With Your Guest Host: Schecky Blargfeld, Zombie Comedian
Suppose that zombies could pop out through your social media.
Could you stay off of Twitter or are you so hopeless addicted that you’d check your timeline anyway?
BQB discussed this with Al K. Line.
Paige and her tour guides were strapped into the first car of the Infernacoaster, with a metal bar pulled down tight over their laps.
“You know Paige,” Davey said. “You’re not like the other girls.”
Paige blushed. “I’m not?”
“No,” Davey replied. “I mean, they spent so much time worrying about so much superficial stuff, you know?”
“OMG I so know,” Paige said. “I said that the other day right after I noticed that skank face Heather Haskill didn’t even have a brand name screen protector for her cell phone.”
“All the girls I meet,” Davey said as he sipped his soda. “They spend so much time picking out their outfits but you? You just look like you rooted through your hamper and picked out whatever was the least stinky.”
“Umm,” Paige said as she sniffed her armpit. “Wait, what?”
“And then they spend all day on their hair,” Davey said. “Who cares? Its just hair. Women would be much happier if they felt comfortable enough in their own skin to walk around looking like they wake up in the morning and run an eggbeater through their hair.”
Paige sighed. “I use half a can of hair spray a day. It has a mind of its own.”
“And those zits,” Davey said. “They’re adorable. It’s like you can’t even be bothered to run to the pharmacy and get a tube of acne cream. You give off this whole ‘I don’t give a shit’ vibe that is very refreshing.”
“OK Davey,” Paige said. “You can stop with the compliments now.”
An announcer’s voice interrupted Paige’s utter embarrassment.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages, welcome to the Infernacoaster!”
A.J. and B.J. sat behind Paige and Davey. C.J. had the third seat in the car all to himself.
“Wooo!” A.J. shouted.
“Infernacoaster!” C.J. yelled. “Yeah!”
“The only ride that lifts up, up, up into the heavens only to plunge you down into the deepest, darkest depths of Hell!”
“I’m not so sure about this,” Paige said.
Davey reached over and took Paige’s hand.
“You got this, girl,” Davey said. “And I got your back.”
At that exact moment, Paige wanted to live stream footage of her hand tucked inside Davey’s, but alas, her tablet was stowed for safekeeping in a compartment in front of her knees.
The announcer provided a laundry list of warnings.
“If you suffer from heart disease, are pregnant, thinking about ever becoming pregnant, or if you know someone who is pregnant, have been diagnosed as being mentally unstable, schizophrenic, or are chronically constipated, have the gout, the plague, rabies, scabies, or syphilis, take erectile dysfunction medication and have suffered debilitating bouts of priapism lasting longer than four hours or if you are a dwarf who has visited the third world within the past three to five years then it is recommended that you disembark the Infernacoaster immediately.”
“I have none of those problems!” A.J. shouted.
In true celebrity fashion, the boys hucked their soda cups out of the car and began a chant.
“Infernacoaster…Infernacoaster….Infernacoaster…”
Davey gripped Paige’s hand tight, causing his new friend’s heart to thump like it was about to explode.
“Woo!” A.J. shouted.
“Paige and Davey gonna get it on!” B.J. hollered.
“Guys,” Davey said. “Come on.”
The announcer continued. “A reminder that Carruthers Brothers Amalgamated Studios, the parent corporation of Wombat World, is in no way, shape or form responsible for any issues you might suffer as a result of voluntarily riding the Infernacoaster. Such problems have been known to include, but are not limited to: facial ticks, paralysis, blurred vision, sudden outbursts of Tourette’s Syndrome, debilitating diarrhea, hallucinations, delusions of grandeur, dismemberment, decapitation and a rare mental disorder that causes a person to believe that his or her body is possessed by the reincarnated spirit of famously flamboyant nineteen-sixties piano player Liberace.”
“Those are all chances I am willing to take,” C.J. said.
“Also,” the announcer said. “Not gonna lie. You might die.”
“Boo!” A.J. shouted.
