By Scott Thurlow
I got off one, maybe two shots before every light source in the section not already centered on the zombo horde engulfed them; all able and armed bodies in the vicinity simultaneously began pouring gunfire upon them. Their horking song was drowned out by the splatter of body parts exploding and shells dropping on the street. Damn fucking satisfying. Jimbo and a few others had opened up with their handguns from our position and were fully supporting the tower watchers. I took a few good shots myself [at least what looked like ones.] Hard to fucking see in the storm. I also wanted to conserve my ammo. I figured, why waste mine when it looked like this was covered? Last fucking bullet, and all that. So in that vein, I fired off one more for good measure and finally looked around.
The shit seemed like it was over. The first thing I did was listen. No leftover horking, just smoke and dust. Another damn good sign. We waited for official word from the towers.
“All clear!” a megaphone voice shouted down.
Further: “Just a small band of wanderers, not a major flock!”
Well, that’s fucking convenient. Everyone’s been answering my questions before I even had to talk. Spot fucking on. I guess the crowd looked bigger from our initial position. Grass is always greener I guess-and one must fucking go for it! The entire affair only took a few minutes, all said and done. Not so fucking bad. I relaxed a bit more and decided this called for another Jackal.
“Hey. Guess we’d better get back to the job here,” Jimbo called over. I nodded, but refused to put out the cigarette. Taking savory drags, I started to gather up anything I might’ve dropped or missed before the firefight.
As I was doing so, I thought how it was too bad the base was so far away from our present search sector, otherwise I might’ve been able to see these fuckers yesterday and put together some serious fun. And firepower. Maybe these zombos saw my “FUCK YOU” sign and decided to actually do something about it. Not likely, but that was pretty fucking funny to imagine. You bastards! I was smarter than you alive! Don’t think being a goddamned zombo is any kind of fucking advantage! All you fucking zombo are belong to us! I rejoiced in our little skirmish victory and joined everyone else in continuing our actual, original mission.
I was less cheerful for the fact that I hadn’t really managed to acquire anything all that useful on our car strip and search. Some pieces of plastic, a bundle of decaying papers. Of course not one motherfucker left a gun in their glove compartment. I always thought someone, anyone, anywhere, had to be the person who did that, but apparently not. Fuck ‘em though, I was determined to make this little excursion worth my time. The fight was a nice distraction, but how the fuck did that help me? Can’t use zombo parts to trade for anything. In fact the cost of its fun was that I was now minus a couple of rounds. Not fucking cheap. But maybe something could be done about that too.
We took the path we had mapped out back, a short loop into sections a few blocks away and parallel to our initial crossing. Covering more ground that way, it also gave me some more chances to find one fucking thing I could call my own. We all figured the council had some master plan to keep this shit going, and I also figured capitalism worked both ways. Venture fucking opportunity. As I was going through yet another dull gray interior and methodically slicing it out, I noticed a glint under the passenger’s seat. All that glitters is definitely not fucking gold, but I supposed I should be sure. Hoping against hope it was finally a gun, I reached under and felt what should be a lighter. Well, still something. Not completely useless. As I was clawing it out from the under the seat, something else hit my hand. That could be a fucking jackpot. If, it was something worthwhile to someone who valued it enough. I continued hauling out both the lighter and what ended up being a mostly but not fully fucked up cellphone. That might come in very fucking handy indeed. Finally something just for me. So far today, some action and some accumulations for future investment. All in a day’s work it seemed. I pocketed the trove and continued my labors in the recently-created [by the council of course] career of car-cover cutter.
We were closing in on the last few blocks, the familiar outlying sections near our base. A few more cars to go and then our trip down the Zombo-Brick road would finally be at an end. So long to this retarded endeavor. By early evening we had trudged back to the base and deposited our haul. Council also required that any “run-ins” be duly logged and noted. Fully-fucking-filed. So we had ourselves some fun filling out a: “Z.E.S. (Zombo-Encounter/Sighting) Report.” Someone from our merry band would deliver it, along with the covers, to them soon enough. Since no further orders, errands, or missions had come through in the meantime; I was back to being able to enjoy myself meanwhile [however fleeting it might be.] Now, finally, I could focus on finding that fucking booze after all this zombo-whacking, looting, and subsequent recording of said whacking. Fucking distractions. Plus, my earlier score might fetch a nice price somewhere. I decided it was market-time.
