Saturday, October 2, 2010

Volume 5: The Haggard Hazards of Haggling

The Haggard Hazards of Haggling for Renders, Jackals, and Whores Named Amber
Or: Letting Off Some Zombo Steam
by Scott Thurlow

Some fucker recently had the balls to say to me, he found the zombos' horking, "tolerable." Almost as if they were calling back, perhaps even--singing, in some way. I had to laugh immediately in his fucking face. My immediate inquiry was-how the fuck he thought his dead grandmother had pulled a pseudo-Lazarus trick? And, further-- what had she "come back" to "tell him?" That she's going to fucking murder him? I went on to inform him that, if he ever felt like talking, or singing, back to them, that, just keep in mind, they're zombo-sirens. They aren't really “singing” for you, or to you, are they? Finally, "Fuck off," I said to him.

Their horking still had not ceased to remind me of that guy from work. And right now that made me upset. Usually it made me chuckle about how so very fucking dead and/or fucked he probably was, but I was becoming increasingly perturbed with these fucking council shenanigans. As I predicted, more and more assignments had come through, and hardly ever anything exciting.

The monotonous menial work mounted up. Each job we got was exponentially more mindless than the one that came before. And all the while, we were supposed to be fucking marching cheerfully back and forth through these Sisyphean series of assignments. I did find a few miscellaneous articles here and there on some of the missions, but not much of note. It was enough to get by though, so I suppose that was enough. Enough is enough, right?

I was still hoarding the booze. I had one Ripps bottle and a quarter of the Hydra left. I’d been saving the Ripps for either another special occasion or a truly stupendous trade offer, and dipping into the Hydra on my free time. While that was all fucking well and good, it allowed me to let off a little bit of steam, just not enough. A fucking teapot whistle, comparatively. There was another kind of steam I was looking to let off that I hadn’t quite been able to yet. It was a debate upon which I had been considering greatly. So greatly, in fact, that I was actually also considering asking Jimbo’s opinion on the matter. So I fucking did.

“Do you think that it would be more worthwhile to trade the booze for the bullets, or her?”

Jimbo’s obvious reply: “Hrm…bullets, booze, or whore?”

“Kindly. Fuck. Off. I would not like to hear it, at the moment.”

“Why not both?”

“It might cost all my booze, to get as many bullets, of the type which I want.”

“So go with a cheaper whore, or cheaper bullets, what’s the problem?”

“The fucking problem is, I do not wish to go with a cheaper either. Fucking quality only, around here, buddy. I am attempting to live comfortably in an ivory tower above the ZOMBPOC, but must account for the tide of shit that constantly laps at its walls.”

“What’s the difference, man? Or should I say to you: Wherein lies the difference upon which this matter is ‘clear’ or not, to you, dickwad?

“Because I insist upon quality living in the ZOMBPOC. If I must suffer, I will do it in fucking style.”

“Are you still using that ZOMBPOC thing? What about that busted phone that you found in the car after that fight?”

“Of which fucking phone are you speaking--ooohh….Oh shit!”

Jimbo grinned his Jimbo grin at me again and shook his head. Mother. Fucker.

Thanks to my good pal’s good-natured prodding, I stomped back to my room to find that exact fucking phone of which he reminded me. No longer would I be forced to decide upon such a ridiculous choice, and phrase. Instead my options now were of where and how to acquire enough rounds of some quality ammo, and the roughly equivalent hooker [one: Amber Shanahan] as well. While searching, I noticed that I seemed to be running a bit low on Jackals. Where the fuck was that phone? Ah, there it was, in my spare shoe pile, in the corner. I had stashed it quickly away that time, and forgotten it in all this drudgery. But now, it seemed my problems were about to be solved. Armed with the phone, and the bottle, another trip to the market was called for. I rushed out to it.

First, it was finally Larry-time. Time to pay the leering piper. Exchange a bone or two with him.
Get rid of this fucking phone. I don’t particularly need or want it, but this guy definitely would. It was all favors for favors. Exchanges involving money had become “bad news.” Bones, or credit, something you agree upon to do for some other fucker [rendered at an acceptable time/occasion] were the current currency. Larry of course probably didn’t have any bullets himself, but he was likely owed by another who did [at least I was fucking hoping.] Please let this geezer keep to a minimum of squawking. Just tell me what I need to know, old man. I sought out his stall and after explaining what I wanted, I implored him, with the absolute utmost of urgency, “Listen Larry, just tell me who the fucking guy is, and where to find him, please. Thank you very fucking much.” Yes, thanks, asshole. Saying “thank you” to people in the ZOMBPOC [my newest revision] isn’t the same as saying you trusted them. Still, I always made it a point to thank the fuckers whom I thought were completely, well…as I said. I thanked everyone, actually. My point, however, remains.

I found the fucker’s stall Larry had directed me to and explained the deal. I cashed in Larry’s owed favor for a three-quarters box of top-tier Renders rounds. Where this Mr. Box O’ Bullets had got these babies from and how he had managed to keep them so far (he must’ve owed Larry a big fucking bone) I had no fucking clue, but when I thanked him, I meant it more sincerely than I had throughout the day so far. With that complete, I set about seeing if I could gobble up some more Jacks from someone or somewhere before moving onto the next stage of byzantine bone bartering.

