Tag Archives: zombies

May 21 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 102

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The crowd’s mumblings eventually worked their way back to Doc and Annabelle.

“Women and children only.”

“Come on,” Annabelle said. “We’ll find another way.”

“No,” Doc replied. “My dear I can’t deny you safe passage across the Mississippi River on my account.”

“But we’re in this together,” Annabelle said.

“And we still will be, in a way,” Doc replied. He reached into his pocket, produced the two documents he’d been carrying and handed them to Annabelle.

Annabelle squinted at the words. She hadn’t been through much schooling.

“Last..will and…what?”

“My last will and testament,” Doc said. “My dear, when I got into the miracle cure-all business, my financial standing was transformed overnight. I went from pauper to prince in an instant but you see, I made so much in the way of cash that I didn’t feel comfortable carrying it all on my person.”

Annabelle listened. Fearful that untrustworthy characters were lurking in the crowd, Doc led Annabelle away from the rabble.

“At each major city I stopped, I enlisted the assistance of men from the revered Pinkerton Detective Agency to transport my money and deposit it in an account I set up in the First Bank of Chicago.”

“Darling,” Doc said. “In my will I have left the entire sum of my wealth to my beloved wife…”

The ditzy prostitute slapped Doc’s face before he could finish. “You’re married?! You never told me that you…”

Annabelle furrowed her brow at the small chunk of Doc’s flesh that had come off in her hand. She pressed it back into Doc’s cheek.

“Maybe I can just put it back,” she said.

“No just leave it,” Doc replied.

Annabelle let the piece of rotten flesh drop to the ground.

“Let’s be honest, my love,” Doc said. “My condition is worsening and even if I could cross that bridge at your side, I would eventually become a danger to you. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and you’d no longer have a life…for I will lose control of myself and devour your brains when you least expect it.”

“Then we’ll go out together,” Annabelle said. “My brains are your brains.”

“No,” Doc said. “For the world needs cocaine and gynecology and you must promise me that you’ll spread the news of the curative properties of both across the globe in my stead.”

Annabelle stammered. “But…”

Doc clutched Annabelle’s shoulders and looked Annabelle in the eyes. In the dim moonlight, Annabelle was able to see that Doc’s face had turned gray and the left side was drooping, practically sagging away.

“From the well-to-do royal circles of London to the lowliest village of the Congo, you must tell everyone that daily doses of cocaine are required for robust health and that women can stave off the mysterious horrors of their nether regions through regular examinations…you must promise me.”

“I promise,” Annabelle said.

“The money in my account will be more than enough to fund your world travels,” Doc said. “And should the bank manager protest you need only show him my will in which you are named my sole heir.”

Doc pointed to the second document.

“And should any scheming members of my family protest your claim, I have taken the liberty of preparing this certificate of marriage…”

“Marriage?” Annabelle asked.

“Indeed,” Doc answered. “This certificate states that you and I were joined in the bonds of holy matrimony two days ago. The Reverend was kind enough to falsely claim that he officiated the ceremony by affixing his signature. And Mr. Slade graciously signed as a witness.”

Doc pointed to an empty line. “That is for you, my dear. Sign it, if you’ll have me and in the eyes of the law, we shall be considered husband and wife. I know earlier this afternoon you said that premise did not appeal to you but…”

Annabelle cried and hugged the good doctor. “Oh Doc. You’re the best fake zombie husband a girl could ever ask for…”

“And you are the finest fraudulent wife a nearly undead man could ever dream of,” Doc replied.

Though she’d been gentle, one of Doc’s ribs cracked under the pressure of Annabelle’s hug.

“I’m sorry,” Annabelle said.

“Quite all right,” Doc replied. “I’m rotting from the inside out as it would seem.”

Unconcerned about the safety of his bones, Doc pulled Annabelle back to continue the embrace for awhile longer.

“Do be careful not to lose these documents, my dear,” Doc said. “For with them in hand, your claim to my fortune will be iron clad.”

“I don’t want your money, Doc,” Annabelle said. “I just want you.”

“And I, you my dear,” Doc replied. “But this is bigger than both of us now. The needs of two people hardly matter when compared to the world’s need for cocaine and vaginal inspections and I know you will do me proud in both endeavors.”

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May 19 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 101

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Major Culpepper’s men stood on the Missouri side of the Sturtevant Bridge, rifles drawn and pointed at a large crowd of people who were undeterred.

The Major himself withdrew his saber and rattled it wildly in the air.

“Back, you rabble! Back, I say!”

An angry farmer wearing a straw hat let the Major have it. “You can’t send us back there! There’s nothing to go back to!”

An elderly woman with three teeth chimed in. “We’ll all be eaten alive by dead folk if you turn us away!”

“Can’t any of you filth read?” Culpepper asked as he pointed his saber to the lone piece of paper that Corporal Bartlett had tacked to a tree. “The president has declared that you are all to be presumed to be zombies and shot if you attempt to cross. My hands are tied. Disperse immediately.”

A weeping woman wrapped in a shawl held up a crying infant wrapped in a blanket.

“Please sir,” she begged. “At least take my baby so that he might have a chance.”

The major’s glare at the fussy baby was interrupted when the corporal tapped him on the shoulder.

“What is it, Corporal?” an annoyed Major asked.

“A word sir?”

The Major nodded and walked a few feet back onto the bridge with the Corporal, leaving his men to keep the crowd at bay.

“Sir,” the Corporal said. “Can’t we take the baby?”

“That was the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen, Bartlett,” the Major said. “For all I know it could be a zombie.”

“Clearly none of these people are zombies,” Bartlett said.

“Oh, and I suppose you’re an expert on the subject now?” the Major asked. “There’s nothing clear about it, Bartlett. We know very little about zombies. Any one of these people could be carriers of the dreaded zombie contagion. What am I supposed to say to the Eastern seaboard when it gets wiped out? ‘Oh sorry, Eastern seaboard, but Bartlett tripped over his vagina when it was time to secure the Sturtevant Bridge?’”
“But sir…”

“No buts about it, Corporal,” the Major said. “Our orders are to deny passage to anyone who attempts to cross this bridge and that’s all there is to it.”

“But sir surely you could exercise some discretion,” the Corporal said.

“What are you on about?”

“This is a confusing situation, isn’t it?” Bartlett asked. “No one’s keeping track of the time. We let the people cross. We blow up the bridge. Who’s to say they didn’t all cross before we even got here? I’ll swear on a stack of bibles I never saw them if we ever get court martialed.”

The Major looked at the woman holding the baby. He surveyed the crowd. So many young frightened faces. Children clutching their parents.