A trip down there would indeed be just the treat that I was now in need of. The place never stopped reeking of a completely pragmatic primordial putrid perfume. The stench of the struggle to survive: with a distinctly human stink. A repugnant, pungently pervasive primeval malodor of piss-soaked terror; intrinsically imbued with an inescapably faint hint of prospect. The permeable odor of “OHHHH Shiiiiiiiiiiitttttt!!!” spiced with just a touch of optimism; The persevering aroma of “…MAYBE [just!] MAYBE--We’re Gonna Be OK?!…” underneath the overwhelmingly prevailing fragrance of dumbfounded, dirty desperation. The undeniable scent of shit and scumbaggery sprinkled with a sprig of sunshine, lollipops and rainbows [and fucking unicorns too, I guess.] The smell of being surrounded on all sides by zombos and nonetheless screaming defiantly in their fucking face, “HERE. Be: HOOOooooOOOPE…!”[echoed endlessly and relentlessly as in if from a bottomless abyss.] All this constantly wafted through the gritty market air.
Similarly blowing in the wind was a recent phrase that I was just as clueless about as to how or why it originated, as everyone else seemed to be. It went something like this: “Well, which one’s it gonna be…the box of bullets, or the empty gun? ” The intent was more or less along the lines of: Sometimes, you’re equally fucked. Or sometimes just: You’re fucked, buddy, right now. Alternately: It’s the best of times and/or worst of times-just fucking pick! Finally, it could also be: “We’re ALLLL out of one [or the other.]” I mean, what fucking idiot came up with that idiom? Or was it supposed to be some kind of fucking proverb? Whatever else it might [or might not] mean or be as a phrase though, it was damn catchy [it did sort of “roll off the tongue,” you might say] and people would pepper their conversations with it. But, I guess in the goddamn Zombo Apoc, [there, I just invented a word, nay, phrase here, on the spot myself: ZomboApoc-- Fucking trademarked. Or copyright. Whatever] you can make up any damn old shit you want, as long as people know what you’re talking about, right? And what I was talking about right now was the fucking market. The bullets, or the gun? Well, I don’t have to choose, just yet, do I, buddy?
The deals to be had in this nest were better than any late-night commercial could ever offer. Free trade with hookers. Fucking council couldn’t stop that. Welcome to the new world order, dicks. Yes, the market was pretty great in its gloriously grim grandeur, in spite of all the other shit. I admit I reveled in it, a bit. Had a few whores, here and there. Why the fuck not? They had a lot of nice girls, down here. Not as much time anymore for bullshitting [I mean dating] and I had things to do. We all did, I guess. We’re all in this together, right? So I paid tribute to a real time-tested occupation when opportunity, time, and other circumstances afforded. Plus, who easier to trade some spare smokes to than hookers? I figured any time spent on blowjobs rather than drags of Jackals was a health asset to us both. Mutual benefits. I’m just a fucking humanitarian like that.
That old mechanic/electrician magician/motherfucker, he had that fucking ramshackle assembled-from-shit sign on his stall. Lenny I think. Or Lester. Some crap like that. It was on his sign, surrounded by all kinds of shit, but I kept forgetting. Ah yes, there it was now, Larry- purveyor of all electronic trash, blah blah. Actually that’s a little too harsh. The guy was alright, really. He knew how to fix all this shit and keep it running, so I suppose I couldn’t count him totally worthless. I think the council probably appreciated him for the same reason. But he still never shut the fuck up about anything, rambling to everyone and anyone who came trading to his stall. All the way back to the very first time I remember encountering him, when I got my trusty rifle, [or was it the bullets, goddamn!] No- definitely the rifle. Even that time, he jabbered incessantly. That much, I remember. Still, he’d probably be the first person to want a cellphone, ruined or otherwise, and thus the easiest way to dump it off, so I reminded myself to keep that in mind. The booze was item number one though, and I figured that there’d be time [and time] for the trading of fucking cellphones, just not at this damn moment. So I saved it for another rainy, zombo day.
