Tag Archives: werewolves

The Bookshelf Battle Rap was Snubbed by the Grammys

Hey 3.5 music fans.

BQB here.

I’ve been carrying some disappointment for a week or so now but have been waiting to comment until I process my emotions.

Now that I’ve had time to calm down, I must say the Grammys were quite remiss in not offering a nomination to the Bookshelf Battle Rap.

Honestly, if there was a better rap song about a fat ass yeti getting roundhouse kicked in the face by a magic bookshelf caretaker offered up in 2017, I did not hear it.  Did you?

Now that I’ve had some time to process my disappointment, I must say the #GRAMMYs were remiss in not offering a nomination to the Bookshelf Battle Rap.

#rap #rappers #music #youtube

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Top Ten Warning Signs You Might Be a Clinically Depressed Werewolf

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Depression.  It’s the pits.  It’s even worse when you’re a werewolf.

I mean, if you’re just a guy, the world isn’t missing much if you lock yourself up and cry over anything.

But if you’re an awesome werewolf and allow those powers to fester over depression, that’s a waste.

Are you a werewolf?  That’s cool.  Please don’t eat me.

Are you a clinically depressed werewolf, like my blog’s columnist, “Clinically Depressed Werewolf?”

You won’t find out until you read this list.  From BQB HQ in Fabulous East Randomtown, it’s the Top Ten Warning Signs You Might Be a Clinically Depressed Werewolf:

#10 – You Must Be a Werewolf

If you’re not a werewolf but you’re sad all the time, then you are merely a clinically depressed human.  Still, seek professional help, but all you need to worry about is the depression part, not the werewolf part.

#9 – You’ve Lost the Will to Howl at the Moon

Werewolves love to howl at the moon as if the moon will respond to them.  Idiots.  Still, if you’re not able to muster up even the briefest of “Arwoos!” then you need to consult a werewolf psychiatrist posthaste.

NOTE: This can either be a werewolf who doubles as a psychiatrist or a human who knows how to treat the mental illnesses of werewolves.

#8 – You Don’t Want to Eat People Anymore

I mean, you shouldn’t be doing that anyway but if you were eating people a lot and now you aren’t, that’s a bad sign.

#7 – Your Fur is Falling Out

It could just be werewolf pattern baldness but if you’re worrying about a lot of random stuff, then it could be a sign of werewolf depression.

#6 – You Spend All Your Time Listening to James Blunt’s “Your Beautiful” Song in Your Werewolf Lair

This song is the saddest song ever written.  Personally, I think James Blunt consulted with the CIA to produce a song that makes people so sad they want to off themselves just to control the surplus population.  My lawyer says I must stress I have no evidence or proof of this so as far as I know, James is just a good singer who apparently likes to use his vocal powers to make people sad as fuck.

Anyway, if you’re a werewolf, you should be enjoying your great strength and powers, using them to do badass shit and bang all that bomass werewolf pussy.  So, if you’re just listening to James Blunt instead, them I’m sorry to inform you that you are a clinically depressed werewolf.

#5 – You Keep a Silver Bullet Around Just in Case

If there’s one thing a werewolf hates, it’s a mail man.  If there are two things a werewolf hates, it’s a mail man and a silver bullet.  Silver bullets are the only thing that can kill a werewolf, so if you’re a werewolf, you want to keep them far away from yourself as possible, unless, of course, you’re thinking about ending it all and you’re keeping that silver bullet for when you are ready.

Please, whether you are a human or a werewolf, if you are having suicidal thoughts, please seek professional help immediately.  Suicide is never the answer.

#4 – You Cage Yourself During the Day

You’re only a danger to others at night,  so that’s the only time you need to be caged to keep yourself from wolfing out and eating humans.  If you’re caging yourself during the day, then you’re cutting yourself off from the world.  So sad.

#3 – You’re Preoccupied with Death

We all have to go someday, but with a little luck and some hope, that day is a long, long time away.  Don’t focus on it or you’ll think of nothing else, especially if you’re a werewolf, because you’re stronger than most.  I mean, nothing can kill you but a silver bullet so, holy shit, just stay away from silver bullets and you’ll be fine, bitch.  Stop worrying.

#2 – You Smell Worse Than Usual

Werewolves always smell bad, but if you smell worse than usual, you’ve let your hygiene go because…you are a clinically depressed werewolf.

#1 – You Think You Might Be Depressed

Holy shit dude, if you think you are depressed then you might be.  Seek professional help.

 

 

 

 

 

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Droppin’ Monsters (A Bookshelf Q. Battle Rap)

Oh my God, 3.5 readers.  Oh my God.

Sit all 3.5 of your butts down for this.

So, as you know, back in the day I was one half of the rap duo known as The Funky Hunks.  My partner MC Plotz and I were a hit with the late 1990s/early 2000s soccer moms what with our squeaky clean lyrics.

Alas, time moved on and my rhyme spinning days are long behind me, but my lyric writing game is still pretty sweet, so I found a rapper on artist who goes by the handle I_Will_Rap.  He’s got mad crazy skills and he’ll rap whatever you want for a reasonable price.