“Bah,” the Major said. “Blast you, Bartlett. I suppose no one could judge me too harshly if I save the women and children but I swear I’ll lop off your balls and stick them in a jar on my mantle if this ever comes back on me.”

“That’s fair, sir,” Bartlett replied.

“Robards!” the Major shouted.

The Major’s demolition expert was crouched over a bundle of dynamite, carefully tying it to a support beam.

A flick of ash fell on the bundle. Robards looked up to see a smoking private.

“Are you trying to make us all go kerblooey?” Robards asked as he stood up and smacked the smoke out of the private’s hands. “Get some sense, numb nuts!”

“Robards,” the Major repeated as he drew closer. “How long?”

“Depends,” Robards replied. “You want it done fast or you want it done right?”

“I want the whole damn thing blown to smithereens so I can get back to camp and take a shit,” the Major said.

Robards took off his hat and scratched his head. “Bout an hour.”

“Very well,” the Major said.

Culpepper and Bartlett walked back to the line of soldiers standing between the crowd and the bridge.

“Attention rabble,” the Major shouted. “In one hour’s time, all women and children will be allowed to cross. Men will be expected to return West to fight the zombie menace with honor and die with dignity. Say your goodbyes. There will be no further discussion of the subject.”

Various angry groans and complaints emanated from the crowd as the people talked amongst themselves.

Culpepper and Bartlett headed back onto the bridge.

“God help us if even one of these people is a zombie, Bartlett,” the Major said.

“Sir,” the Corporal replied. “I am absolutely positive that none of these people are zombies.”

The crowd stretched back for a quarter mile. Doc and Annabelle arrived on Hercules, unable to pass through the mob.

“Look at all these people,” Annabelle said.

“Yes,” Doc whispered. He pulled up his collar, turned down the brim of his hat, and pointed his head downward. “I do hope none of them suspect that I am a zombie.”

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May 19 2016
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BQB's Bad Ass Guide to Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

BQB’s Bad Ass Guide to Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse – Chapter 1 – Section 3 – Packing a Bug-Out Bag

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When the zombies come for you, they’re not going to care if you aren’t ready for them. This isn’t the prom and these flesh chomping dirt bags aren’t going to park their butts on your sofa and make small talk with your mom while you put the finishing touches on your make-up in the bathroom.

They want your brains and they want them now.

Thus, in the event that it starts looking like your home is about to be overrun with more zombies than you can handle, then you need to be prepared to make a dash in a flash.

Or to put it more succinctly, you need to be ready to “bug out” of your pad and that’s where a bug-out bag comes in.

Only Pack the Essentials

Your baseball card collection. That trophy you got for coming in seventy-seventh place in a foot race with seventy six of your classmates. Your collection of potato chips that bear a striking resemblance to Phyllis Diller.

Be ready to leave all that and more behind, because if you aren’t ready to eat those Diller chips for sustenance, then they’re just bogging you down.

(Phyllis Diller, millenials? No? Crap. Who’s a crusty old funny broad today? I got it. Do you have a collection of potato chips that look like Lisa Lampanelli?  No? Too early 2000’s?  Ok.  Check it out. Do you have a collection of potato chips that look like Chelsea Handler? Yes. The millennials are nodding their heads. I can get out of this terrible joke and move on.)

The zombies are not going to give you a break because you need to grab a few things before you go. And they aren’t going to run slower to compensate for you carrying a bunch of crap that you don’t need.

Zombies are dumb animals who don’t understand concepts like fairness…or kindness…or hygiene.

So if you’re slowly struggling under the weight of bags filled with all the notebooks you used to write love letters to Harry Styles from One Direction, then I guarantee your brains are going to end up with zombie teethmarks in them.
Thus, you must fill your bag with a) life sustaining essentials and b) the sum total weight of which you can carry while you are running away from damn dirty zombies.
The great thing about diversity is that we all are, at the risk of sounding redundant, different. An item that can sustain my life may be of little to no use to you.

So only you know what you can or can’t get along with during the z-poc, but here are some suggestions:

Food and Water

We covered storing food and water a bit in the section on zombie proofing your home. Now we’re talking about packing it. You’ll definitely want a few store bought water bottles in your bag. Prepackaged foods will also be ideal. Granola bars. Some of that nutritional shake mix (something along the lines of Carnation Instant Breakfast, for example) might be good. Of course you’ll have to mix it with water. You won’t have any milk to mix in it unless you manage to kidnap a cow amidst the apocalyptic fallout, which if you do, go you. I applaud your resourcefulness.

Canned food will last awhile, not due to its nutritious value but because it is pumped full of more preservatives than the face of your favorite aging celebrity. Just remember too many cans and you’ll be weighed down. The slower your roll the more likely you’ll end up zombie poop (because a damn zombie will eat and digest you and yes, they do poop.)

Medicine

You’ll definitely want to bring your prescription drugs, though I can’t really recommend just leaving them in a random bag in your house. Drugs can be dangerous so you want to keep all that shit locked up in a safe location, far away from dumb little kids who explore the world by putting as much of it in their mouths as possible. (You parents who are constantly prying random, tiny pieces of floor junk out of your kids’ pie holes know what I’m talking about.)

Plus you want to keep your drugs out of the hands of untrustworthy adults, like your coke head brother-in-law, or your self-medicating hypochondriac buddy who jumps onto various health websites and diagnoses himself with a strange new tropical disease every time he sneezes.

In other words, your pharmaceuticals are for you, period. A medical doctor prescribed them to you based on his assessment of your condition and his judgment based on years of medical training.

So no, don’t leave drugs lying around your house in an unsecured bag. Keep drugs somewhere safe, secure, away from others but remember where you left them in case you need to grab them in a hurry when the zombies come.

As for over the counter stuff, these drugs can also be dangerous if you leave them just lying around in a bag.

Instead, maybe keep a mental list of what you’ll want to grab quickly when the zombies come a calling.

Do you want to bring your Nyquil in case you get a stuffy nose and/or a sore throat that keeps you from sleeping? Be my guest. However, keep in mind that the sleep you get from it will leave you less alert and more likely to become zombie chow.

Money

It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to leave a little bit of cash in your bug-out bag. During the first few weeks of the zombie apocalypse, people will retain their faith in the government’s ability to restore order. Thus, they’ll be willing to trade goods and services for cash, completely unaware that the president has already left us all for dead and is partying hearty in his underground bunker with a champaign flute in one hand and a buxom supermodel’s honkers in the other.