Instead I instantly picked out Strizzy’s wreckage of a stall where it sat like a bloated fucking zombo head and prepared for our ritual of information and goods exchange. Strizzy himself was a shady bastard, but we had our system worked out. Our relationship functioned in a fashion that vaguely resembled that of Dr. Gonzo/R. Duke, except he really could be a fucking lawyer about shit sometimes, and I wasn't quite as crazy. I think he was some kind of small-time drug dealer back in the day. Pretty fucking likely, anyway. But what the fuck are you gonna do, when the motherfucking “ZomboApoc©” comes for you [and you need some fucking booze?] It was weird, I suppose, I knew, but it fucking worked for my…our, purposes. And that’s all that mattered. We’re all in this together, right?
When I got there he was pouring himself a cup of that grimy coffee he loved to slurp, oozing the oily, sludge-like brew into his familiar revoltingly crusty mug. How he could drink or indeed look at that fucking thing without wanting to puke was just one of the few, shall I say, quirks, of his that I have come to accept as part of his disgusting charm, but will never, fully, understand. He saw me approaching and reluctantly but genially [only this fucker could combine the two into one experience-another aspect of our dysfunctional dynamic] offered me one as well. Served in a double stack of red plastic cups of that kind that used to be copious at frat parties and shit. Before the zombos made their mad dash Sherman’s March across the world, through town, and crashed it. Bye Bye, Birdie! Anyway, Strizzy may have been a shyster in many other aspects of living, but I had to admit he was fucking courteous when he finally needed to be. And despite its repulsive appearance, the coffee itself was actually not bad, and I felt the concoction perk me up. Top fucking notch.
I guessed that he would’ve already known about our little excursion by now, since it wasn’t exactly “Goldeneye-class” shit. Not fucking important enough, who knows? And not that they’d tell anyone [least of all, us] anyway. Strizzy also confirmed the fact that he, and thus, all his information sources, were just as fucking clueless as I was about the grand purpose of it all for now. For now it seemed that we had been sent out on a trite and meaningless task [i.e. for no fucking REASON] We’d find out eventually, so why sweat it? The big news he had was that there was rumblings of some kind of election starting between some council bigwig buffoons. Was going to be a shitstorm, according to him. Well, what isn’t? While this was mildly interesting, I was still focusing on more immediate concerns. After some further plodding and plying, bantering back and forth guardedly, and another cup of coffee [which I counted as a win for me] he finally produced the purple rupee I had come to procure.
With practiced precision and technique, Strizzy unloaded a fucking motherload of booze from his magic compartments. At least as much as I’d seen in one place in a long time. He did still owe me, and since there yet remains some fucking honor amongst thieves in this little ZomboApoc© of ours, we negotiated that I would be receiving my choice of any three. A damn good deal indeed. I selected two fine, grimy bottles of Captain Ripps Rum; and one smaller one of single malt Seven-Head Hydra Whiskey* Country’s Best. Then, I departed Strizzy’s scummy stall and the mix of unpleasantness and cordiality it entailed. Peace, motherfucker.
With my real mission at last complete, I strolled back through the market. Haphazardly picking my way onwards through the maze, passing a couple of new girls that had either just set themselves up or decided to turn pro recently. One called out to me, “One toot on THIS whistle will take you far away, baby!” My reply: “No thanks, lady! No time for tooting! Not quite in the tooting mood today!” Had to be in the right fucking mindset when it was time to knock some fucking toots, right? Of that, you can be damn fucking tooting. And yes, they were all excellent window/eye candy, except that I had nothing else left I wanted to trade for love today. Sorry, whores, it seems I have no change currently, as it appears I spent all my bad pennies, already. Still fucking waiting for ‘em to come back. Though, I guess they will, eventually [right?] If the council decided to keep handing out more and more fucking “homework” assignments, anyway. Briefly that made me think of the kids in the schools they were trying to rebuild, and how fucked up that must all be. Though at least maybe soon enough they’ll have lessons in [or on] whether you should pick the bullets, or the gun? I stopped thinking about fucking kids then, and started thinking about getting fucking gone.
I started with the Hydra, to celebrate General Victory. [Here's to you, General!] Popping open the bottle on the street felt fucking great. That rule about saving the best shit for last? Fuck that. Tomorrow [and tomorrow, and tomorrow…] might be your last. But then, it might not. Gun or bullets, right? Anyway it was happy hour at last. Good times here again. I wandered lazily for a while, having a dog of a time getting decently buzzed while soaking in the waning market hours. I had no plans for the rest of the night, as Jimbo, or someone else, should be taking watch back at base. Kelly’s was still open, as usual, something was always happening at her place, but seeing as I had already acquired liquor, there was no reason to stop in just now; so I continued on my merry way.