Anyway.  Without further ado, I present to you the debut of the new hit single, sure to take the hip hop world by storm and it’s so good that it may even unite East and West Coast rappers together in a new era of peace, love and understanding: Droppin’ Monsters.

DROPPIN’ MONSTERS (A Bookshelf Q. Battle Rap)

Lyrics by: Bookshelf Q. Battler

Beats Dropped and Rhymes Rapped by I_Will_Rap

Yo. 2017. Time to make the green.
Bookshelf Q. Battler droppin monsters like a bad habit.
Let’s do this thing. Time to get paid, ya dig?

You roll up to your crib and there’s a vampire inside.
Call on BQB to do the wooden stake slide.
But oh my god a zombie wants my brains!
Better get BQB to make it rain the pain.
What’s that in my yard? A chupacabra goat sucker?
BQB grab your nine, pop a cap in that mother (bleep).

When it comes to fighting evil, BQB is the best.
Forces of darkness don’t even try it, this is a nerd you do not want to test.

East Randomtown is the dope ass hood where this bespectacled pimp resides.
He’s chillin in his headquarters, the fly ass hunnies won’t be denied.
BQB is a badass monster hunter, you know that is a fact.
So if you’re a demon straight outta hell, he’ll put you on your back.

One day while BQB was writing,
On his blog called bookshelfbattle.com
There was a sound that was oh so frightening
So he said, “what’s going on?”
He ran downstairs to his living room and what oh what did he see?
A fat ass yeti sitting on his couch, eating his food and watching TV.

“I live in your house forever now,” the Yeti said.
“I’m taking over this fabulous place.”
But that idea filled BQB with dread
So he round house kicked the Yeti right in the face.

Yeah, BQB is droppin monsters.
Ghosts and goblins and werewolves too.
That nerd is gonna do a drive by.
On anything that dares to shout, “boo!”

But when BQB’s not dropping a monstrous reprobate,
He’s writing a dope ass story.
He’s gonna save the world from the Mighty Potentate,
And get his ass some glory.

So don’t forget to check bookshelfbattle.com
For news of BQB’s daring do.
And if you are a monster,
BQB is coming for you.

Damn. That was some sweet ass shit.
3.5 readers my ass. Bookshelf Q. Battler should have all the (bleep) readers.

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Clinically Depressed Werewolf – Hello, I Guess

By: Clinically Depressed Werewolf, the Bookshelf Battle Blog’s Official Sad Lycanthrope Correspondent

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Arr…arr…arr..wooo….oooo…ooo…oh who am I kidding?

Seriously.  What’s the point of howling at the moon?  It’s just going to rise again.

Hello, I guess, or whatever, 3.5 readers.  Clinically Depressed Werewolf here.  I’ve been playing in Video Game Rack Fighter’s Super Violent War Shooter league for awhile and well, I don’t really play.  I just log on and steer my character into a corner and listen to other people play.  I’m so lonely that if I don’t do things like that then sometimes my mind begins to wander and then I begin questioning whether or not I’m really like, real, you know?

I mean, think about it.  Do any of us actually know if we are really real?  We think we’re real but maybe we’re just a figment of someone else’s dream.  That’s why I don’t even bother to bite people anymore.  Where’s the fun if I’m just going to disappear when the person dreaming about me is eventually going to wake up, thus shattering my branch of reality?

Anyway, Video Game Rack Fighter told me she won this blog in a divorce.  Sigh.  Divorces are so sad.  Why do people even get married in the first place when divorce is such a real possibility?

Then again, I don’t understand why people even leave their homes when getting run over by a truck, falling down a well, or being eaten by a happy, non-depressed werewolf are all real possibilities.

Don’t worry about me.  I don’t eat people.  Too much effort.  I’ll just get hungry again.

Moving on, VGRF said I should try my paw at being a columnist for her blog.  She felt there aren’t many columns written by clinically depressed werewolves and that immediately made me sad.  I mean, the idea of a column written by a clinically depressed werewolf can’t be that great if no other clinically depressed werewolf has ever written one before, am I right?

Yikes.  Why do people even blog?  Why do people read?  I just want to lie down in my cage, lock the door and take a nap.  Don’t even bother letting me out once I turn back into a human and the full moon is over.  I might as well stay in here seeing as how next month’s full moon will be here before you know it.

I’m sorry.  I’m not a very exciting columnist.   I will try to lighten the mood with some Clinically Depressed Werewolf jokes:

#1 – How Many Clinically Depressed Werewolves Does it Take to Screw in a Lightbulb?

None.  Clinically depressed werewolves prefer the dark.  The light allows us to see everything that disappoints us.  Also, why bother to change a lightbulb when the new one will blow out sooner or later?

#2 – Three Clinically Depressed Werewolves Walk Into a Bar…

…and there they sat, nursing their beers and commiserating over days gone by, talking about dreams deferred and yearning to turn back time, to get a do over at life yet accepting that just isn’t in the cards.

#3 – Why Did the Clinically Depressed Werewolf Cross the Road?

He didn’t.  He knew that sooner or later he’d have to return to the other side again, so he just stayed put and it was as if he never left.