(Not gonna lie, world leaders will really be the only ones who totally make out like bandits during the zombie apocalypse, which is totally unfair, for as we will discuss later, if anyone is going to cause a zompoc, it’s going to be those asshats.)

How much money? The short answer is whatever you can afford to lose, because you’ll be keeping it in a random bag in your house and you just know that when the end times come and you need a hundred bucks to bribe a guard to let you through a gate that leads to safety, you’re going to reach into your bag and discover that one of your sticky fingered relatives already found it, swiped it and spent it on something stupid (candy, comic books, ticket to a Justin Bieber concert, take your pick.)
Lighter and/or Matches

From time to time, you’ll need to start a fire when you’re living in the wilderness. Maybe you’ll need to cook a squirrel you caught and never would have even eaten before but after months without fast food that furry little bastard is looking mighty good to you (and ironically, it will probably taste much like your favorite fast food chain’s burger.)

Some experts might tell you it is possible to make a fire using a flint stone, rubbing two sticks together, or by harnessing the power of the sun through a magnifying glass, but I’m not an expert on anything. I’m just a jackass with a magic bookshelf pulling random thoughts out of my butt.

At any rate, it probably isn’t very safe to leave flammable materials lying around in a bag in your house either, so…ok. Scratch this idea too.

First Aid Kit

This is a must have. Some bandages. Some gauze. Maybe educate yourself on how to treat a wound. I have no idea how to do that shit either so let me know if you do.

Weaponry

Ah, finally. The gun control debate that’s tearing our country apart finds its way into a Bookshelf Q. Battler book.

Folks, here in America, we have the right to bear arms. This right has been written into our constitution due to a rather abusive relationship we had with our pre-democracy ruler, the King of England.

I’m sorry but someone has to say it. King George was an epic douche. Always bossing us around and telling us what to do. Forcing us to house his damn redcoats. Taxing the shit out of our tea.

We don’t drink as much tea as we used to and today we have  taxed ourselves at rates that would make the Founding Fathers spin in their graves, but still. It’s the principal of the thing.

If we’re going to be required to take a portion of our hard earned moolah and feed it to the bureaucratic beast known as government, then we at least want a say in choosing via elections which public officials will fleece us and which song and dance routines we want to see as these officials promise they’ll do one thing with our money and then once elected, do something completely different with it. Pick the song and dance routine that complies with whichever preconceived notions you have about the world that will never occur because political types just do what they want in the end anyway.

Like an empowered woman who has escaped an abusive relationship but remains fearful her nasty ex might break down the door at any time, we Americans still sleep with one eye open, frightened that the King of England will either come back for us, or a new, scary form of government will rear its ugly head and make us yearn for the good old days with the King.

Thus, Americans are understandably hanging onto this right. And aside from concerns about hypothetical tyranny, there’s always people who are rightfully afraid of crime, street gangs, terrorists, and assorted perverts.

Personally, I don’t own a gun. I could tell you that it is because I am trained in a variety of martial arts, from Kung-Fu and Krav Maga to Nerd-Fu and Obla Dee Ma Da.

But frankly, the real reason I don’t own a gun is because I did a mental calculation of the pros and cons of gun ownership versus potential risks posed to me and determined that due to my general incompetence and stupidity, the likelihood of me accidentally shooting myself or someone I care about was high whereas the likelihood of me needing to protect myself or someone I care about from a mob of violent weirdoes was low.

I’m in a weird place on gun control. I don’t want a gun. I don’t want to blow a deer’s brains out or anything. But I don’t necessarily want to see the right to own a firearm go away. After all, every time we surrender a right, the government grows that much stronger, and though the government we have today seems reasonable, who knows what it might morph into tomorrow.

On the other hand, we do have a problem with mass shootings and other gun related crimes. I don’t have the statistics but generally speaking, I don’t recall there ever being as many instances of mass shootings when I was a young lad in the 1990’s as there are today.

We were better at handling our depression in the 1990s. We’d pop on some alternative rock. A moody as hell bearded dude dressed up like a lumberjack in his best flannel would sing a depressing song. All of us young folk would sort of half-dance by swaying a few inches to the left then a few inches to the right with our heads down. We essentially handled our depression by going out of our way to let everyone know that we were depressed all the time.

Today’s kids are different. Parents and teachers and shrinks and everyone pumps kids full of so much happy good time, sparkly sunshine, special snowflake, get a participation ribbon just for showing up bullshit that when they become adults and meet up with someone telling them no for the first time, they grab a heater and go berserk.

And yes, I do realize its not only the millenials losing their shit. Old people have engaged in mass shootings. Middle-aged people have as well.

So I do understand why many people today are throwing their hands up, declaring society as a whole can’t be trusted with individual gun ownership, and demanding that the right to bear arms be thrown in the trash.

I’ll have to paraphrase the late great Ronald Reagan here. He once said that “the closest thing to eternal life on Earth is a government program.”

I’d go a step further and say that the closest thing to eternal life is a right. Once the government says you can do something, it becomes difficult and practically impossible for that right to be taken away.

I don’t know what the answer to the gun debate is. A long held government right vs. too many people getting blown away by wackos. I’m just a mild mannered humorist so I can’t tell you how to resolve this debate, but I hope the various and sundry folks at the helm of our national ship figure out a way.

Did I have a point with all this? Oh right. So honestly, I am not going to tell you to go out and get a gun or a knife or some other kind of weapon to prepare for an apocalypse of any kind, be it a zombie apocalypse or an apocalypse generated by some other type of disaster.

The odds that you’ll shoot or stab yourself, or someone else, maybe even someone you love are high whereas the likelihood of you needing a gun or a knife or another weapon to fight zombies are 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 to 1. Shit, that’s a lot of zeroes, but that’s also how unlikely zombies will ever become anything more than make-believe.

Should you feel dumb for buying this book then? Probably, but it’s too late. I have already spent the money you shelled out for it on a delicious wings and skins sampler.

Burp. Excuse me.

If you are already a gun and/or knife or other type of weapon owner, I hope you’re exercising your right to bear arms cautiously. If you are, then surely you know it is a dumb idea to keep guns, knives and other weapons lying around in a bag in your house. You must, must, must keep all weapons locked up in a safe, secure location, and there is plenty of information out there on how to do that.

Bottomline

Hmmm. So I have determined it is a bad idea to leave weapons, fire starting implements, and medicine in a bag that’s just lying around your house. Perhaps this section was a waste of time.

Or maybe it wasn’t. You can still pack a bag filled with bottles of water, nonperishable packaged food, and as much cash as you can afford to lose. In the unlikely event that the zombies come, you can at least grab your food/water/money bag and run like hell.