I figured, with three bottles, I could possibly part with one later down the line if it came down to it. I could indeed use that box of proverbial bullets for my idiomatic arm. Yes, it might all end tomorrow et.al., but if it doesn’t, you still gotta fucking live to pick for now. Or… you could always just go [or get tossed] over the fucking wall. Both bullets and guns in general however were often not as available to us plebeians in favor of the watch guys. Fair enough again. You’re on your own in the end, right? Unless…we’re all in this together, instead. Either way, I needed to get on the towers, somehow, someday, still. Better than being VP. And definitely better than being fucking mayor. Good fucking luck to whoever those council cocksuckers were that were starting the real campaign crap up.
Suddenly, in the type of epiphany that only the finest grain alcohol [thank you Hydra!] can provide, the obvious answer came to me: maybe I could sell a slogan to one of them or some shit. I laughed mordantly and took another swig. Goddamn delicious, as long as there is whiskey in the world, there is hope. This would hinge slightly on Strizzy being reliable, but he never let me down [generally] in such matters in the past, and he did have a knack for them. So, putting two and two together, I devised my brilliant plan: If this election shit is really going down, maybe I can use his nebulous nefarious network to hook something up. I never figured I’d be dabbling in politics, but the times they are-a-changing. Though, not so much so, that a true politician wouldn’t still require the services of a shit like Strizzy. And, seeing as I was now placed in a position to better myself from all of it, why not? I never wanted to be a fucking lobbyist, but I also didn’t want to be marginalized by those ostensibly in power.
Besides, once everyone got wind of this, it was all they were going to be talking about. At the base, everywhere. “Bullets or gun, who ya gonna vote for?” VOTE FOR GUN!! Vs. VOTE FOR BULLETS!! There was going to be no fucking escaping it. But, as my muse was currently in a perfectly proper exponential ratio to my rate of consumption of booze, I thought -how could I solidly formulate something further, that could not lose? “Zombotown” [wonder if I should trademark that too?] might yet see the light of day. What was that other shit? “We’re all in this together?” Yeah, that could be some kind of fucking saying. Politicians liked that shit. I hoped they still did. Additionally- I hoped they might share my refined alcoholic tastes; they’d fucking better. At least, they fucking should. Don't they? Why wouldn't they, anyway? Fuckers...Wait! I had it—“What’s it gonna be buddy: Bullets, the Gun, or Me?” Yeah! Let them eat/suck on that shitcake, whatever the fuck it meant! Maybe I will stop by the bar, now that I presently had a reason to be interested in whatever conspiracies may or may not be being concocted at Kelly’s. I took another gigantic gulp of Hydra and headed to that home that was of: an "alternate" variant, to a multitude of many.
As I was doing so, I thought how it was too bad the base was so far away from our present search sector, otherwise I might’ve been able to see these fuckers yesterday and put together some serious fun. And firepower. Maybe these zombos saw my “FUCK YOU” sign and decided to actually do something about it. Not likely, but that was pretty fucking funny to imagine. You bastards! I was smarter than you alive! Don’t think being a goddamned zombo is any kind of fucking advantage! All you fucking zombo are belong to us! I rejoiced in our little skirmish victory and joined everyone else in continuing our actual, original mission.
I was less cheerful for the fact that I hadn’t really managed to acquire anything all that useful on our car strip and search. Some pieces of plastic, a bundle of decaying papers. Of course not one motherfucker left a gun in their glove compartment. I always thought someone, anyone, anywhere, had to be the person who did that, but apparently not. Fuck ‘em though, I was determined to make this little excursion worth my time. The fight was a nice distraction, but how the fuck did that help me? Can’t use zombo parts to trade for anything. In fact the cost of its fun was that I was now minus a couple of rounds. Not fucking cheap. But maybe something could be done about that too.
