shouted. “Did you see this? Shock Rocket! The world’s premiere deep space flight simulator.”

“OMG,” Paige said as she read her map. “‘Princessify Yourself. Sit back and let our team of stylists turn you into royalty.”

“Pretty sure that’s for little girls, Paige,” Dylan said.

“I don’t care,” Paige said. “I’m doing it.”

“And I’m flying a Wombat Copter,” Dylan said.

“‘Lonnie Lllama’s Good Time Dance Party,’” Paige read. “‘It’s a spitting good time.’”

“Whoa,” Mack said. “Power Action Ninja Soldier Force Stunt Show! Now with fifty percent more power action ninjas!”

“This place is awesome,” Paige said.

“It’s so awesome,” Dylan said.

Abby’s eyes welled up. “Finally. They’re becoming little Wombat World fans.”

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Sep 19 2016
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Zomcation

Zomcation – Chapter 10

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General Merrick walked across the tarmac flanked by the three members of Phalanx Company, the special ops squad he counted when the chips were down and the situation was dire.

Each soldier was decked out in black body armor. To the general’s right, was squad leader Ava “Red” Kingston. Some might assume her nickname came from her red hair, but in truth, it was from all the blood she spilled on the battlefield. The scar underneath her right eye indicated she’d even spilled some herself.

“Captain,” General said. “I’m not about to tell you how to run your team, but I strongly advise you put aside the petty bullshit with Lieutenant Mackenzie. Find him and get his ass in motion now because you’re going to need the Mack Truck on this one.”

“All due respect sir,” Red replied. “Mack’s a liability. He disobeyed a direct order.”

“Your call,” Merrick said. “I just hope Shitbird One and Shitbird Two over here will be enough.”

Shitbird One was Kirk “Primetime” Ross. He was a handsome man, to say the least. In fact, his drill sergeant in basic training rode him about it incessantly, telling him that he was too pretty to be a soldier, that he looked like he should be on television instead. A master sniper, he’d racked up over three hundred confirmed kills on the battlefield alone.

As for Shitbird Two, Marvin “Slim” Eldridge served as the team’s pilot. He didn’t have much in the way of muscle, but he made up for it with his knife skills. If that didn’t work, his spooky, soul piercing eyes had been known to make enemies think twice about messing with him.

“Can you really blame Mack for trying?” Primetime asked. “I imagine you’re a tough girl to get over.”

“Stow it, Shitbird One,” Red said.

The crew reached a helicopter. Slim jumped into the pilot’s seat. Primetime took a spot in the back.

“The Heretic is a ghost,” Merrick lamented. “Honestly, the best minds have been trying to figure out who he is for years to no avail. No one is sure he is even one person. He might be several, perhaps a mythical leader the Day Zero cult has manufactured to use to communicate with. We’ve tried to track his messages but he’s smart. He knows how to cover his tracks using tech even the experts haven’t begun to master.”

“We’re on the case, general,” Red said.

“I hope so,” the general said. “Because it’s my ass on the line.”

“Your meeting with the president went that well?” Red asked.
“Don’t even get me started,” Merrick said. “Tell me about your informant.”

“I’d rather not, sir,” Red said. “This is someone who has been there for us time and time again. He’s trustworthy but he’s skittish. The fewer people who know about his involvement the better.”

“Understood,” Merrick said.

Red jumped up into the chopper and took a seat. As the helicopter rose into the air, Red and the general traded salutes.

“Godspeed, Phalanx Company,” the general said as he watched the metal bird fly away.

Inside, each squad member put on a headset that allowed them to communicate over the sound of the chopper’s loud, churning blades.

“God I wish I had a set of tits so I could get men to believe everything I say,” Primetime said.

“Oh, don’t worry, general,” Slim said as he mocked Red with a girly voice. “I have a special source and I’ve got it all under control.”

“Shut your suck holes, ass clowns,” Red said as she pulled a tablet out from under her seat. “In his day, Merrick was a better soldier than the three of us combined.”

“We weren’t making fun of you,” Slim said.

“Just your tits,” Primetime added. “And their apparent ability to blind the general to a threat right under his nose.”

“It has nothing to do with my tits, pigs,” Red said as she punched a few numbers into her tablet. “It’s all about trust. And I wouldn’t assume the general’s oblivious until we’re in the clear. He’s a crafty old goat.”

Primetime took a seat next to Red and stared at her tablet as the Heretic appeared on screen.

“Why have you summoned me?” the Heretic asked in his synthesized voice.

“We need to talk about a raise, dick stick,” Red replied.

“Do we?” the Heretic asked. “I thought our business was complete.”