During the first few weeks of post-apocalyptic survival, you’ll be able to survive off of the food and water you bring, and you perhaps could even trade some of your food and water with other survivors for goods and services.

Your money won’t be there because you always knew your buddy Doug was a dirty, dirty thief.

Up your nose with a rubber hose, Doug. You know you spent my zombie apocalypse money on hookers and blow. #WorstBuddyEver

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May 18 2016
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Zombie Western

Zombie Western – Book #2 – Undead Man’s Hand Preview

Hey 3.5 Readers. Since I expect to have Book 1 done soon and will probably jump into a draft of Book 2 for a little while before performing a major rewrite of Book 1, I’d be curious to know whether or not you like the direction I’ll be going in Book 2 – “Undead Man’s Hand.”

It’s part prequel as there are characters who learn a zombie apocalypse is coming. Given the results of Book 1, they obviously fail to convince anyone to do anything about it.

But post Western zombie apocalypse, there will be quite a Calamity Jane vs. Zombies vs. Zombie Wild Bill Hickok showdown.  That part of the book will be a sequel.

So it is half prequel, half sequel.

My idea for this book is basically what steered me in the direction of introducing the Legion Corporation in the first book.  Initially, Zombed was going to be a stand alone in which Doc just turned everyone into zombies by feeding them too much cocaine.

Give me your input, 3.5

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Deadwood, Dakota Territory. 1876.

James Butler “Wild Bill” Hickok is one of a young nation’s earliest celebrities, having found fame and fortune as a notorious gunslinger.

Historians have long maintained that Hickok’s life came to an abrupt end when the coward Jack McCall stormed into a saloon and shot Hickok in the back, a bitter resolution to a dispute over a poker game gone awry.

Aces over eights. Many a so-called expert has claimed that Hickok was holding a pair of aces and a pair of eights when he died. Thus, the “Dead Man’s Hand” has long been considered the unluckiest hand in the game of poker, a foreshadowing of impending doom for anyone who draws it.

In truth, Hickok, in secret, was a prolific vampire hunter. While the public was aware of the dangerous human desperadoes he put six feet under, he kept his fight against the fanged to himself for quite some time.

But upon learning of a plot by the Legion Corporation, an evil railroad company overseen by America’s most vicious vampires, to conquer the United States, Hickok finds it necessary to seek the assistance of his two closest confidantes, female gunfighter Martha “Calamity Jane” Cannary and straight-laced businessman Charlie Utter.

Alas, before Hickok is able to share much of his secret, the villainous vampire Lady Blackwood (name probably to be changed) glamours McCall into shooting Hickok in the back in order to protect the truth about the Legion Corporation’s true purpose from coming to light.

But it doesn’t go as she planned, for witnesses on the scene were mistaken about the hand that Hickok had been holding. It wasn’t aces over eights but rather eight aces, each card printed with a drawing of a different member of Legion’s board of directors.

Jane has her own personal demons, an addiction to alcohol and a colorful vocabulary among them. But her loyalty to her mentor sends her on a quest to warn various Western lawmen of the impending zombie apocalypse, from Deadwood’s own Sheriff Seth Bullock to Marshal Wyatt Earp himself.

Will Utter join her crusade and give Jane’s incredible tales of vampires and zombies the credibility they need? Or will he ignore it all and retreat to the orderly, proper life he prefers?

Even worse, when Hickok’s body goes missing, and a masked man reminiscent of Hickok goes on a bank robbing spree across country, it becomes clear that Lady Blackwood has turned the West’s greatest hero into her own personal zombie puppet.

Thus, Jane is forced with the grim duty of having to put to rest the body of the man who believed in her when no one else would.

It all leads to an epic showdown in Deadwood, a lawless gold rush mining camp turned makeshift town filled with cutthroats, liars, cheats, scoundrels, and even worse, politicians.

Several of Deadwood’s most prominent (and unsavory) residents will stop by, including the aptly named Al Swearengen.  Saloon keeper and one of North America’s first organized crime bosses, Al may or may not be playing both sides against each other for his own personal profit.

It’s going to be awesome and you should totally give Bookshelf Q. Battler your money.

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May 17 2016
7 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Killing Your Darlings

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Sigh. Gunther is dead.

I’m partly depressed and also partly a bit proud of myself.

Unbeknownst to you, 3.5 readers, I’ve been planning to bump the G-Man off for awhile now.

Initially, I intended that there would be a happy ending in which he lives and moves in with Slade and whichever woman he ends up with and acts as like a beloved cantankerous Grampa of the family…but…

It was the “dying with your boots on” thing that got me.  If you die with your boots on, you probably did so in battle.  If you die with your boots off, it means you were peaceful, surrounded by family.

If the series goes on long enough, maybe good ole Slade will keep his promise to Gunther and die with his boots off.

Have you ever killed off a main character, 3.5 readers?

Did it make you sad?

It does make me sad, but one odd thing – I’m looking towards writing accomplishments less in word counts or chapter counts and more of scenes and milestones.

I have been having all these images in my head of what will happen to the characters for months and am amazed to have gotten so many of these images down on paper now.

Thanks for reading, 3.5.  Your feedback is always appreciated.

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May 17 2016
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Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 100

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“Of all the…”

Gunther coughed up some blood.

“…ways I thought I’d buy the farm, getting gut shot by a…”

More coughing.

“…Goddamn bloodsucking lawyer wasn’t one of them.”

Slade writhed about on the floor, desperately trying to break free from his shackles.

“Hold on,” Slade said.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The ground underneath the old man grew redder with every drop.

The door opened. A werewolf entered. Timidly, he walked over to Slade.

“Aww what the fuck do you want now?” Slade asked.

The werewolf extended his pointer finger, then using the claw at the end of it like a knife, sawed through Slade’s hand and feet shackles as if they were made out of butter.

“Miles?” Slade asked.

The werewolf nodded and growled in the affirmative.

Slade ran to Gunther and grabbed hold of the old man. Miles cut the rope and helped Slade ease Gunther slowly to the ground.

Miles morphed into his boy form.

Slade tore open Gunther’s shirt and stuck a finger into the wound. The old man yelled louder than he ever had before.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Looking for the bullet,” Slade said. “If I can just get it…”

Gunther winced. “Nah…forget that shit. We all got our time and this is mine.”

Slade tore a large piece off of Gunther’s vest, prompting the old man’s expected complaint.

“Now what the hell…Mavis made that for me!”

Slade pressed the fabric as hard up against the wound, doing what he could to stop the bleeding.

The old man raised a shaky hand and looked at Slade, who looked at it hesitantly.