We took the path we had mapped out back, a short loop into sections a few blocks away and parallel to our initial crossing. Covering more ground that way, it also gave me some more chances to find one fucking thing I could call my own. We all figured the council had some master plan to keep this shit going, and I also figured capitalism worked both ways. Venture fucking opportunity. As I was going through yet another dull gray interior and methodically slicing it out, I noticed a glint under the passenger’s seat. All that glitters is definitely not fucking gold, but I supposed I should be sure. Hoping against hope it was finally a gun, I reached under and felt what should be a lighter. Well, still something. Not completely useless. As I was clawing it out from the under the seat, something else hit my hand. That could be a fucking jackpot. If, it was something worthwhile to someone who valued it enough. I continued hauling out both the lighter and what ended up being a mostly but not fully fucked up cellphone. That might come in very fucking handy indeed. Finally something just for me. So far today, some action and some accumulations for future investment. All in a day’s work it seemed. I pocketed the trove and continued my labors in the recently-created [by the council of course] career of car-cover cutter.
We were closing in on the last few blocks, the familiar outlying sections near our base. A few more cars to go and then our trip down the Zombo-Brick road would finally be at an end. So long to this retarded endeavor. By early evening we had trudged back to the base and deposited our haul. Council also required that any “run-ins” be duly logged and noted. Fully-fucking-filed. So we had ourselves some fun filling out a: “Z.E.S. (Zombo-Encounter/Sighting) Report.” Someone from our merry band would deliver it, along with the covers, to them soon enough. Since no further orders, errands, or missions had come through in the meantime; I was back to being able to enjoy myself meanwhile [however fleeting it might be.] Now, finally, I could focus on finding that fucking booze after all this zombo-whacking, looting, and subsequent recording of said whacking. Fucking distractions. Plus, my earlier score might fetch a nice price somewhere. I decided it was market-time.
A trip down there would indeed be just the treat that I was now in need of. The place never stopped reeking of a completely pragmatic primordial putrid perfume. The stench of the struggle to survive: with a distinctly human stink. A repugnant, pungently pervasive primeval malodor of piss-soaked terror; intrinsically imbued with an inescapably faint hint of prospect. The permeable odor of “OHHHH Shiiiiiiiiiiitttttt!!!” spiced with just a touch of optimism; The persevering aroma of “…MAYBE [just!] MAYBE--We’re Gonna Be OK?!…” underneath the overwhelmingly prevailing fragrance of dumbfounded, dirty desperation. The undeniable scent of shit and scumbaggery sprinkled with a sprig of sunshine, lollipops and rainbows [and fucking unicorns too, I guess.] The smell of being surrounded on all sides by zombos and nonetheless screaming defiantly in their fucking face, “HERE. Be: HOOOooooOOOPE…!”[echoed endlessly and relentlessly as in if from a bottomless abyss.] All this constantly wafted through the gritty market air.
Similarly blowing in the wind was a recent phrase that I was just as clueless about as to how or why it originated, as everyone else seemed to be. It went something like this: “Well, which one’s it gonna be…the box of bullets, or the empty gun? ” The intent was more or less along the lines of: Sometimes, you’re equally fucked. Or sometimes just: You’re fucked, buddy, right now. Alternately: It’s the best of times and/or worst of times-just fucking pick! Finally, it could also be: “We’re ALLLL out of one [or the other.]” I mean, what fucking idiot came up with that idiom? Or was it supposed to be some kind of fucking proverb? Whatever else it might [or might not] mean or be as a phrase though, it was damn catchy [it did sort of “roll off the tongue,” you might say] and people would pepper their conversations with it. But, I guess in the goddamn Zombo Apoc, [there, I just invented a word, nay, phrase here, on the spot myself: ZomboApoc-- Fucking trademarked. Or copyright. Whatever] you can make up any damn old shit you want, as long as people know what you’re talking about, right? And what I was talking about right now was the fucking market. The bullets, or the gun? Well, I don’t have to choose, just yet, do I, buddy?
The deals to be had in this nest were better than any late-night commercial could ever offer. Free trade with hookers. Fucking council couldn’t stop that. Welcome to the new world order, dicks. Yes, the market was pretty great in its gloriously grim grandeur, in spite of all the other shit. I admit I reveled in it, a bit. Had a few whores, here and there. Why the fuck not? They had a lot of nice girls, down here. Not as much time anymore for bullshitting [I mean dating] and I had things to do. We all did, I guess. We’re all in this together, right? So I paid tribute to a real time-tested occupation when opportunity, time, and other circumstances afforded. Plus, who easier to trade some spare smokes to than hookers? I figured any time spent on blowjobs rather than drags of Jackals was a health asset to us both. Mutual benefits. I’m just a fucking humanitarian like that.