Conclusions, I Guess, Whatever

I’d say I hope you enjoyed this column but really, hope is just a form of delaying the inevitable dissatisfaction that we all experience sooner or later.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to gnaw on a dead water buffalo carcass and listen to some Coldplay.  Clinically depressed werewolves love Coldplay.

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Remember the Zombamo – Part 1 – Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna

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General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna charges into a battle against an army of marauding Spaniards hell bent on retaking Mexico for King Ferdinand.

A cannon blows off the general’s leg.  With death appearing to be a near certainty, the mysterious vampire Isadora makes her way to Santa Anna’s bedside and turns him into a vampire.

Quickly, we learn that Isadora represents, “The Legion,” an organization of vampires who have done the devil’s bidding for ages.

A bargain is struck.  Santa Anna may rule Mexico, but he must unleash Satan onto the world.

Under Isadora’s counsel, Santa Anna takes advantage of the chaos created by a coup to execute the president and vice-president to declare himself Mexico’s chief executive.

The loyal but chagrined Colonel Arroyo gets promoted to General, but is dismayed that the people go along with Santa Anna’s chicanery.

Also…werewolves.

Chapter 1          Chapter 2         Chapter 3         Chapter 4

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Undead Man’s Hand – Part 6 – Mumsie

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Our story takes a sojourn to Elizabethan England, where Queen Elizabeth herself is aghast to learn of the existence of zombies, vampires, and werewolves.

Her trusted advisors aid her in sorting the mess out, while an old flame keeps Lady Beatrice from being burned.

Jericho, however, does get burned, but the lady takes him on as her son.

Alas, as the story returns to 1876, it is learned that a mother’s love can only do so much to protect a son from the consequences of his actions.

Chapter 31       Chapter 32       Chapter 33

Chapter 34       Chapter 35       Chapter 36

Chapter 37       Chapter 38

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How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 123

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One Year Later

New Mexico

The Rattler was aptly named because it was filled with vipers. Cutthroats, villains and assorted reprobates guzzled brews and exchanged tales of their heinous misdeeds.

Gambling. Brawling. Knife fights. It was comparable to the Bonnie Lass, but with less charm and ambience.

The double doors swung open and in walked a man wearing a hat with a red feather in it.

Miles. He’d hit a growth spurt and was over six feet now. Height. Muscle. There was even the slightest beginnings of a rudimentary mustache on his lip.

The joint grew silent. Card games. Fist fights. It all came to a halt as all eyes followed him as he bellied up to the bar.

Nelson Cooper, the owner/barkeep had a face that looked like it defined stupid. Lazy-eye. Crooked teeth. Unibrow. Permanent scowl. Dirt beard. Stain covered shirt that looked like it doubled as a bar rag.

Miles plopped a coin on the bar. “Sarsparilla. Straight up.”

Cooper and his contingent of barflies laughed.

“Can’t you read?” the barkeep asked as he pointed to a sign above the bar.

It read, “No Vampires. No Zombies. No Werewolves.”

“We don’t serve your kind here,” Cooper said.

Miles gulped. How did this scumbag know anything about him? He’d just strolled into town and hadn’t said a word to anyone.

He bluffed.

“I’m not a damn werewolf,” Miles said.

Cooper pointed to one more line on the sign. “No Negroes.”

“Shit,” Miles said.

He picked up his coin and scooched off the barstool.

A voice called out from the back left corner of the room.

“Cooper, quit acting like the power to poor booze gives you a ten foot dick and pour my friend a drink.”

The barkeep threw his hands up and trembled in fear. “Aw hell, Hoo Doo. I didn’t know he was with you.”

“Well now you do.”

Miles looked over to the corner table. There sat a rakish man with a gaunt face. He was skinny, bordering on emaciation. Sandy hair and a black hat with a white band. Rumpled suit that looked a tad baggy for him.

“Thanks,” Miles said as he started for the door. “But I don’t want any trouble.”

“Nonsense!” the man said. “Come have a seat and we’ll have a little chat.”

The barflies returned to their debauchery. Miles took a seat at the man’s table. Cooper plopped a bottle of sarsaparilla down.

“Soda pop!” the man scoffed. “Bullshit! He’ll have a scotch.”

“I don’t drink,” Miles said.

“And I didn’t hear that,” the man said as he shooed the barkeep away.

Miles took a swig of sarsaparilla. He’d been running all day and was powerfully thirsty.

The man dropped a few pinches of tobacco onto a paper and rolled himself a cigarette.

“Hoo Doo,” the man said.

“Who do what?” Miles replied.

The man grinned. “Me do.”

Miles was confused. “You do what?”

“Hoo Doo.”

“You do hoo doo?” Miles asked.

“I do,” the man answered. “My name and my trade are one and the same. Hoo Doo Brown, at your service.”

Cooper set a glass of scotch down and left. Miles stared at it.

“It’ll put hair on your chest,” Hoo Doo said.

Miles picked it up.

“Not that you need any,”Hoo Doo said.

Miles was flabbergasted. Hoo Doo lit his cigarette and popped the end between his lips, leaving it to dangle there.