“For the product, yes,” Red said. “But we’ve just been assigned to track your ass down so if you want us to stand down and go get some beers instead, its going to cost you.”

“My, my, my, Ms. Kingston,” the Heretic said. “Aren’t you a delightful little capitalist. I don’t suppose the funds I’ve already sent your way buy me your assistance in this matter?”

“Not when you put out a video to the whole world to announce that you’re up to some shit, mongoloid,” Red said.

“You drive a hard bargain,” the Heretic said. “Shall we say one million each?”

“Two million,” Red replied. “Each.”

“Done,” the Heretic said. “Oh and Ms. Kingston?”

“What?” Red said.

“Don’t go entertaining any thoughts about a double cross, now,” the Heretic said. “We’re all in this together and if it ever turns out we aren’t, I have more than enough evidence to put you and your colleagues in Leavenworth for the rest of your lives.”

“You go down, we go down,” Red said. “Got it. I’ll expect the deposits within the hour.”

“You won’t be disappointed,” the Heretic said. “Heretic, out.”

The transmission ended and Red stowed her tablet under her seat.

“Who do you suppose that creepy little twerp is?” Primetime asked.

“I don’t know,” Red said. “Some stupid teenager on his mother’s laptop for all I know.”

Primetime pulled an orange out of his pocket and started to peel it. “I don’t like all this talk about Leavenworth.”

“There’s not going to be a Leavenworth soon,” Red said. “There’s not going to be much of anything soon.”

“Then why are we breaking nine thousand different Federal laws in the name of cold, sticky cash?” Primetime asked.

“Because there will be a few strongholds we’ll be able to buy our way into,” Red said. “Money will be the name of the game when the world ends.”

“Like it isn’t now,” Primetime rebutted as he pulled off an orange slice and ate it. “And let’s not pretend it will be worth much once all the governments collapse.”

“By then we’ll be sitting pretty,” Red said. “And in a position to protect what’s ours.”

The soldiers sat there for awhile.

“Mack was a good man,” Primetime said. “Sometimes I wish he was still with us.”

“Don’t,” Red replied. “He’d kill us all if he knew what we’ve done.”

“What do you think he’s up to now?” Primetime asked.

“Doing something bad ass for sure,” Red said. “That’s what Mack is all about.”

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Sep 18 2016
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Zomcation

Zomcation – Chapter 8

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Abby looked at the clock in her mini-van. 6:19 A.M.

“He’s not coming,” Abby said.

“I’m telling you,” Dylan said. “He said he is. Just give him his five minutes.”

Mack emerged from the house in a pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, and a pair of sunglasses with a duffel bag slung over his arm.

“Dylan,” Abby said as her brother approached. “How did you pull this off?”

“I just know how to talk to people,” Dylan said.

Abby popped the hatch and Mack stowed his duffel in the back, then walked around to the driver’s side.

 

“Shall we give the girl soldier a shot at the wheel?” Mack asked.

“It’s your funeral,” Abby said as she snuck through the pass-through to the back seat next to Dylan.

A giddy Paige moved over to the driver’s side as Mack took the passenger’s seat.

Once all doors were closed, Mack made some announcements.

“Family,” Mack said. “Be advised I am not attending this trip out of a desire for fun, recreation or quote unquote ‘having a good time.’”

“Whatever you need to say, Mack,” Abby said.

“I am attending as the world is a dangerous place and the idea of allowing people I am related to venture off unescorted is an untenable situation in my estimation,” Mack said.

“You love cartoon wombats,” Abby snickered.

“I’ll ignore that,” Mack said. “People, this is the point of no return. Has everyone gone to the bathroom?”

“Sir, yes sir,” replied Mack’s family.

“Good,” Mack said. “Because a premature stop would cause an unnecessary delay. Does everyone have all required medications and assorted items the failure of which to pack would bring our excursion to a grinding halt?”

“Sir, yes sir,” the family replied.

“Excellent,” Mack said as he opened up his wallet. “Boy soldier!”

“Sir?” Dylan asked.

Mack passed the boy a twenty dollar bill.

“You have been appointed quarter master of this operation, the man in charge of procuring all necessary goods and materials,” Mack said. “At our first stop, you will procure me a Red Bull and a bag of Funions. Use any remaining currency to procure snacks and drinks for yourself and fellow soldiers. Have I made myself clear?”

“Sir, yes sir,” Dylan sad.

“Sister soldier!” Mack said.

“Will you stop with the ‘soldier’ bit?” Abby asked.

“Now is not the time to descend into chaos, Abby,” Mack said. “You have been appointed as navigator. Keep an eye on your cell phone GPS and make sure we’re headed to our destination using the best routes available.”