That old mechanic/electrician magician/motherfucker, he had that fucking ramshackle assembled-from-shit sign on his stall. Lenny I think. Or Lester. Some crap like that. It was on his sign, surrounded by all kinds of shit, but I kept forgetting. Ah yes, there it was now, Larry- purveyor of all electronic trash, blah blah. Actually that’s a little too harsh. The guy was alright, really. He knew how to fix all this shit and keep it running, so I suppose I couldn’t count him totally worthless. I think the council probably appreciated him for the same reason. But he still never shut the fuck up about anything, rambling to everyone and anyone who came trading to his stall. All the way back to the very first time I remember encountering him, when I got my trusty rifle, [or was it the bullets, goddamn!] No- definitely the rifle. Even that time, he jabbered incessantly. That much, I remember. Still, he’d probably be the first person to want a cellphone, ruined or otherwise, and thus the easiest way to dump it off, so I reminded myself to keep that in mind. The booze was item number one though, and I figured that there’d be time [and time] for the trading of fucking cellphones, just not at this damn moment. So I saved it for another rainy, zombo day.
Instead I instantly picked out Strizzy’s wreckage of a stall where it sat like a bloated fucking zombo head and prepared for our ritual of information and goods exchange. Strizzy himself was a shady bastard, but we had our system worked out. Our relationship functioned in a fashion that vaguely resembled that of Dr. Gonzo/R. Duke, except he really could be a fucking lawyer about shit sometimes, and I wasn't quite as crazy. I think he was some kind of small-time drug dealer back in the day. Pretty fucking likely, anyway. But what the fuck are you gonna do, when the motherfucking “ZomboApoc©” comes for you [and you need some fucking booze?] It was weird, I suppose, I knew, but it fucking worked for my…our, purposes. And that’s all that mattered. We’re all in this together, right?
When I got there he was pouring himself a cup of that grimy coffee he loved to slurp, oozing the oily, sludge-like brew into his familiar revoltingly crusty mug. How he could drink or indeed look at that fucking thing without wanting to puke was just one of the few, shall I say, quirks, of his that I have come to accept as part of his disgusting charm, but will never, fully, understand. He saw me approaching and reluctantly but genially [only this fucker could combine the two into one experience-another aspect of our dysfunctional dynamic] offered me one as well. Served in a double stack of red plastic cups of that kind that used to be copious at frat parties and shit. Before the zombos made their mad dash Sherman’s March across the world, through town, and crashed it. Bye Bye, Birdie! Anyway, Strizzy may have been a shyster in many other aspects of living, but I had to admit he was fucking courteous when he finally needed to be. And despite its repulsive appearance, the coffee itself was actually not bad, and I felt the concoction perk me up. Top fucking notch.
I guessed that he would’ve already known about our little excursion by now, since it wasn’t exactly “Goldeneye-class” shit. Not fucking important enough, who knows? And not that they’d tell anyone [least of all, us] anyway. Strizzy also confirmed the fact that he, and thus, all his information sources, were just as fucking clueless as I was about the grand purpose of it all for now. For now it seemed that we had been sent out on a trite and meaningless task [i.e. for no fucking REASON] We’d find out eventually, so why sweat it? The big news he had was that there was rumblings of some kind of election starting between some council bigwig buffoons. Was going to be a shitstorm, according to him. Well, what isn’t? While this was mildly interesting, I was still focusing on more immediate concerns. After some further plodding and plying, bantering back and forth guardedly, and another cup of coffee [which I counted as a win for me] he finally produced the purple rupee I had come to procure.
With practiced precision and technique, Strizzy unloaded a fucking motherload of booze from his magic compartments. At least as much as I’d seen in one place in a long time. He did still owe me, and since there yet remains some fucking honor amongst thieves in this little ZomboApoc© of ours, we negotiated that I would be receiving my choice of any three. A damn good deal indeed. I selected two fine, grimy bottles of Captain Ripps Rum; and one smaller one of single malt Seven-Head Hydra Whiskey* Country’s Best. Then, I departed Strizzy’s scummy stall and the mix of unpleasantness and cordiality it entailed. Peace, motherfucker.