“Oh come now,” Hoo Doo said. “I can spot a supernatural at fifty paces. I saw the look on your puss when that fat sack of crap insulted you. It was all you could do to keep yourself from unleashing the beast and tearing him apart. Not to cast aspersions on your kind but werewolves aren’t exactly known for their self-control. What gives?”

The young man raised the glass to his lips. “I’m a peaceful werewolf.” He took a sip, choked, then immediately sprayed it out in a fine mist.

Hoo Doo laughed. “Your first drink I take it?”

Miles made a face as if he’d just been sucking on a lemon. “And my last one. That was awful. Why do people drink this stuff?”

Hoo Doo reached into his pocket and pulled out a bar of soap and a small pocket knife. He went to work whittling the soap.

“Oh,” Hoo Doo said. “To forget the past, I suppose. I’m not exactly sure of the science of it all but I can’t imagine a beverage that dulls the senses could taste like candy.”

Miles returned to his sarsparilla.

“What’s hoo doo?” Miles asked.

“Now there’s a question,” Hoo Doo said as he whittled away. “I suppose I could regale you for hours about its history but when it comes right down to it…”

Hoo Doo tapped the ash off his smoke into an empty glass. “…it’s the art of asking demons for favors.”

Miles eyes grew wide with fear.

“Not exactly a profession I’d recommend,” Hoo Doo said. “Nothing in life is free and well, those demons are happy to cater to your wishes if you ask them the right way but they take a little piece of you each time.”

Hoo Doo sighed. “Sometimes I feel like I have nothing left to give. One of these days, I really should stop.”

Miles scooched back in his chair. “Thanks for the drinks, mister. I best be moving on.”

“Oh please,” Hoo Doo said. “You just got here. And you never even told me your name.”

“Miles.”

“Tell me Miles,” Hoo Doo said. “What’s a nice werewolf like you doing in a place like this?”

“Just passing through.”

“On your way to…”

Miles was torn between his fear and his inner desire to not appear rude. “Mexico.”

“Que bueno,” Hoo Doo said. “Pretty country. Prettier senoritas.”

“I guess.”

“You’re out of luck I’m afraid,” Hoo Doo said. “The Federales have got the border locked down tighter than a nun’s knickers out of fear that their country might get overrun with zombies. Can’t say as I blame them. Zombies are truly the biggest assholes in the entire supernatural world.”

Miles shook his head. “Guess I’ll do something else.”

“And what do you do?” Hoo Doo asked.

“What?”

“Your profession,” Hoo Doo said. “Your employment. Your raison d’etre. How’d you get that coin that Fuckface McGee over there refused because he prefers ignorance over making money?”

“I…I begged for it.”

“A beggar?” Hoo Doo asked. “Oh, no no no, son. We can’t have that at all. Have you got any skills?”

Miles shrugged. “I can draw.”

“Ah!” Hoo Doo said. “An artiste! I do admire a pretty picture and I’m certain one day when your pantings are hanging in museums I’ll gush with pride as I tell people I knew you when but I’m afraid I don’t know a single accomplished artist who can help you get started. Can you build something?”

“No.”

“Swing a hammer?”

“I could try.”

“Tote that barge? Lift that bail?”

“I would if anyone would hire me.”

“Ah yes,” Hoo Doo said as the shavings from his bar of soap piled up on the table. “I imagine your color makes it difficult to win over folks like old Cooper there.”

“I’m not complaining,” Miles said.

“That’s the spirit,” Hoo Doo said. “Perhaps you could become a hired gun.”

Miles sipped his soda. “That’s a job I’d never want.”

“Could have fooled me with that Colt strapped to your hip,” Hoo Doo said.

“Gift from a friend,” Miles said. “Just for show. I don’t even keep it loaded.”

Hoo Doo rolled his eyes. “Son, let me help you. That is information a stranger should not know.”

Miles nodded.

“That’s information that even a friend should not know,” Hoo Doo added. “Are we friends yet?”

“I don’t think so,” Miles said.

“We’ll get there,” Hoo Doo said. “Regardless, assume everyone is looking for your weaknesses. They’ll find them sooner or later but you don’t have to point them out and make it easier for them.”

Miles nodded again.

“Many a bad man would pay top dollar for the services of a werewolf,” Hoo Doo said.

“I’m not that kind of werewolf,” Miles replied.

“As I live and breathe,” Hoo Doo said. “You really are a pacifist werewolf.”

“A what?”

“Pacifist,” Hoo Doo said. “You abhor violence.”

“I do.”

“That’s admirable,” Hoo Doo said. “I’d quit violence myself if it weren’t so damn effective.”

Hoo Doo put his knife away and set his soap down on the table. He’d carved the bar into the shape of a little man. A round head. Stick body, legs and arms.

“Give me your critique as an artist.”

“Not bad,” Miles said.

“I’m no Michelangelo but I try,” Hoo Doo said.

Cooper was back. “Hey Hoo Doo, I know you’re the King Shit around here but I can’t have this nigger drinking in my bar all night. Pretty soon all the niggers will want to…”

Hoo Doo balled his hand into a fist, raised it up, then pounded it down on his little sculpture, smashing it flat.

