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Oct 29 2015
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BQB's Zombie Apocalypse Survivor's Journal

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wasn’t without my defenders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Oct 29 2015
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BQB's Zombie Apocalypse Survivor's Journal

And Now a Message From Some Random Jerkface

By: Some Random Jerkface, Special Guest Contributor

Hello 3.5 readers.  Some Random Jerkface here.

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

Poppycock, I say!

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

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

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

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

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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 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 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 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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Oct 18 2015
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BQB's Zombie Apocalypse Survivor's Journal

BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 18

shutterstock_236377990“Deputy Mayor Battler!  Deputy Mayor Battler!”

As I strolled through the gym, my constituents peppered me with questions.

“We’re running low on gas.”

“People are eating too much.”

“I can’t find my shoes.”

“Ration, ration, and they’re on your feet,” were my immediate answers.

“BQB,”  VGRF said.  “Is it me or are you more decisive lately?”

“Well, I have been taking alpha male lessons from Gillian Zane, so could be.”

The DiStefano brothers found me.

Carl showed me his cell phone.  On it, there was a video of a large group of people wearing gas masks and toting assault rifles walking past the security fence.

“We scoped this guys near the north perimeter,”  Carl said.  “What do you make of it?”

“Are they military?”  I asked.

“I don’t think so,”  Carl replied.  “Shit, they’re all in plain clothes.”

“Huh,”  I said.  “Did they see you?”

“Yup.”

“And they didn’t interact?”

“Nope they just moved on.”

“Weird,”  I said.  “Could be someone trying to make a move on us.  Could be just another group of survivors passing by.  Keep an eye on it and let me know if anything happens.”

“Sure thing, Deputy Mayor.”

The DiStefanos walked away.

I sat on the bleachers with VGRF.  We gabbed it up for awhile until Mario Guzman found me.

Before the fall of humanity, Mario had been an accountant.  Today, he used his CPA skills to keep a running inventory of all our supplies.

“Deputy Mayor, can I show you something?”

“Sure.”

VGRF and I followed Mario to the rec center’s storage room.  It was full of boxed and canned food, nothing tasty of course, but everything was chock full of preservatives and guaranteed to last a long time.

Mario closed the door behind us.

“We’re being robbed.”

“What?”  I asked.

“There’s a thief in our midst,”  Mario said as he showed me a clip board.

“I have no idea what these numbers mean,”  I said.  “I hate math.”

“I’ve been keeping a daily count of everything we have since our community began,”  Mario said.  “So far, the numbers have added up but a few days ago, I noticed we’ve been consistently down ten percent of everything.”

“Everything?”

“Everything!” Mario replied.  “Look.  Powdered milk -10%.  Toilet paper -10%.  Bottled water – 10%.  Cereal -10%  Rice – 10%.  If it was just one or two items I wouldn’t be worried but someone is pilfering our stuff regularly.”

“Who has access to this room?”  I asked.

“Just Hauser and his inner circle of advisors,”  Mario said.

“Let’s change that,”  I said.  “Put a trustworthy guard in charge of this room.  Anyone who enters has to sign themselves in and out and note what they’re taking.  The guard will keep an eye on people while they’re in here to make sure no funny business transpires.”

“You’ve got it,”  Mario said as he exited the room.

VGRF and I were alone.  My girlfriend rubbed her hands on my chest and leaned in.

“I think I’m going to like this new you.”

“Yeah well, get used to it, baby.  I’m alpha nerd all the way now.”

VGRF leaned in for a kiss.

“Is that a space phone in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

“It’s a space phone,”  I replied.  “Speaking of, there’s a zombie author I’d better call.”

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Oct 15 2015
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BQB's Zombie Apocalypse Survivor's Journal

BQB’s Zombie Apocalypse Survivor’s Journal – Day 15

Defacto Mayor Hauser

Defacto Mayor Hauser

VGRF and I sat in Doug’s office, located in the back of a locker room. “Coach Hauser” was stenciled on the door.

Blandie was busy bumming make up products off other survivors, arguing “just because it’s the zombie apocalypse doesn’t mean I can’t look good.”

Bernie was working on the lyrics to another wholesome rap song, as usual.