“Start the ride already!” B.J. added.
“And now for those foolish enough to have stayed,” the announcer said. “Enjoy…the Internacoaster!”
Rock and roll music blared. The car moved down the track, through an open door and into a dark tunnel. Maniacal laughter cut through the music. At the end of the tunnel, an enormous, plastic red devil face opened its mouth so that the car could travel through.
The car was outside now and headed up a steep slope. Up, up, up they went, high enough for a brief glimpse at a breathtaking sky’s eye view of the park and then…
….DOWN.
The boys laughed. Paige’s stomach churned. The car hustled its way up into the sky again, then spiraled down, around and around as special effects encircled the car with what appeared to be fire.
“Wooo!” the boys cheered.
“Bleh!” shouted Paige as she hurled over the side, sending her partially digested breakfast down on the unsuspecting head of some poor innocent bystander down below.
As the car rose up another peak, it slowed down until finally it came to a complete stop at the top of the summit.
“What?” A.J. asked. “It’s never done this before.”
“A new twist?” B.J. asked. “Maybe Wombat World’s changing things up.”
Davey was hunched over in his seat, his head tucked between his knees.
“Ugh,” Davey said as he grabbed his stomach. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Me neither,” Paige said. “Forget the Shock Rocket. This is the ride that puts your stomach in your butt.”
Davey went quiet.
“Davey?” Paige asked as she tapped her new love interest in the shoulder. “Are you ok?”
The boy band member raised his head, then turned it toward Paige. His eyes were totally blank. His retinas had disappeared and only whiteness remained.
Paige recoiled. “O…M…G.”
That’s pretty high, 3.5 readers.
Please, if you have a minute, comment, like, etc and help push it up the ranks to increase my readership as my 3.5 readers are lonely.
With Your Host: Schecky Blargfeld, Zombie Comedian
Zombies. Romance.
Romance. Zombies.
Is it possible for romance to blossom amidst a zombie apocalypse?
BQB talked to Rachel Higginson last year about this very topic.
Check out that interview here.
And don’t forget to check out Rachel’s Love and Decay series on Amazon.
By: Count Krakovich, Asshat Vampire
They may look cute, small, furry and adorable but in reality, all bunny rabbits are ninjas.
Always keep a bunny rabbit in your house and he will protect you from vampires.
The Walking Dead returns soon, 3.5 readers.
If you recall, at the end of the last season, Neegan was about to give one of our intrepid heroes a vigorous baseball bat beating.
One can only assume we’ll find out who got struck out in the new season, though you never know, there might be an unexpected plot twist.
My theory:
It is unlikely that a female character will buy the farm in such a gruesome way on TV.
It is unlikely a main featured character will croak.
Thus, you can rule a lot of people out.
Keeping in mind they’ll want to maximize the impact by killing off someone the viewers have bonded with yet the show can continue without and I think that comes down to Eugene or Abraham.
I’m going to guess it is Eugene. He’s the underdog. The cowardly geek who did everyone wrong by lying about a cure yet ironically did them good by tricking them to seek safety.
We like to think we’d be awesome like Rick in the face of a zompoc but in reality, many of us would be a Eugene.
If they do go with a main character? Glenn. He’s shown tremendous growth over the series, going from young adult to man, but the show can go on whereas people would freak out if they los Rick, Michonne, or Daryl.
What say you, 3.5 readers?
What are your theories?
The Wombat World control room featured row after row of computer units, stacked neatly on steel shelves, all connected to a bank of monitors hanging on a wall in the back of the room.
Craig, a white man with blonde dreadlocks and a grungy beard, toked on a fat spliff as he put his feet up on his workstation and closed his eyes.
“Clock that grip bitch,” Craig sang. “Oh, you gotta clock that grip bitch. You down with Stank Daddy, Ron?”
Ron, Craig’s straight laced colleague, was all business. His head was shaved bald and he wore a pressed white shirt with a red power tie as he watched the monitors intently.
“I wish you’d be down with your job,” Ron replied.