“Jesus Christ,” Gunther said. “I’m not asking you to fuck me in the ass, just take my hand, will ya?”

Slade grabbed it.

“Boy, I know you think I’m a coward…”

“No,” Slade interrupted.

Gunther nodded. “Yes, yes you do. It’s ok. Maybe I am, or maybe you’re just too bullheaded. But I was never trying to get you to run away from every fight. I was just wanted you to save yourself for a cause worth fighting for.”

The old man coughed. His voice grew weaker. “And this cause…”

Another cough interruption. “…is worth it. Every bit of it.”

Slade pressed the makeshift cloth deeper into the wound. The old man yelped.

“Just…forget that. Stop wasting your time on an old son of a bitch and go save someone. Anyone. As many as you can…”

Slade and Miles traded sad looks.

“That fucker is playing with your head,” Gunther said. “Using your women against you. You can’t save them both so you’ll hate yourself either way but forget about all that…you got to…stop that damn train.”

Gunther gripped Slade’s hand tighter then let it go. He reached down towards his belt and fumbled with his knife, but lacked the strength to draw it.

“Bowie’s knife,” Gunther said. “It’s my prized possession. Shit. All these years and its the only valuable…thing I have. Take it.”

Slade drew the knife out of the sheath.

The old man patted Slade on the arm. “Take the sheath too. First rule of carrying a knife is…”

The old man coughed as if he were hacking up a lung.

“Fuck,” Gunther said, then carried on. “Don’t carry it on your belt loose or you’ll cut off your pecker.”

Slade fought back the urge to laugh.

Slowly, the old man raised his head and looked down at his ragged, dusty boots.

“Shit,” he said. “Will you look at that?”

“What?” Slade asked.

“Aww it’s just when we threw down against Smelly Jack that first time,” Gunther said. “You told me…you wanted to die with your boots on. I guess you and I are different because I always wanted to die with my boots off.”

Slade reached for the old man’s boots. Gunther grabbed Slade’s hand again and held onto it.

“Nah,” Gunther said. “Who gives a shit now? It’s just…when I was young I thought I’d go in a nice warm bed. I thought Mavis would be holding my hand instead of you, no offense.”

“None taken,” Slade said.

“Then I thought I’d have some young’uns looking over me but the Lord saw fit to not bless Mavis and I with any.”

The old man stretched both hands out and waited…and waited. Slade was baffled.

“Hug him,” Miles whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“Oh,” Slade said as he clutched the old man in an embrace.

“I suppose you’re the closest thing to a son I ever had,” Gunther said.

Upon hearing those words, a tear trickled out of Slade’s eye. He wiped it away as he lifted his head up.

“Aw hell Miles,” Gunther said. “I don’t have anything to give to you.”

The old man and the boy hugged. “That’s ok.”

“Wait.” Gunther’s shaky hand lifted his hat off of his head and placed it on the boy’s. “Every cowboy needs a hat.”

The boy stood there with some tears in his eyes as well. He was still naked, but sporting Gunther’s dapper hat, red feather and all.

“You look sharp,” Gunther said. “But you need some pants.”

Gunther grabbed Miles’ hand with his left and Slade’s hand with his right.

“Promise me something, boys,” Gunther said.

“Anything,” Slade replied.

“That you’ll both do your best to die with your boots off.”

That idea went against everything Slade had stood for but he nodded yes. Miles did the same.

The old man clutched his chest and threw his head back, coughing uncontrollably. Finally, he stopped and made a few gurgling sounds.

“I’m a-comin’ Mavis,” he whispered.

Slade and Miles watched as the life drained out of Gunther’s one good eye.

Angrily, Slade stood up and punched the wooden support beam in the center of the livery. The pain made every bone in his hand throb with agony, but he didn’t care. He punched the beam again and again. Then he stormed outside.

Miles followed.

“Look!” the boy said. Miles had spotted Slade’s twin pistols and bandolier on the ground, still filled with silver-tipped bullets. His captors had stripped them off of Slade, but then just tossed them amidst a pile of dead zombie bodies.

Slade grabbed both guns and holstered them, then put on the bandolier.

Off in the distance, the Marvel of the Rails sounded its ear splitting whistle.

“Damn it!” Slade said.

Slade and Miles hustled through town, running past rubble, burning buildings, and townsfolk turned survivors trying to piece their lives back together. A few stray zombies that didn’t make it on the train wandered about aimlessly.

The duo reached Highwater Station only to find the Marvel was gone. They gazed across the prairie only to see it chugging about a mile away, about to disappear over the horizon.

“Fuck!” Slade shouted as he stomped his foot on the platform.

The boy tugged on Slade’s arm. “Come on,” Miles shouted. “Let’s go!”

“Aww there’s no horse that could catch up to it now,” Slade lamented.

Miles took off the hat Gunther had given him and gently laid it on a bench people usually sat on as they waited for trains to arrive.

“Who said anything about a horse?” the boy asked.

Miles became a wolf again. He lowered himself down on all fours, waiting for Slade to climb on.

Slade shook his head in disbelief. He climbed on the werewolf’s back, gripped a big hunk of fur with both hands, and held on as Miles took off.

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May 17 2016
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Zombie Western

Happy Tuesday Nerds

Hey Nerds.

Just a quick note as I’m trying to post once a day for…well either for the rest of my life or until I quit writing and allow the Mighty Potentate to take over, whichever comes first.

Things are heating up with How the West Was Zombed so be sure to check that out.

And I’m not quite sure about Bookshelf Q. Battler’s Bad Ass Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse yet but I feel like it could be just a collection of my humorous rants circulating around a zombie theme, the best part being that I don’t have to worry a whole lot about continuity because it is just a collection of tirades.

Anyway, give me your feedback on both.  It is appreciated.

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May 16 2016
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Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 99

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The blood that squirted out of Blythe’s neck was as dark as the ink Slade has used to write his insult with.

The vampire didn’t get angry. He showed no signs of fear or confusion. He didn’t do one of the many things that most people would have done upon getting stabbed in the neck. He simply pulled the quill out of his flesh and set it down on the table.

Slade watched as the wound healed. The werewolf standing guard over Slade was about to give his prisoner some wounds of his own, but Blythe urged him to back off.

“It’s alright,” Blythe said as he wiped the blood off his neck with a handkerchief. “Mr. Slade has simply rejected my offer and has proposed a hostile counter-offer. I’ll have to pass as my mother died before long before Jesus was born. Secure the prisoner.”

The werewolf behind Slade complied and fastened the shackles back around the prisoner’s wrists.

“Apparently you’ve decided to extend the negotiation process,” Blythe said. “Allow me to offer my counter to your counter.”