“It’s got a GPS right there,” Abby said as she pointed to the monitor at the front of the vehicle. “See?”

“Oh,” Mack said. “Then take a much deserved nap as a reward for all your labors and be rested for when your driving shift comes.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Abby said as she leaned back.

“Girl soldier!”

“Sir?” Paige asked.

“In my career, I have received the requisite training to drive tractor trailer trucks, Humvees, tanks and also to pilot helicopters and all manner of aircraft, light and heavy,” Mack said. “You are now under my command and will be expected to follow my instructions to the letter or be relieved of duty. Have I made myself clear?”

“Sir, yes sir,” Paige said.

“Good,” Mack said. “Take us out.”

Paige immediately put the car in reverse and took her foot off the brake.

“Boom!” Mack shouted.

“What?” Paige asked as she braked.

“You’ve failed to put on your seatbelt,” Mack said. “Had there been a collision, your carcass would have flown through the windshield only to flop around like a fish gasping for air on the hood.”

“Do we need to be that graphic, Mack?” Abby asked.

“The more graphic I am today the less likely she’ll experience such a scenario in the future,” Mack said. “Resume driving, girl soldier.”

Paige started to back out again.

“Boom!” Mack shouted.

“What?!” a frazzled Paige asked.

“You’ve failed to adjust your mirrors,” Mack said.

“I did,” Paige snapped.

“Lies,” Mack replied. “Your mother is taller than you are and has her mirrors set to her liking. You are shorter and if you are unable to see out of your mirrors then it is only a matter of time before you careen this vehicle into another transport and set us all ablaze in an inferno that will seal our doom.”

Paige adjusted her mirrors. “Oh. That is better.”

“Proceed,” Mack said.

Paige did and it wasn’t long before Mack shouted another “Boom!”

“OMG!” Paige shouted as she hit the brake. “What now?”

“You failed to check if anyone was coming on the roadway behind you,” Mack said. “You lucked out this time but had there been a transport, you surely would have killed all of us, all of them, or some combination of us and them. Best case scenario in that situation is you end up badly mangled, recover after years of surgeries and physical therapy, then are forced to live out the rest of your days with the horrendous, agonizing guilt that comes with knowing that your screwup got your family and other innocents killed.”

Paige nodded, checked her mirrors, checked her blindspots, then brought the car out into the road.

“This is going to be a long trip,” Dylan said.

“Mack,” Abby said. “You know she’s never done any highway driving before.”

“Only way to learn is to do it,” Mack replied. “No one taught me how to drive a truck at a hundred miles an hour down a runway as the enemy pilot of an attack helicopter mercilessly deployed a barrage of gunfire and missiles my way. You learn or you die. It’s that simple.”

Paige and Dylan’s eyes lighted up.

“Did that really happen?” Dylan asked.

“That’s classified,” Mack replied.

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Sep 18 2016
1 Comment
Zomcation

Zomcation – Chapter 7

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Beep! Beep!

It was a little after dawn and Abby was in her best Chester Chimp t-shirt and sitting behind the wheel of a packed to the gills car, blaring on the horn to get her daughter’s attention. “Paige! Let’s go!”

Ignoring her mother, Paige parsed her lips into a duck-billed smooch and snapped a selfie.

“Come on, Paige,” Abby said. “We’re burning daylight.”

“Just a minute,” Paige said as she uploaded her selfie onto Lifebox. “Hashtag get this party started. Okay.”

Paige hopped into the passenger’s seat. “Can I drive?”

“Maybe when we get to Georgia,” Abby said. “They’ve got those nice roads that go in a straight line forever so it’ll be less likely that you’ll kill us all.”

“Hashtag I’ll never get my license,” Paige said.

“Hashtag its your own fault if you end up walking everywhere,” Abby said.

Dylan popped his ear buds out and poked his head up. “Is Uncle Mack really not coming?”

“Afraid not,” Abby said.

“Hashtag lame,” Paige said.

“Maybe you guys can each send him a nice post card when you get there,” Abby said.

“Can I try one more time?” Dylan asked.

Abby shrugged her shoulders. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.

Dylan jumped out of the car.

“Dill,” Abby said.

“Yeah?” her son replied.

“Don’t be a nudge,” Abby said. “If he says no then say goodbye and that’s the end of it.”

“Okay.”

Dylan walked into the house and found his uncle counting his sit-ups on the floor while watching the news on television.

“Nine hundred ninety eight, nine hundred ninety nine….one thousand.”

Mack wiped the sweat from his brow, guzzled a glass of water, then noticed his nephew.

“Hey,” Mack said. “You forget something?”