Alien Jones, having worked harder than anyone else in the group so far, was taking a well deserved siesta.

“A few days ago, one of my squads was on a mission to look for survivors on Becker Street when three Apache helicopters flew overhead. The pilots hovered in for a closer look at my men and then dispersed,” Hauser said. “It made no sense to me until I read the part in your survivor’s journal about Morganstern blowing up the mall just to get to you.”

“The army’s gunning for me,” I said. “Obviously, when they figured out none of your men were me, they moved on.”

“We should leave, BQB,” VGRF said. “Morganstern’s liable to blow up everyone here just to get to you.”

Hauser poured himself a scotch. He offered us some, but my girl and I are teetotaling nerds.

“I don’t know if that’s true,” Hauser said. “Between the basketball court and the other camps in the park, I’ve got close to a thousand people here. Hauser may be ruthless, but I don’t know how anyone could sweep that many bodies under the rug.”

Hauser sipped his drink.

“No my friends, I think you need to stay here. Safety in numbers. BQB, once you step outside the building, that bastard will get you I guarantee it.”

“Is there anything I can do to help the camp?” I said. “I want to earn my keep.”

“Of course,” Hauser said. “I assign jobs to everyone. Video Game Rack Fighter, how would you like to run our day car center?”

VGRF scoffed.

“Oh what, because I’m a woman?”

“Because we’ve got a fifty inch plasma and all the video games you could possibly want,” Doug replied. “I figure you could keep the kids entertained with that.  The whole place is run by a back up generator so you can play forever.”

“Sold,” VGRF said.

Doug looked at me.

“And you. I’ll expect big things out of you…Deputy Mayor.”

“What?” I asked.

BREAKING NEWS: BQB NAMED DEPUTY MAYOR OF EAST RANDOMTOWN!

BREAKING NEWS: BQB NAMED DEPUTY MAYOR OF EAST RANDOMTOWN!

“BQB, this settlement is all that’s left of East Randomtown,” Doug said. “Our humble little burg’s two greatest citizens, the man who was beaten senseless for thirty seconds on a 1980’s TV show and the man who set up a web site so exhilarating that it drew in 3.5 readers. Past and present working together for a brighter tomorrow. What do you say?”

I echoed VGRF’s sentiment with a “sold” of my own.

“Excellent,” Doug said as he stood up. “Now then, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to round up a party to go raid the pharmacy.”

The three of us walked out onto the basketball court floor.

Hauser whistled loudly. He spoke with a big, booming voice.

“Attention, everyone! Attention!”

He slapped me hard on the back. Everyone stopped what they were doing to listen.

“I’ve just appointed Bookshelf Q. Battler as deputy mayor. He’s well qualified, having started up a WordPress blog with 3.5 readers. He’s the boss while I’m gone so what he says, goes!”

The survivors carried on with their business.

“Just like that?” I asked.

“Just like that,” Doug said.

The Mayor walked away. I put my arm around VGRF.

“Did you ever think we’d ever get to make such a difference in the world?” I asked.

“Says you,” VGRF said. “You’re the second-in-command. I have to babysit a bunch of rugrats all day and I’m now realizing I won’t be able to play Car Thief Mayhem around them. I’ll be staring at that stupid Buildcraft bullshit until the end of time!  That game is completely pointless!”

“There are worse fates,” I said.

“You’re not even here a day and he gives you a position of authority?” VGRF asked. “I’m calling shenanigans.”

“I know it’s hard babe,” I said. “But you need to learn how to trust people.”

“I trust no one in a zombie apocalypse.”

We found Alien Jones sawing logs under a blanket on the bleachers. A trio of pre-teens were poking him with a stick.

“What is this thing?” one of the kids asked.

“Guys, can you not disturb my deformed kid?” I asked.

“Why don’t you show me where the day care center is?” VGRF asked the urchins. “I’m supposed to play video games with you guys.”

“Sweet!” one of the kids yelled. “I call first dibs on Buildcraft!”

As she walked away, I heard VGRF mumble, “Son of a…”

I reached into Alien Jones’ pocket and retrieved the space phone.

I knew just the right zombie author to call.

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