As for Cooper, he didn’t gasp or choke. He didn’t cry out in pain. He simply collapsed in a giant heap on the floor.

The barflies cared enough to look, but not enough to get involved. They went about their business. Miles jumped out of his chair and lightly slapped Cooper’s cheek.

“Mister!” Miles said. “Hey Mister! Wake up.”

Miles looked up. The smashed soap. The smile on Hoo Doo’s face.

“What did you do?”

“I asked for a favor,” Hoo Doo replied.

Miles shook the man’s shoulders. “Hey! Mister, come on!”

The young man looked back to Hoo Doo. “Do something!”

Hoo Doo sighed. “Oh God, you’re one of those bleeding heart types aren’t you? All right…”
Hoo Doo took his time as he took some of the soap and rolled it into a ball to make a head. Then he crafted a few sticks to make a body, legs, and arms. He wiggled his fingers over the sculpture and…

“Get off me nigger!”

Cooper pushed Miles aside and stood up. “What the hell happened?”

“You had one too many I suppose,” Hoo Doo said. “My friend here was just trying to help you.”

“Trying to sneak a feel on my pecker was what he was doing,” Cooper said. “We don’t take kindly to queers in here neither.”

Cooper stormed off back to the bar. “I’m going to add that to my sign.”

Miles returned to his seat.

“Shit,” Hoo Doo said. “I worry about you, Miles the Pacifist Werewolf. If you let a half-wit like that walk all over you then you’ll be doing it for the rest of your life.”

“I’d rather take people’s abuse then hate myself for hurting them.”

Hoo Doo’s cigarette was all smoked out. He took another paper and some tobacco from his pocket and rolled another one.

“Ahh,” Hoo Doo said. “Then you have hurt someone.”

“None of your business.”

“There’s a spine,” Hoo Doo said. “We’ll make a man out of you yet.”

Miles stood up. “Goodbye.”

Hoo Doo lit his new cigarette. “Well, I can’t say there are many employment opportunities out there for pacifist werewolf but as it turns out I just happen to have one.”

“Not interested.”

“It’s very lucrative,” Miles said. “You’ll never have to beg for coins again and you’d be surprised how quickly a fat pocket earns you the respect of even the most basic of imbeciles.”

There was a little voice in Miles’ head, working overtime as it shouted for him to leave.

He went against his gut and sat back down.

“Like I said. I won’t hurt anyone.”

“And you won’t,” Hoo Doo said. “For it’s not your claws or your teeth that I’m after but rather, your above average sniffer.”

“My sniffer?”

“Precisely,” Hoo Doo said. “Son, down in Mexico lies a magnificent treasure of great value. It isn’t made out of gold and who cares, seeing as how that commodity has become less precious ever since our esteemed government gave us the cold shoulder. It’s not even silver, which would be more useful as everyone and their uncle wants to pack silver heat now that the cat has been let out of the bag with regard to the existence of werewolves and vampires.”

“Diamonds?” Miles asked.

“Hell no,” Hoo Doo said as he puffed on his cigarette. “What good did a diamond ever do anyone except for getting a bunch of people killed so some ugly lady could pop it onto her finger and smile? Same thing with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. All junk compared to this.”

“I can’t think of anything more valuable than gold, silver or jewels,” Miles said.

“For years I have sought a treasure made out of flesh and bone,” Hoo Doo said. “And for just as many years, I have searched for a werewolf to sniff it out for me. Alas, I have yet to meet a werewolf I wasn’t sure would snap me in two and take the treasure for himself as soon as he found it…until now. This job really does call for a pacifist werewolf and I must say I feel like asking God to pull his pants down so I can kiss his ass for finally sending me one.”

“I don’t know…”

“I’ll cut you in.”

“Fifty-fifty?” Miles asked.

“What?” Hoo Doo asked. “Fuck no, pacifist werewolf. I’m the one who’s done all the research and I’m the one taking all the risk sneaking your furry hide across the border. We get caught, all you need to do is wolf yourself and run away. Me? They’ll string me up and hang me up by my toes in a dank, depressing dungeon somewhere until the end of time.”

Miles looked out a window. The moon was full and was casting some light onto the table.

“But if you can’t do it without my nose…”

“I have created a monster,” Hoo Doo said. “Fine. I’ll take seventy, you take thirty. Keep in mind I’ll be paying two unsavory characters to join us out of my own pocket. Mexico’s not a place you want to visit without some muscle and we both know you won’t be providing that, pacifist werewolf.”

“What if I say no?” Miles said.

Hoo Doo shrugged. “Then I return to my glamorous lifestyle of drinking alone, you go outside and beg for people’s pocket change and the treasure stays lost, unless some other jackass finds a less greedy pacifist werewolf to find it for him first.”

Miles was torn. He thought about how his father had once been sweet talked into taking what sounded like a fancy, high paying gig only to end up a tool of evil. He didn’t want to make the same mistake, but he was getting tired of begging for money as well.

“I won’t have to hurt anyone?” Miles asked.