With my real mission at last complete, I strolled back through the market. Haphazardly picking my way onwards through the maze, passing a couple of new girls that had either just set themselves up or decided to turn pro recently. One called out to me, “One toot on THIS whistle will take you far away, baby!” My reply: “No thanks, lady! No time for tooting! Not quite in the tooting mood today!” Had to be in the right fucking mindset when it was time to knock some fucking toots, right? Of that, you can be damn fucking tooting. And yes, they were all excellent window/eye candy, except that I had nothing else left I wanted to trade for love today. Sorry, whores, it seems I have no change currently, as it appears I spent all my bad pennies, already. Still fucking waiting for ‘em to come back. Though, I guess they will, eventually [right?] If the council decided to keep handing out more and more fucking “homework” assignments, anyway. Briefly that made me think of the kids in the schools they were trying to rebuild, and how fucked up that must all be. Though at least maybe soon enough they’ll have lessons in [or on] whether you should pick the bullets, or the gun? I stopped thinking about fucking kids then, and started thinking about getting fucking gone.
I started with the Hydra, to celebrate General Victory. [Here's to you, General!] Popping open the bottle on the street felt fucking great. That rule about saving the best shit for last? Fuck that. Tomorrow [and tomorrow, and tomorrow…] might be your last. But then, it might not. Gun or bullets, right? Anyway it was happy hour at last. Good times here again. I wandered lazily for a while, having a dog of a time getting decently buzzed while soaking in the waning market hours. I had no plans for the rest of the night, as Jimbo, or someone else, should be taking watch back at base. Kelly’s was still open, as usual, something was always happening at her place, but seeing as I had already acquired liquor, there was no reason to stop in just now; so I continued on my merry way.
I figured, with three bottles, I could possibly part with one later down the line if it came down to it. I could indeed use that box of proverbial bullets for my idiomatic arm. Yes, it might all end tomorrow et.al., but if it doesn’t, you still gotta fucking live to pick for now. Or… you could always just go [or get tossed] over the fucking wall. Both bullets and guns in general however were often not as available to us plebeians in favor of the watch guys. Fair enough again. You’re on your own in the end, right? Unless…we’re all in this together, instead. Either way, I needed to get on the towers, somehow, someday, still. Better than being VP. And definitely better than being fucking mayor. Good fucking luck to whoever those council cocksuckers were that were starting the real campaign crap up.
Suddenly, in the type of epiphany that only the finest grain alcohol [thank you Hydra!] can provide, the obvious answer came to me: maybe I could sell a slogan to one of them or some shit. I laughed mordantly and took another swig. Goddamn delicious, as long as there is whiskey in the world, there is hope. This would hinge slightly on Strizzy being reliable, but he never let me down [generally] in such matters in the past, and he did have a knack for them. So, putting two and two together, I devised my brilliant plan: If this election shit is really going down, maybe I can use his nebulous nefarious network to hook something up. I never figured I’d be dabbling in politics, but the times they are-a-changing. Though, not so much so, that a true politician wouldn’t still require the services of a shit like Strizzy. And, seeing as I was now placed in a position to better myself from all of it, why not? I never wanted to be a fucking lobbyist, but I also didn’t want to be marginalized by those ostensibly in power.
Besides, once everyone got wind of this, it was all they were going to be talking about. At the base, everywhere. “Bullets or gun, who ya gonna vote for?” VOTE FOR GUN!! Vs. VOTE FOR BULLETS!! There was going to be no fucking escaping it. But, as my muse was currently in a perfectly proper exponential ratio to my rate of consumption of booze, I thought -how could I solidly formulate something further, that could not lose? “Zombotown” [wonder if I should trademark that too?] might yet see the light of day. What was that other shit? “We’re all in this together?” Yeah, that could be some kind of fucking saying. Politicians liked that shit. I hoped they still did. Additionally- I hoped they might share my refined alcoholic tastes; they’d fucking better. At least, they fucking should. Don't they? Why wouldn't they, anyway? Fuckers...Wait! I had it—“What’s it gonna be buddy: Bullets, the Gun, or Me?” Yeah! Let them eat/suck on that shitcake, whatever the fuck it meant! Maybe I will stop by the bar, now that I presently had a reason to be interested in whatever conspiracies may or may not be being concocted at Kelly’s. I took another gigantic gulp of Hydra and headed to that home that was of: an "alternate" variant, to a multitude of many.
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