The vampire withdrew his pistol, held it by the barrel, and pistol whipped Slade across his right cheek, opening up a deep gash. Red blood poured out of it.

“The board only directed me to keep you alive,” Blythe said. “They never told me that I have to keep you looking pretty.”

Gunther coughed. The shackles he was hanging from were beginning to cut his wrists.

“Takes a big man to wallop a fella when he’s all tied up,” the old man said.

Vampires don’t act out of emotion, seeing as they possess none. But like any being, they do get annoyed, and when vexed, they have been known to lash out in horrific ways.

Blythe did just that when, without wasting a second to think about it, aimed his revolver at Gunther and fired a shot right into the old man’s belly.

“And no one said a damn thing about keeping your elderly sidekick alive at all,” the vampire said.

Slade seethed as Gunther shouted a trail of expletives.

The vein in Slade’s forehead was ready to burst. He sprang to his feet only to be backhanded to the ground by a werewolf’s paw.

Said werewolf turned Slade over on his back, allowing the vampire to lean down and get in the captive’s face.

“Listen to me and listen well, you insignificant twat,” Blythe said. “You’ve decided to take the hard way now. So be it. You’ll lie here and watch the old man who gave you the love your father never did slowly bleed to death. Meanwhile, your savage friends and the woman who you treat like second best will be kept as blood bags, prisoners whose sole purpose for remaining alive will now be to be fed on by vampires in service to the Legion Corporation.”

The vampire picked the contract up off the table.

“The woman you love the most will be taking a train ride with me as an insurance policy,” Blythe said. “I haven’t decided what to do with her once I don’t need her any more but for some reason, sucking every last drop of blood out of her then tossing her dried up carcass off the Sturtevant Bridge seems like it would be quite entertaining.”

The vampire lightly slapped his hand against Slade’s injured cheek. “And then finally, when you give up and realize that everyone you ever loved is either dead or wishing they were because of you, you’ll find me…”

Blythe crumpled up the contract into a ball and bounced it off Slade’s forehead.

“…and you’ll beg me to draw up another one.”

The vampire snapped his fingers and the werewolves joined him in strutting out of the livery.

Slade’s mind was in turmoil. So many thoughts. So many emotions. All he could get out was, “I’ll kill you! Do you hear me? I’ll find you and tear you apart and make you wish you were never born!”

“Blah, blah, blah,” the vampire said. “So said every righteous knight, warrior, and priest I ever crossed paths with since King David was a tiny tot. I’ve heard it all before. So long, Slade.”

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May 16 2016
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Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 98

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Iron shackles kept Slade’s hands bound tightly behind his back. Another pair secured his feet together. He was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.

Gunther laid next to him, in a similar predicament.

Two werewolves entered the livery and set up a table and two chairs. One of them threw a rope over an old wooden support beam up in the rafters, then tied the other end around Gunther’s hand shackles.

The wolf yanked on the free end of the rope until the old man’s feet were dangling just above the ground. The beast then tied the end of the rope he was holding to a vertical beam in the middle of the room.

“Don’t I get to talk to a judge or somethin’?” Gunther asked.

A big hairy paw slap across his face was the werewolf’s response.

“Guess not,” Gunther said as blood trickled out of his mouth.

The second werewolf picked up Slade and sat him down in one of the chairs.

Blythe, who’d been supervising the entire operation from the corner, strolled over to Slade and drew his revolver.

The vampire pressed the cold steel up against Slade’s forehead. Slade closed his eyes and leaned into it. He wasn’t scared at all. Rather, the idea that all his torment could be over in an instant filled him with a sense of relief.

“Pow,” the vampire said as he pulled back his weapon. Slade opened his eyes.

“How simple it would be to solve the threat you pose to me,” Blythe said as he holstered his piece and took the seat on the opposite side of the table. “But luckily for you, you have friends in some very high places that you aren’t even aware of.”

Slade sat in silence.

“Do you know how vampires hypnotize people?” Blythe asked.

No response.

“The eyes,” Blythe said. “They truly are, as people say, the window to the soul. I can look into the eyes of most people and quickly learn everything there is to know about them. Their deepest, darkest secrets, their hopes, their dreams. Then, without ever saying it directly, I’m able to implant into their minds the false promise that if they do what I ask of them, their dreams will come true. Moments later, they recall nothing and they’re convinced their actions were of their own volition.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Slade asked.

“No,” Blythe said. “It’s more of a psychological parlor trick than anything else. I convinced Judge Sampson to let your least favorite family go by promising him that he’d be governor one day. Politicians are so easy. Just promise them more opportunities to be treated like the prized pig at the county fair.”

Blythe drummed his fingers on the table. “Jack Buchanan was a cinch as well. Money and whores and, well, I’m not sure I can find fault in that. Who among us doesn’t appreciate money and a good whore?”

Slade wiggled his hands. It was no use. The shackles were too strong.

“Ironically, your whore was a tougher nut to crack,” Blythe said. “I thought a promise of money would bring her around as well but no, all she needed was a promise that one day she’d end up with you. If my heart still worked, it would have been warmed.”

Slade’s heart did work. And it sank.

The vampire wagged his pointed finger at the captive. “But you, my friend, are a horse of a different color. I looked deep into your soul and saw it all. The cowardly little boy hiding under his bed while his mother was dragged into the street and shot like a dog…”

Slade sneered.

“…the Daddy who confirmed your sense of self-loathing by refusing to love you…”

The lawman attempted to rise to his feet but a werewolf’s paw pressed him back down into his seat.

“…the disappointment you felt when you realized that even though a Marshal’s star gave you a license to hunt down and kill everyone who ever reminded you of your mother’s killer, no amount of blood was ever going to bring you peace…”

The vampire clicked his tongue in a “tsk, tsk, tsk” sound. “Many people claim to feel hopeless but few actually are. Even the most downtrodden, destitute hobo privately harbors hope that he’s just one stroke of luck away from finding himself in a mansion feasting on caviar, a gaggle of servants catering to his every whim…”

Gunther piped up. “If you’re going to prattle on and on forever, you think one of your dog monsters could cut me down? Hanging like this is hell on an old man’s back.”

The old man’s insolence was met with another werewolf slap to the face. Gunther’s beard became soaked with his own blood.

“A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed,” Gunther said.

The vampire smiled then turned his attention back to Slade. “You are a truly hopeless individual. There’s not a speck of optimism in you. You believe the world is garbage, that everyone’s lives are meaningless, that building yourself into an admirable position is pointless because as soon as you get comfortable life will inevitably send the equivalent of a Sawbuck Sam to tear everything apart again.”