“You have my word,” Hoo Doo said as he took a drag on his cigarette and stretched out his hand.

Miles took it. “Then I’m in. I guess you look trustworthy.”

Hoo Doo leaned into the moonlight. His face disappeared and was replaced with that of a chattering skull. No eyes in the sockets. Just bone. Miles watched in terror as cigarette smoke poured through Hoo Doo’s teeth then swirled around his rib cage, the bones of which looked as though Miles could reach out and play like a xylophone.

Miles looked down to see he was holding a boney hand. He looked up.

“Well now,” Hoo Doo said. “I wouldn’t say that.”

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How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 122

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J. Wellington Willoughby, the esteemed and elderly president of the First National Bank of Chicago sat behind his oak desk and buried his face in a newspaper.

The main headline -“The West Has Been Zombed!”

Sub-headline One: “Wall Erection Efforts Along the Mississippi River Underway”

Sub-headline Two: “Legion Corporation Denies Allegations of Impropriety”

Willoughby lowered the paper. His head was bald, yet the white hair stuffed in his ears was quite lush. He licked his finger and turned the page. His eyes were giving out on him, so he studied the small print with a magnifying glass.

Further articles included, “Scientists Currently Researching the Causes of Zombification” and “U.S. Government Urges Citizens to Turn In All Suspected Vampires and Werewolves.”

Thomas Sinclair, Head Clerk, knocked on the door then let himself into his boss’s office. He was a young man with dark hair who wore a bow-tie and a green eye-shade.

“Mr. Willoughby…”

“Incredible,” Willoughby said to himself. “Sinclair!”

“Right here, sir.”

Whether it was deafness or dementia, no one could be certain, but Willoughby continued to shout. “Sinclair!”

“Here, sir,” Sinclair said as he waved his hand in front of the octogenarian’s face.

“Oh!” Willoughby said as he clutched his heart. “Are you trying to kill me, Sinclair? Announce yourself next time, will you?”

“I will, sir,” Sinclair said as he laid out a pair of documents on the desk. “Sir, I need your approval on…”

Willoughby tapped on the newspaper. “Have you read this?”

“Yes,” Sinclair said. “Dreadful business.”

“Are you kidding?” Willoughby asked. “This is wonderful business!”

Sinclair waited for the proverbial other shoe to drop.

“My holdings in the construction industry are going to surge in value thanks to this wall!” Willoughby declared. He strained to smile as much as the spent muscles in his face would allow. “Oh happy day.”

“I uh…suppose that’s one way of looking at it, sir,” Sinclair said.

“Buy up all the raw materials you can my boy,” Willoughby ordered. “Lumber. Stone. We’ll sell it to the government at triple the price and make a killing.”

“Very patriotic of you, sir,” Sinclair said as he pointed to the documents. “Now if I could just get you to look at these for a moment.”

“I swear even though my genitalia hasn’t functioned properly since Andrew Johnson was impeached it feels as though I’m experiencing a phantom erection right now.”

Sinclair choked back a touch of indigestion and avoided thinking of that image any further.

“Right then,” Sinclair said. “Sir, I need you to review a rather irregular transaction.”

“Irregular transaction you say?”

“Quite,” Sinclair replied. “In the lobby I have a woman who has identified herself as one Mrs. Annabelle Faraday. She has presented me with a certificate of marriage purporting that she is the wife of our client, Dr. Elias T. Faraday. You’ll note that the certificate has been signed by Marshal Rainer Slade as a witness.”

“Why do those names sound familiar?” Willoughby asked.

Sinclair turned the page of his boss’s newspaper to reveal two additional headlines. “Western Refugees Laud Marshal Slade as Hero Who Saved the East” and “Incompetent Doctor Who Unleashed the Zombie Chaos Presumed Dead.”

“Right,” Willoughby said.

“She also presented me with this Last Will and Testament, naming her as the sole heir of Dr. Faraday’s property, including any and all funds in his account with our humble institution.”

“It all seems to be in order,” Willoughby said. “The paper says the man’s dead. She has paperwork signed by a hero no less. What’s the problem?”

Sinclair nudged his head toward the door. “You’ll need to see for yourself, sir.”

“Oh for the love of…”

Willoughby’s bones creaked and cracked as he stood up. He reached for his cane and hobbled to the door. “You know how I feel about unnecessary movements, Sinclair.”

“I know sir.”

Sinclair escorted his boss out to the teller’s desk which overlooked a large lobby, decorated with two large marble columns and fancy works of art.

“What am I looking at?” Willoughby asked.

“There.”

Sinclair pointed out Annabelle, who sat on a bench, twirling a lock of her blonde hair around and around in her finger. Her face and dress was covered in a thick layer of dirt. When she grew tired of twirling her hair, she stuck her finger into her ear, whisked it around a bit, then pulled it out, sniffed it, and winced.

“Where?” Willoughby asked.

Sinclair pointed again. “There, sir.”

Willoughby pulled a pair of spectacles out of his pocket, put them on and squinted.

“Her?”

“Yes.”

“She looks like an unwashed prostitute,” Willoughby said.