“Please,” Craig said. “This whole operation practically runs itself.”
Ron flashed Craig a look of utter disgust. “Millions of dollars worth of complex machinery and thousands of lives are in our hands. How you can be so blasé about that I’ll never know.”
“You do those people no good when you’re stressed out of your gourd, Ron,” Craig said as he offered his coworker a hit of his ganja.
“No thanks,” Ron said. “Something tells me that Carruthers Brothers Amalgamated Studios wouldn’t take kindly to their ride technicians being baked.”
Craig sat up and started flipping through the camera feeds. “Look. Berserkasphere? Running. Dinosaur Puncher? One hundred percent. Infernacoaster? Fabulous. Shock Rocket? Awesome. Happy Little International Children Experience? Great. I don’t know why the hell anyone rides that shit ride anyway but its firing on all four cylinders. Will you unclench your butt cheeks and hit this shit already?”
Ron rolled his eyes and took the joint. “Oh why the hell not?”
Just as Ron lifted that sweet refer to his lips and was about to take a drag, a fist rapped on the metal security door that led into the room.
Craig put the door’s camera feed up on screen. Though the person at the door appeared to be an average, run of the mill Wombat World Security Guard, it was, in fact, Brother Klaus in Earl’s uniform.
“Shit,” Ron said as he stubbed out Craig’s joint into his trash can.
“Aw come on, man!” Craig protested. “That was my best Bolivian Brain Crush!”
Ron pressed a button on his board, turning on the intercom. “Can I help you?”
“Inspection,” Brother Klaus said in an American accent.
Ron and Craig looked at each other. “Did you know anything about an inspection?” Ron asked.
“Do you think I’d be dumb enough to be sparking up a doob if I knew there was an inspection?” Craig answered.
“I do,” Ron said. “You definitely look that dumb.”
Ron pressed the intercom button once more. “No one told us anything about an inspection.”
Brother Klaus coughed in order to clear his throat. In his mind, he weighed the various phony responses he could give to Ron until he finally settled on, “It wouldn’t be a surprise inspection if anyone had told you about it, now would it?”
“Shit,” Craig said. “He’s got you there.”
“Damn it,” Ron said. “Just be cool and let me do the talking.”
Ron hit another button. The door buzzed as Brother Klaus stepped in.
“Hello,” Ron said.
Brother Klaus looked around the room, ignoring the two technicians.
“Are you new?” Ron asked. “Don’t believe we’ve met before.”
The faux security guard sniffed the air. “Strange odor in the air.”
“What’s that now?” Ron asked.
“An odor,” Brother Klaus said as he sniffed. “A peculiar, pungent smell.”
Ron trembled. “I don’t smell anything. Craig, do you smell anything?”
“I don’t smell anything at all,” Craig replied. “I think your nostrils are lying to you, man.”
Brother Klaus sniffed the air again. “No. I definitely detect the distinct scent of marijuana in this room. I’m sure of it.”
“Shit,” Craig said. “Since when do you guys do detective work? I thought you all just stood around drinking coffee and handing out wombat stickers all day.”
“Aww,” Brother Klaus said. “So you admit it?”
Ron gulped. “Look. It was just one joint. We’ve both been loyal employees for years.”
“I didn’t even smoke it!” Craig said. “It was Ron! It was all Ron!”
“Craig, you weapons grade asshole,” Ron said before turning his attention back to the fake guard. “It was all him. He smoked it. All I did was put it out.”
“You were going to puff it,” Craig said. “You know it.”
“Boys, boys, boys,” Brother Klaus said as he stepped behind a bank of computers. “This is a very serious offense.”
“Son of a bitch,” Ron said. “We’re going to lose our jobs. Thanks Craig. Thanks a lot.”
“Man,” Craig said. “Do you really need to report this?”
“Yeah,” Ron said. “Surely we could reach an agreement? Perhaps a certain amount of cash falls out of our pockets by accident and then very coincidentally, you forget all about this at the same exact time you pick it up?”