Slade didn’t want to give Blythe the satisfaction of an answer, but he didn’t have to. Blythe could tell by the look on Slade’s face that he was speaking the truth.

“Rainer,” Blythe said as he leaned across the table. “A soul will never be anything more than a cause of constant torment for a man who is irreparably hopeless.”

“Just kill me and get it over with,” Slade said.

“Kill you?” Blythe asked. “I want to save you.”

The vampire reached into his pocket and produced a piece of paper. He unfolded it and laid it out on the table. A werewolf set down a quill and an inkwell.

“More specifically,” Blythe said. “I want to save you from your soul.”

“I wish someone would save me from this never-ending soliloquy,” Gunther said. His words were met with another werewolf slap, but he didn’t care anymore.

“You are hopeless and yet your soul demands that you feel,” Blythe said. “Love for Bonnie Lassiter, the woman you feel you can drop your false facade of bravado around and be loved for who you are. Love for Sarah Farquhar, who looks up to you as the brave man you wish you were even though it is not the man you are inside. Hatred for yourself for loving both of them and for loving Bonnie more despite the societal convention that you’re only supposed to love the woman you’ve formally promised yourself to.”

Blythe pushed the paper across the table, then signaled the werewolf standing guard over Slade to remove the shackles from the prisoner’s hands.

With his hands free now, Slade choked back the urge to fight. He was outnumbered and his pistols had been taken from him.

“Take your time and peruse the contract,” Blythe said. “It’s all fairly standard boiler plate. You agree to sell your immortal soul to the Chairman of the Board of Directors of the Legion Corporation.”

Slade read the document to himself. It was written in elegant cursive. Had the subject matter not been so wicked, it would have been suitable for framing.

“In exchange for this valuable commodity, the Chairman will appoint you as an agent of the Legion Corporation. You’ll be rewarded handsomely and without that wretched soul of yours weighing you down, you’ll be able to cheat, kill and fuck you way through the rest of your life without nary a concern of how it affects anyone or what anyone thinks of you.”

Slade kept reading. “You want me to sell my soul to the dev…”

Blythe reached across the table and pressed his pointer finger up against Slade’s lips. “Shhh. We don’t speak of any of the Chairman’s many names. He prefers to remain shrouded in mystery.”

Slade reared his head back, unpleased that a male finger had been on his lips. The vampire moved back in his chair.

“Naturally, the Chairman will expect you to do a lot of killing on the Legion Corporation’s behalf,” Blythe explained. “Oh and your employment with Legion must remain strictly confidential. You see, we’ll need you to continue holding yourself out to the public as a decent, honorable man. Luckily for the Chairman, decent men will be in short supply once the country is overrun with zombies and all laws are thrown out the window. But without your soul, you’ll have no qualms about gaining the people’s trust only to lead them to their doom.”

Blythe cleared his throat and carried on. “You really have no idea how lucky you are that the Board of Directors has taken such an interest in you. You’ll be a very important man in our new world order.”

Slade looked at the line where he was supposed to sign. He looked up at the vampire.

“And what if I don’t sign?” Slade asked.

“Oh you’ll sign,” Blythe said. “I’m nothing if not very resourceful. I have my ways of convincing the hopeless that life would be better sans soul. You’re on the precipice right now and all I need do is keep pushing until you’re over the edge. You can sign now and spare your loved ones a great deal of agony, or we can continue our negotiations. I’m not sure Miss Lassiter or Miss Farquhar will last very long though.”

Slade seethed with a burning rage, urging him to leap across the table and rip Blythe’s head off. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option while a werewolf was nearby.

The vampire playfully bonked the side of his head with his hand. “Oh, I forgot. I have them both.”

“What?” Slade asked.

“The woman you promised to marry and the woman you’d rather marry,” Blythe said. “Both are in my custody, ready to be abused and tortured to no end for as long as you need further lessons on how burdensome it can be when your soul constantly demands that you care about other people.”

Slade looked at the paper again. “I sign this and you’ll let them go?”

“If you sign this, you won’t care if I let them go,” Blythe said. “I’m sorry but you really have no leverage here.”

Slade picked up the quill. He dipped it in ink. He touched the tip on the signature line.

The old man interrupted him. “Son,” Gunther said.

Another werewolf slap.
Blythe raised his hand to signal the werewolf guarding Gunther. “It’s alright. This is a legal hearing so never let it be said I did not allow all interested parties to speak their piece.”

The werewolf nodded and backed off.

Gunther started again. “Son, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life it’s that when things look bleak, it seems easy to do something that under normal circumstances would make us ashamed. Give in to this fanged fuck today and you’ll be giving into him for the rest of your days. And I suppose the version of yourself that you become won’t give a lick off a bull’s nuts, but I know the you that’s sitting there right now does care. Somehow, some way, even when it seems impossible, life has a way of unfucking itself. You don’t need to sign that because I swear, I don’t why when or how, but things will get better. They always do.”

Slade stared at the vampire. “I need you to promise you’ll let everyone go.”

“Everyone?” Blythe said. “That’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

“Bonnie. Sarah. Gunther. The Injuns. Everyone.”

Blythe sighed. “I had intended to turn your native friends into blood bags. Savage blood is so hearty and delicious. They don’t poison their bodies with as much impropriety as civilized men do. But I suppose there are other savages I could harvest.”

The vampire stood and walked around the table. “Very well. Sign and all of your people go free.”

Blythe pressed his left hand down firmly on Slade’s shoulder, then tapped his right finger on the signature line.

“Right here,” Blythe said. “And then it will be done.”

“Don’t do it, boy,” Gunther said. “He’ll kill us all anyway.”

“You can hit him now,” Blythe said without looking up. The werewolf obliged, giving Gunther another slap to the face.

Slade dipped the quill into the inkwell, swirled it around, then pulled it out, carefully wiping the excess ink off on the sides of the well.

He hesitated for a moment, then scrawled away across the signature line.

A curious Blythe leaned in to read three words written in poor penmanship on the contract he’d so dutifully prepared.

“FUCK YOUR MOTHER.”

And unfortunately for Blythe, his exposed neck became an irresistible target for Slade, who quickly plunged the sharp end of the quill pen into it.

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May 15 2016
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BQB's Bad Ass Guide to Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

Bookshelf Q. Battler’s Bad Ass Guide to Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse – Chapter 1 – Section 2 – Zombie Proofing Your Home

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Zombies will be trying to break into your crib at all times. You need to nip that shit in the bud.

Whether it’s a swanky mansion in Beverly Hills or a crumbling old shack in East Randomtown, your home is yours. It belongs to you.