“No,” Dylan said. “What are you watching?”

“Ahh,” Mack said. “Just the news. Always some bad shit going down somewhere.”

The screen cut to an ample bosomed blonde reporter sitting behind an anchor’s desk.

“Good morning, Americans. I’m a Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties reporting for Network News One. Our top story today, the anonymous underworld criminal known simply as, “The Heretic” has issued a new communique regarding the Day Zero Cult’s activities.

Next up on the screen was a shadowy figure of a man who spoke using an electronic voice changer. It made his voice sound deep, dark and sinister.

“People of the world,” the Heretic said. “Know that I have given your leaders an important ultimatum, one that they must obey if you are all to survive. I have no desire to start unnecessary panic, so I will not reveal the details of my demands to the public at this time. However, I implore all of you to urge your leaders to do my bidding or else my wrath will be swift and severe. Heretic, out.”

Back at the studio, a mustached man with graying hair joined the female reporter.

“Homeland Security officials refused to answer any questions on this matter,” the reporter said. “But here to shed some light on this story is Network News One Terrorism Analyst Carl Baxter. Carl.”

“Thank you for having me, Hot Ass Blonde Chick,” Carl said.

“No problem,” the reporter replied. “Carl, this is tougher talk than we’re used to hearing from the Heretic, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Carl said. “His typical modus operandi is to mobilize his Day Zero hackers to engage in some type of computerized malfeasance. You remember the time they shut down the stock market for three hours…”

“Or the time they turned off all the lights in Times Square,” the Hot Ass Blonde Chick said.

“Right,” Carl said. “Usually the Heretic will command his tech savvy minions to pull off some misdeed and only after does he release a video to the press taunting law enforcement. This current situation is very different.”

“How so?” the Hot Ass Blonde Chick asked.

“Here, he’s warning something bad is going to happen first,” Carl said. “And you can tell he’s trying to put pressure on the masses to lean on world leaders to do something. What it is, your guess is good as mine.”

“That’s not helpful at all, Carl,” the Hot Ass Blonde Chick said. “Keep talking to fill up this block, will you?”

“Sure,” Carl said. “Now the Day Zero cult, they’re anarchists. They do not believe in law and order. They do not believe in government of any kind. They don’t believe in capitalism or communism or any kind of economic system. The Heretic has been quite clear in his previous videos that he and his followers want the world to regress to the so-called days of Adam and Eve.”

“Adam and Eve?” the Hot Ass Blonde Chick asked.

“Right,” Carl said. “No buildings. No houses. No schools. No factories. No hospitals. No businesses. No order of any kind. They simply want the world to regress to its natural grassy state and for all of mankind to frolic naked amongst the trees as our ancient ancestors did.”

“Sounds fun,” the Hot Ass Blonde Chick said.

“In many ways it would be great,” Carl said. “No more nuclear weapons. No more war. Certainly no more lawyers.”

“I sense a catch,” the Hot Ass Blonde Chick said.

“No more art,” Carl said. “No more music.  No more books or movies. No more science or technology. No medicine.”

“We’ll end all threats to life but be left with no reason to live,” the Hot Ass Blonde Chick said.

“That’s a very profound observation, Hot Ass Blonde Chick,” Carl said.

“Should we be worried?” the Hot Ass Blonde Chick asked.

“All the law enforcement sources I’ve spoken to refer to these people as kooks,” Carl said. “Occasionally, they manage to cause the world some grief with their hacking skills, but they’ve yet to graduate to more sinister, physical forms of terrorism.”

“That’s a relief,” the reporter said before turning to the camera. “We’ll stay with this story as it develops. After this commercial break, our Hot Ass Asian Chick with Big Titties will be reporting live from Capitol Hill, where Congress is currently debating House Resolution Seventeen, a bill so complex and complicated no one can understand it, but it will most certainly lead to you contracting anal warts. And later, there’s one item in your refrigerator that can cause you to drop dead if you eat it. Stick with Network News One and we’ll tell you what it is at some point in the next three hours.”

The Network News One logo popped onto the screen, followed by a rugged, manly sounding announcer. “Network News One: The hottest chicks. The biggest titties. Oh yeah, and occasionally we report the news and shit.”

Mack grabbed the remote and shut the TV off, then looked to his nephew. “Shouldn’t you be going?”

Dylan looked down at his uncle and stretched out his hand. “Never leave a soldier behind.”

Mack wasn’t one to cry, but he felt a little choked up by the boy’s gesture. He nodded, then took Dylan’s hand and stood up.

“T-minus five minutes for me to pack my gear, soldier,” Mack said. “Report to the transport.”

Dylan nodded. “Sir, yes sir!”

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