Silence.
“One of us will suck your dick,” Craig said.
“What?” Ron asked.
“Ron will totally suck your dick,” Craig said. “He just volunteered.”
“I did not,” Ron said as he looked at the computer bank the fake guard was standing behind. “Hey, honestly, this isn’t that big a deal right? I mean, what could the punishment for smoking a joint on the job be anyway?”
Brother Klaus stepped out with his silenced pistol drawn. He fired two bullets into Craig’s cranium, killing the hipster pothead instantly. He then pointed his weapon at the last technician standing.
“Whoa,” Ron said as he put his hands up. “OK, you made your point. Wombat World Security isn’t screwing around anymore. But come on…”
Thunk. Thunk.
Brother Klaus stepped over Ron’s body, took a seat at the dead man’s workstation, and punched away at the keyboard. The security door locked.
Soon, the Heretic’s hooded face appeared on one of the monitors on the wall.
“Herr Heretic,” Brother Klaus said, now in his default German accent. “We are now in control.”
“Excellent,” the Heretic replied.
With Your Host: Schecky Blargfeld, Zombie Comedian
Eric Shelman spent a long time getting his writing career off the ground.
He wrote. He shelved his work. Finally, he saw other writers doing well by utilizing the Internet and boom, he was in business.
Last year, BQB talked to Eric about zombies and the world of self-publishing.
And don’t forget to check out Eric’s Dead Hunger series on Amazon.
The Happy Little International Children Experience began as a slow, leisurely boat ride through a long, dark tunnel adorned with bright, twinkling, multi-colored lights. The boats weren’t so much floating as they were being pulled via an elaborate underwater conveyor system, but the effect was just the same.
Abby sat and sipped on her convenience store soda, her mind conjuring up images from her youth, a happier time when her parents and her brother rode the ride with her, but not because they particularly enjoyed it.
Hell, no one but Abby ever has or ever likely will enjoy the Happy Little International Children Experience. It has been routinely voted most annoying ride for thirty straight years by the readers of Theme Park Enthusiast Digest.
But Abby’s mother, father and brother rode it because they knew she loved it and it was that love that she was missing so much as she looked around the illuminated tunnel.
An old woman in a gray sweater sat to Abby’s left, clutching a set of rosary beads in her hand. Abby hadn’t noticed it before but as she looked back, the whole boat she was in was filled with kids ranging between ten and sixteen years old. The unkempt urchins wore tattered clothes and chatted amongst themselves.
“Ma’am,” Abby said.
“Yes, dear?” the old woman replied in an Irish brogue.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Abby said. “But are you a nun?”
“That I am, child,” the old woman said. “Sister Eugenia of the Order of Our Lady of the Immaculate Cast Iron Undergarments.”
Abby appeared in doubt. “Seriously?”
“Oh,” Sister Eugenia said with a chuckle. “Its been years since they’ve made us wear anything like that.”
Abby pointed her thumb toward the back of the boat. “Are they all with you?”
“Yes,” Sister Eugenia said. “For the past decade I’ve been assigned to the order’s home for wayward orphans right here in Florida.”
Abby watched the kids. “You mean none of these kids have parents?”
“Sadly no,” Sister Eugenia said. “All of their parents have died under the most horrific circumstances, lost to the drink or the drugs, car accidents, heroin overdoses, so many folks out there just love to chase that dragon, don’t you know?”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Abby said.
“And then there are the mothers who sell their bodies on the street corner only catch an exotic venereal disease or to end up sliced and diced by depraved maniacs,” Sister Eugenia said. “Or the fathers who join street gangs and end up riddled with so many bullet holes that they end up looking like Swiss cheese.”
“I see,” Abby said.
“Don’t even get me started on the parents who sniff magic markers,” Sister Eugenia said.
“I won’t,” Abby said.
“So many lovely children end up orphaned because their parents were uncontrollable magic marker fume addicts, completely incapable of stopping themselves from shoving magic markers up their nostrils in order to sniff the devil’s aroma.”