“She is an unwashed prostitute,” Sinclair said. “Three customers have already lodged complaints that they were propositioned.”

Willoughby stepped up to the desk. “You there! Young woman!”

Annabelle looked around and then made a face as if to ask, “me?”

“Yes,” Willoughby said as he waved her over. “Come, come.”

Annabelle stepped up to the desk. Even Willoughby, with his failing eyesight, was able to scope out her heaving bosom.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Young lady,” Willoughby said. “Are you an unwashed prostitute?”

The blonde’s brain cranked and sputtered. What to do. What to say? Finally, she took a stab at it.

“Um…no?”

“Good enough for me,” Willoughby said as he hobbled back into his office. “Pay the lady, Sinclair.”

After Willoughby slammed his office door, Sinclair picked up a large, leather-bound ledger and thumbed through the pages.

“Let’s see,” Sinclair said as he reached the “F” section. “Fanning…Farmington…and ah! Faraday. How do you wish to settle your account, Mrs. Faraday?”

“Settle?” Annabelle asked.

“What would you like to do with the money?”

“I’m sorry,” Annabelle said. “Good old Elias and I never talked business. How much did he have?”

Sinclair pointed to Doc’s line in the ledger. It read, “Dr. Elias T. Faraday…$50,000.”

Now you, the modern reader, might look at that sum and not think it to be a big deal. Sure, you wouldn’t scoff at it. You might use it to pay off some bills, buy a new car, or tuck it away in the bank for a rainy day, but your life wouldn’t change all that much.

But the thing you have to remember is the year was 1880 and back then $50,000 would be the rough equivalent of being handed somewhere in the ballpark of $1.5 million dollars today. Doc sure had sold a metric shit ton of his Miracle Cure-All.

And thus, Annabelle briefly lost control of her legs and grabbed the side of the desk to keep from falling. Her eyes rolled back into her head as she achieved full orgasm, making unseemly sounds for all the customers to hear.

“Holy shit,” she said as she caught her breath.

“Are you all right?” Sinclair asked.

“Mmm hmm,” Annabelle said as she struggled to regain control of herself. “I’d like to take some with me. Walking around money.”

“A hundred dollars?” Sinclair asked.

“Shit no,” Annabelle replied. “Someone will conk me on the head for a hundred dollars. Better make it fifty.”

“Very good then,” Sinclair said as he handed Annabelle a fifty-dollar bill. She tucked it right into her bra.

“I have some business in Boston,” Annabelle said. “Can you send a thousand there?”

“Of course,” Sinclair said. “We regularly trade with Edgemont Savings and Loan. You’ll be able to draw upon it there. And the rest?”

“Can you send it to England?” Annabelle asked.

“It will take some doing but yes it’s possible,” Sinclair said.

“Hold onto it and I’ll send for it,” Annabelle said.

“I’ll put your name on this account and await further instructions,” Sinclair said.

“OK then,” Annabelle said.

The blonde returned to the bench and sat down.

“Was there anything else, ma’am?” Sinclair asked.

“No,” Annabelle said. “I just need a minute.”

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How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 120

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A tin can soared into the sky, then drifted down.

A bullet popped it back up. A second, third, fourth. Six shots in all kept it dancing until it hit the ground again.

Slade blew the smoke off his revolver, twirled it around his finger, then handed it to Miles, who took it and loaded it.

“Ready?” Slade asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” Milo answered.

Slade threw a new tin can into the air. Its journey was uneventful. Up, then quickly down as the three shots Miles took got nowhere close to making their mark.

“I don’t get it,” Miles said. “I shot that werewolf.”

The lawman walked over to the can and picked it up. “Shooting a werewolf’s like shooting the broad side of a barn. Anyone can do it.”

Slade loaded three more rounds then handed the pistol back to Miles. “No offense.”

“But the real trick,” Slade said as he hauled his arm back and prepared to throw the can again, “Is to shoot something small and far away…”

Slade hurled the can up into the air. Miles missed twice before the can plopped down again.

“…before it shoots you,” Slade said.

“I’ll never get it,” Miles said.

“Takes time,” Slade said. “And patience.”

“That’s ok,” Miles said as he passed the revolver back. “I don’t want to get it anyway.”

“Why don’t you keep it?” Slade asked. “Never know when you might need it.”

“No,” Miles said. “Pa was right. Fighting isn’t something to look forward to. I never want to hurt anyone ever again.”

“Fair enough,” Slade said.

Slade and Miles sat on a fence together.

“I wish I hadn’t killed him,” Miles said.

“It was you or him,” Slade replied. “You’d rather him be here now?”

“Honestly,” Miles said. “Yeah. Just so I don’t have to feel bad about it.”

“Huh,” Slade said. “First time I ever heard someone say that.”

“You never feel bad when you shoot someone?”

Slade stalled by taking a long drag off his cigar then exhaling the smoke. “Honestly? All the time.”

There was an awkward silence until Slade broke it. “Don’t tell anyone. I got a reputation to keep.”

“I’m just going to live a peaceful life so I never have to kill someone and feel bad about it ever again,” Miles said.

Slade nodded. “Good plan…except…what if someone comes after you anyway?”