And I don’t know about you, noble reader, but I’d rather sing a karaoke version of Taylor Swift’s greatest hits while Japanese businessmen pelt me with rotten eggs than allow a damn dirty zombie to drive me out of my home.

This is America, damn it, and if those zombies want my house they’ll have to either yank my stank ass corpse out of it or at the very least, make me a reasonable offer based on fair market value, adjusted for inflation, with additional moving expenses added in.

I’m not going to tell you that it is possible to fully zombie proof your home. After all, put enough zombies anywhere and they can destroy anything.

But I will tell you that these are some steps that will slow the undead down:

Board Up Your House

Yes, right now.  Every door. Every window. Every entrance. Nail boards over all of it.  Then in bright orange spray paint write “Zombies Not Welcome” all over the boards.  Or, if you want to be tricky, put up a sign that says, “All the Brains in this House Have Already Been Devoured in a Grotesque Manner.”  Zombies are pretty dumb so they’ll fall for it. And let’s face it. No one in your house is a rocket scientist so a sign reading “No Brains Here” wouldn’t even really be that much of a stretch would it?

Do you want to be nailing boards over your doors while zombie hands are busting through the walls and getting all grabby with you? I think not. So nail your house shut and then sit in the corner and wait for the zombie apocalypse like a good reader.

Then again, I suppose if you did all this the neighbors would probably assume you are a wacko and call the cops on you.  And it would harm your home’s ventilation, cut down the interior air circulation, rob you of natural lighting,  and turn you into an unhealthy shut in.

Shit. OK. Change of plan. DO NOT board up your house.  But go to Home Depot and get a bunch of boards and store them somewhere nice and safe so you’ll have them ready to go when the news reports start warning of an impending zombie attack.

If you can’t carry the boards, there are usually a lot of Mexican dudes hanging around outside Home Depot waiting to help people carry anti-zombie attack boards in exchange for a few bucks. That’s not a racist statement. That’s just how it is.

In fact, and I don’t mean to tell the news media how to do their jobs here, but someone really needs to ask Donald Trump who the hell is going to carry all of our anti-zombie home protection boards when all the Mexicans are sent to the other side of the wall that he wants to build and bill to the Mexicans.

By the way, that reminds me:

You Need to Build a Wall

You need to build a giant wall around the entire perimeter of your home. You need to do it fast, you need to do it now and you need to make the zombies pay for it.

Don’t let the zombies fool you.  Many of them are still carrying the wallets that belonged to the people they were before they became undead shells of their formers selves. So they’ve got the cash to reimburse you for anti-zombie wall.

In that wall, there should be a door. You can use it if you ever want to leave your home for whatever reason. Maybe you need to go on supply runs or something.

Now it’s your home so you can choose to let zombies in if you want, provided that they pass through your rigorous vetting process, but make no mistake about it, zombies will only be allowed to pass through the door in your wall legally.

Look, this idea isn’t going to be popular but I’m just going to say it. Maybe we ought to put a total moratorium on all zombies entering your home until we figure out what in the hell these zombies are up to.

So get your ass back to Home Depot, grab some bricks and mortar and hire those Mexicans to build your wall for you. The higher the better because pole vaulting is not exactly a zombie’s strong suit.

Um, you might need to get some permits and the approval of various officials before you build your wall.  There’s probably limits on how high you can build too.  You know what, I’m just going to let you figure that part out on your own. I can’t do everything for you.

Get a Gas Powered Generator

These will become a hot commodity during a zombie apocalypse so rather than wait and put yourself in a position where you’ll have to sell you body to some redneck in order to get one, why not invest in one today?

Go get one, get it set up, and keep a reasonable supply of gas on hand. I mean, you don’t want to keep so much that you’ll burn down your house, but enough so that you’ll at least be able to run the lights and let your kids play their stupid video games so that you won’t have to talk to them or read to them or do any parenting or shit.

(That was a joke. Parent your kids and teach them to be solid citizens.  Who knows? Maybe with your help they’ll grow up to become respectable world leaders who won’t allow a zombie apocalypse to happen.)

Security Systems

If you have a home alarm monitoring system, it’s not going to work once the power goes out.

Thus, a pesky zombie could break into your house and if you’re fast asleep, you won’t know he’s inside until he’s munching on your face.

Various anti-zombie experts will differ on this, but I recommend hiring a band of hobos to walk around your house.  Promise to send some food their way once in awhile and in exchange, they’ll be expect to shout, “BEEP, BEEP, BEEP!” if they see any zombies coming your way.

Oh, right. My attorney advises me to to warn you that hobos are a violent, ill-tempered lot and should not be trusted anywhere near your home.

Really? That seems kind of racist against hobos.  Wait. Hobos aren’t a race. Classist? I don’t know.

You know what. Forget it. Don’t put hobos in charge of guarding your house.  Damn lawyers ruin everything.

Store Food/Water

Who knows how long the zombie apocalypse is going to last?

If you’re stuck in your home for an extended time period, you’re going to get the munchies like a futhermucker.

I’m no expert, but rarely has that ever stopped me from offering my opinion on anything, so here goes.

Perishables won’t last very long. Raw meat, cheese, milk, it’s all going to expire quickly if the zombies knock the power out and you didn’t have the foresight to get yourself a back-up generator.

You’ll probably want some powdered milk, packaged foods. Twinkies, I’m told, will last through a nuclear war and I know this because whenever I eat one I feel like it is still dancing in my belly for hours.

Do they still make Twinkies? I thought they stopped making them for awhile but then I thought they made a comeback. I don’t know.

Water is definitely something you’ll want. There’s all kinds of literature out there that will tell you how to keep it safe and drinkable even after storing it for long periods of time.

Do you know they have this invention now where it is like a giant bag you can put in your tub, fill it up with water and then your tub becomes like your own personal water storage tank?

Obviously, if there’s an impending disaster that could affect the quality of your water, you’ll want to fill that bag before said disaster.

With zombies, you could probably wait until news of a zombie epidemic spreads.

Then again, zombies have been known to pee in town water supplies.

You know what? It’s up to you. If you want to stop showering so you can leave a giant water bag in your tub in the event of a zombie apocalypse, be my guest.

Sorry.  There are probably people out there more qualified than I am to tell you how to package and preserve your water and food stuffs.

“You need twinkies and water” is the best advice I can give you.

Also, if it gets down to the point where you have to drink your own urine, consider just giving up and letting the zombies have you.

I mean, it’s your wizz, for Christ’s sake. There can’t be anything tangy or delicious about that.

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