“That’s terrible,” Abby said.
“Then I suppose once in awhile there’s a father with a strange sexual addiction…”
“I get the picture,” Abby said.
“They can’t get their rocks off unless they’re being strangled,” Sister Eugenia said. “Or if they’re wearing a leather gimp mask. Or if they’re having dangerously bizarre foreign objects shoved up their rectums and its all fun and games until somehow it all goes tragically wrong and…”
“Sister,” Abby said. “I get it. These kids have been through bad times.”
“They surely have, dear,” Sister Eugenia said.
“They seem well-behaved,” Abby said.
“Oh that’s just because this is our yearly excursion outside the orphanage’s walls and I’ve warned them that if I hear a peep out of any of them we’ll all go straight home,” Sister Eugenia said. “Harsh, I know, but you must never show weakness around children, dear.”
“I’m starting to realize that,” Abby said. “I have two of my own.”
“Where are they?” Sister Eugenia asked.
“Doing their own thing,” Abby said. “They want nothing to do with me these days.”
“Ahh,” Sister Eugenia said. “Don’t feel bad. It happens to every parent sooner or later.”
“All they do is complain, complain, complain,” Abby said. “It’s always, ‘me, me, me’ with those two.”
“Well, what do you expect, dear?” Sister Eugenia asked. “Weren’t you like that when you were their age?”
Abby sighed. “I suppose.”
“Every child deserves a parent’s unconditional love,” the sister said. “Once they’re old enough to realize that the world doesn’t revolve around them they’ll return it to you in spades, don’t you worry.”
“I’d just settle for being appreciated,” Abby said.
“Wouldn’t we all, dear?” Sister Eugenia asked. “Wouldn’t we all?”
Sister Eugenia balled up her fist and expelled a burp into it.
“Pardon me, dear.”
“It happens,” Abby said.
“The order was kind enough to give me a budget large enough to take the children to lunch at the wombat food court and I’m afraid Funky Cola does not sit well with me at all.”
The Chief was shaped like a walrus, with the mustache to boot. He turned down the volume on his daytime television, then swiveled around in his chair in order to give Doug a vigorous dressing down.
“You’ve been a real thorn in my side ever since you joined the force, Crocker.”
Doug, who was seated on the opposite side of his boss’s desk, flipped up his clip-on shades. “You call this ‘the force?’”
“The Wombat World Security Team is the finest organization of officers in the entire amusement park industry,” the Chief said. “We make those suck bags keeping an eye on Kippy’s Kangatropolis look like a bunch of pukes and I will not have you sullying our good name.”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” Doug said.
Wam! The Chief banged his fist down on his desk, causing bundles of papers and empty coffee cups to scatter everywhere. “Goddamn it, Crocker! You’re a loose cannon!”
Doug stood up and leaned over the desk. “What would you know about it?! I’m out there every day, day in, day out, putting my ass on the line while you’re in here, polishing your brass and waxing your chair with your ass, pretending like all the busy work you do means something just to justify your miserable bureaucratic existence!”
The Chief leaned over and glared angrily at his subordinate. The two men leered and snarled at one another. There was less than an inch between their faces.
“Your one and only job here is to observe and report, shit for brains!” the Chief shouted. “You think you got a real big swinging dick whenever you do all this cowboy shit Crocker but I swear to God one of these days you’re going to get someone killed and then its going to be all our asses on the line!”
“Aww,” Doug said as he flipped his clip-on shades down. “If you can’t stand the heat then get out of the kitchen baby because this chef is cooking with gas.”
The Chief opened up a heavy, paper stuffed folder with Doug’s name printed on the side. “Hassling old ladies…hassling children…hassling park guests of every kind…”
“Rule breakers, Chief,” Doug said. “The whole lot of ‘em. Get your head out of your ass and get my back, man. Don’t you realize we’re the last line of defense between order and chaos in this park?”
“Did you stop a little girl this morning?” the Chief asked.