Miles took a few seconds to think about that. “I’ll worry about that when it happens.”

Slade rolled his eyes, unholstered his revolver and passed it over to Miles once more.

“Kid, there’s an old saying,” Slade said. “‘God made man and Samuel Colt made them equal. Take it already in case you need it.”

“Nope,” Miles said as he pushed the revolver away. “Besides, no one’s equal to a werewolf.”

“Good point,” Slade said.

The lawman holstered his weapon.

“You know,” Slade said as he chomped on his cigar. “You’d probably know more about this than I do but it seems to me that if one werewolf were to kill some kind of big important boss werewolf, that he’d become the boss werewolf.”

“That’s true,” Miles replied. “Technically, I’m now King of the Western Werewolves.”

Slade choked on his smoke in shock. “I was just joking. Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Miles said.
“So why don’t you…”

“Claim the title?” Miles asked. “Because every alpha wolf has to protect his reign from a non-stop onslaught of challenges from werewolves who think they’re bigger and badder.”

“Suppose that would get tedious,” Slade said.

“It would,” Miles said. “And besides. I’m a werewolf of peace now.”

Slade shook his head. “Werewolf of peace.”

The duo stood up.

“So listen,” Slade said. “Miss Bonnie and I are headed West and we’d like it if you’d come along.”

“No thanks,” Miles said. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

“Oh,” Slade said. “I wasn’t saying that. Just that, you know…”

Slade scratched the back of his neck and worked up the courage he needed to say something emotional. “…we’d miss you.”

“I’ll miss you all too,” Miles said. “But I need to be my own man. Make my own way.”

“I can respect that,” Slade said.

“I’ve got to,” Miles added. “Pa told me if our line lasts long enough a Freeman might accomplish something great one day.”

Slade tipped his hat. “Something tells me that will happen sooner than you think.”

The sappiness was not lost on Miles. He smiled.

Slade stretched out his hand to offer a handshake. Miles bypassed that gesture and gave Slade a hug instead. A big one.

Such displays of feeling were new to Slade, but like anyone, he figured out what to do. He returned the hug, patted the young man on the back, then let him go.

The lawman rubbed a tear away.

“Something in your eye?” Miles asked.

“Aww it’s this damn cigar,” Slade replied. “Dirty habit. Don’t pick it up.”

A bag was propped up against the fence. Miles picked it up, opened it, then unbuttoned his shirt.

“Where will you go?” Slade asked.

“Not sure,” Miles replied. “Explore awhile. Maybe head down Mexico way eventually. Pa thought it would be nice down there.”

“Pima,” Slade said. “Little town in Arizona. Southwest of Tombstone. That’s where we’ll be if you ever need anything.”

Miles folded his shirt up neatly and put it in the bag. It’d been the first time he was able to take off a shirt without destroying it in awhile.

Slade looked away as the boy removed his pants. Miles folded them up and packed them too.

“I’ll come visit someday,” Miles said.

“I’ll make us some dinner,” Slade said. “Lest Miss Bonnie poison us all.”

Miles’ chuckles trailed off and turned into heavy breathing.

Slade turned around to find the boy had taken his werewolf form.

The bag laid on the ground a few feet away.

“I got it,” Slade said.

The lawman noticed Miles’ head was pointed in the opposite direction. This gave him the chance to sneak his pistol into the bag just before he hanged the strap around the werewolf’s neck.

Slade patted Miles on the head as he would a puppy. “Take care of yourself, werewolf of peace.”

A rush of air pushed out of the werewolf’s snout, followed by some panting.

Slade pointed his finger at the wolf.

“Don’t go blaming yourself forever for what happened to your father,” Slade said.

More air. More panting.

“All right then,” Slade said as he slapped Miles’ furry back. “Happy trails.”

Miles took off. Fast. Lighting speed. His paws galloped across the plain as his fur bandied about in the breeze.

Slade watched his young friend gallop away until he became a blip on the horizon.

“Shit,” Slade said. “I know you will.”

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How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 114

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The Missouri shoreline was littered with wreckage and zombie parts. Slade and Sarah held on to to their furry life raft as he swam to shore. The young wolf deposited his humans into the sand then become a boy again, huffing and puffing from exhaustion.

Slade removed Sarah’s gag.

“Why…why did you call me…”

Sapped of all her strength, Slade’s bride passed out.

“Oh God,” Slade said. “She’s dead.”

Miles looked at Sarah. “She’s fine. I can see her breathing.”

“No,” the lawman said. “Bonnie.”

“Oh,” Miles replied.

The boy sniffed the air. “She’s fine too.”

Slade shook his head in disbelief. “How could you possibly…”

Miles shrugged his shoulders. “My nose knows.”

Slade grabbed hold of Sarah’s limp body and hoisted it over his shoulder.

“Come on!” Slade shouted at the boy.

“You’re going to have a lot of explaining to do aren’t you?” Miles asked just before he returned to wolf form.

“Yeah, yeah,” Slade said as he climbed up on the werewolf’s back. He held Sarah close with his left hand and clutched a clump of fur with his right. “Mind your own business, fur ball.”

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