“Her pie hole was filled with a giant wad of Bubblelicious,” Doug said. “She sticks it on one of the antique Willy Wombat statues or leaves it on somebody’s seat and bam, pow! The whole park gets flushed down the shitter.”
“Her mother ripped my head off over that,” the Chief said as he flipped through the pages in the folder. “You have truly been a giant, festering, puss filled boil on my ass for as long as I’ve known you, Crocker, but I’ve finally got you know. You’ve finally written a check so large that your ass can’t cash it.”
“Bullshit!” Doug said. “I’m a duly designated officer of cartoon based theme park law!”
The Chief foamed at the mouth. “Did you get a gift shop trashed?”
Doug looked away from his boss. “I don’t know anything about it.”
The Chief pounded his fist down on his desk, then pointed at Doug. “Damn it! Don’t you lie to me! I am the Almighty God of Hellfire and I can rain down more furious vengeance upon you than you could possibly imagine! Did you get a gift shop trashed?”
Doug shook his head. “Step off my jock, Jack. Its longer than you can handle and you’re going to trip over if if you aren’t careful.”
The Chief’s nostril’s flared. “Did you get a gift shop trashed?”
Doug folded his arms. “You won’t get nothing out of me.”
The Chief inhaled a deep breath, exhaled, then roared, “Did you get a gift shop trashed?”
Doug caved. “You’re goddamn right I got a gift shop trashed!”
“I knew it,” the Chief said. “Thousands of dollars worth of damage. Hundreds of toys missing. Countless employees traumatized. ”
“You have the audacity to charge me with keeping this park safe and then question the way I do it?” Doug said. “Oh look at you, you hypocritical son of a bitch. You sit in here all high and mighty in your fancy office with your female talk shows and your exotic coffees and you like to think you’re better than I am, but deep down we both know that you want a man like me out there in the shit, you need a man like me out there in the shit, this park could not operate for a single second without me out there in the shit.”
“You’re on thin ice, Crocker,” the Chief said. “And you’re talking like a man wearing a pair of razor sharp ice skates. You know its wrong to get company property destroyed, just admit it.”
“I admit nothing,” Doug said. “ Jessica Flynn was stuffed into a Willy Wombat costume without a single second of training and thrown to those tiny wolves. She was one more kick from a toddler’s shoe away from being done. Over. Finished. Kaput. She’d of been a goner if I hadn’t done something but instead of thanking me and putting a nice letter in my file you want to mount my ass on your wall just to make your corporate overlords happy.”
“I’ve had enough of that insubordinate lip, Crocker,” the Chief said as he held out his hand. “Turn over your whistle.”
Doug’s face turned white. “What?”
“You’re suspended,” the Chief said. “Two weeks without pay.”
“Aw come on,” Doug said.
“You want to try for three?”
Doug took the whistle that was hanging around his neck off and slapped it down in the Chief’s hand.
“And your badge,” the Chief said.
A tear trickled out of Doug’s eye as he looked down at the shiny silver wombat shaped badge pinned to his chest. “Come on, Chief.”
“You’re a disgrace to this poorly paid private security organization,” the Chief said. “I won’t have you wearing our revered symbol a on your worthless chest a second longer.”
The Chief reached over the desk and ripped the badge right off of Doug’s shirt, leaving a hole in the fabric behind.
Doug’s face shriveled up. It was as if a piece of his soul was ripped away with that wombat shaped badge.
“Go straight to your car,” the Chief said. “Go home and think long and hard about what you have done.”
“Chief,” Doug said. “My partner’s out there.”
“He’s not your partner,” the Chief said.
“Earl is the best and also only officer I’ve ever worked with that didn’t request a transfer to get away from me,” Doug said. “And he’s not answering his radio.”
“I’m sure he’s fine, Crocker,” the Chief said. “Besides, its not your problem anymore. Get the hell outta here or I’ll call the actual cops and have them throw you out.”
Doug got up and walked away while muttering, “We’ll see about that.”
Bookshelf Battle 