A stop by Strizzy’s was pretty much obligatory. I considered trading the booze back to him, that’d be fucking hilarious, but actually he had a better idea. This was one major reason I kept up my dealings with this fucker; it usually paid off. The count of times I had to inform him what a serious fucking caffeine fiend he is was probably as innumerable now as my zombo no-shit reminders. Over another cup of what I had to admit, was damn fine coffee he had here in the ZOMBPOC, Strizzy laid out the plan. The election was rapidly approaching ahead, and some of Kelly’s underlings were asking quite politely for citizens to support this certain Jenkins fucker. Since a bullet was as good as gun to me, now that I had both, I quickly agreed. Get on with the fucking show.

Next step was to get the most bones worth out of the Ripps. Strizzy again had the answer, and it involved dealings with Kelly and co. Since one of their “establishments” was a hotbed for local activity, it would be fucking beneficial to all to share the wealth, for once. Sunny, Al , and his crew of cohorts had their system precisely defined and refined so they could most efficiently track your bones, and time on the girls. With my record, and since Capt. Ripps was in fact, as I have noted earlier, well-known for being fucking good shit, [and Strizzy being the superbly slimy salesman he is] Al and co. had agreed that it was worth a solid uninterrupted hour’s worth of “my girl’s” time. Plus twenty bones worth of credit to start. More than fucking fair. So I acquiesced, for once.

With everything in its right place and all transactions accounted for, I could now head into the main event-- Al’s All Singing-All Dancing (And Gaming) Playhouse. It was a converted old church hall, the perfect place to restore the saloon-style resort of yore. Just inside the doors there was a sign that read:

Registered Whores and Gambling Gentlemen, Only
See Al or doorman
Beyond this point: there is no: Zombs, fighting, dying, or killing, etc.!
This means you!!! Take it outside, asshole!

A guy named C. Dog happened to the working door tonight. He also fulfilled the role of bouncer and maĆ®tre d’. I believe he was another known “cousin” of Al’s. He wrote up the bone note for me and sat me at one of the dusty, musty, felt tables. I started with a wager of five and rolled the shells. Come on you bastard…fuck! All zomboheads. A fucking fail. I placed ten on a second try and rolled again. This time—victory! Humans rule! And this one wins! Zombos can suck it! I began to order drinks. One complimentary, spiked with some of my own former rum [tasting richly of irony] while I tossed the shells and won and lost bones back and forth for a bit, in the miniature battle game version of Us. Vs. Them. I was still trying to somehow convince Al and the rest to call it “Humans Rule!” but they wouldn’t. They did however, let me yell it out fairly fucking frequently, or whenever I won. After a bit, I had had enough of rolling for Us Against Them, [haven’t we all, though, at some point?] and was ready to see Amber-fucking-Shanahan. She was surely ready for fucking me.

Upstairs, in her room, my last brew was rapidly un-cooling while a half-smoked Jackal slowly burned itself out from an ashtray resting on her candlelit bedside stool. But I didn’t really mind all that much, as Amber’s tits more than made up for that. Her ass too. What a fucking ass. This girl, was definitely top fucking class. Double barrel. Double kill. The guns and the bullets, buddy. Best of both worlds. Fully loaded six-shooter in your fucking face, with fucking fireworks.

She lay mostly naked next to me now. I feasted my sight upon her gorgeous, glossy, gleaming auburn hair, and pale, supple skin. Hidden in her body’s nooks and crannies, like Easter eggs, were the most adorable fucking freckles. She tasted and smelled ever so slightly of a sickly sweet flavor of vanilla. Amber was oddly nuts about bed-biting too, often leaving bunches of bruises on my arms. Her eyes sparkled and glimmered hazily between shades of aquamarine and emerald-green, that I could never quite remember which they really were afterwards. When they looked into me, they said, “Hunt…? I’m gonne fucken eat ye’ alive…” It was infinitely better than the zombo alternative.

Yes, Amber was a truly magnificent bitch. Whatever it was that we may [or may not] have shared together during these times, it kept me going. And definitely this fucking time. If the zombos got me, my last thought would be of her. Or fucking her. Possibly they would just be, “Fffuuuuccckkk mmmeeeeeeee…” Only one way to find out. But here and now, I was lending my ears towards her lilting voice, and burying myself in her bosom, praising it, as her words floated out from her delightfully dimpled mouth. I could never really tell for sure if her accent was real. She once “secretly” told me her actual surname was “Winters,” but, that she was truly Irish. Either way, I fucking liked it. It was soothing in a hauntingly melodic and familiar way. Quite the opposite of the zombos’ horking hit single. How I hated their “song.” But conversely, how now I loved Amber’s tight little thong [the pair decorated with dancing, yes, unicorns. Whom, as I told her it appeared to me, were not riding on top of, but rather, shitting out, rainbows.] At least the zombos still had that going for them. The color of her underwear perfectly complimented that of her ever-shifting irises. Green, or blue? Goddamn!

Indeed, all of Amber Shanahan’s [or Winters’] womanly ways and many sensuous charms were well worth the parting with of my beloved booze [Farewell, Capt. Ripps! Bon voyage, sir! I hope he understands.] And the cost of tossing shells [also, I suppose my pledged support to Strizzy and his minions for…who the fuck was it again? Jenkins! Right?] Though women may be the fucking rake in a place like this; [all the other girls fucked more or less the same. Imagine being asked to describe your favorite flavor of sprinkle, what’s the fucking difference?] a certain Ms. Shanahan-Winters could rake the fuck out of me, any day. Sometimes, she did.

The hour went fast. Just fucking fast enough. Enough fucking, was eventually, enough. Amber was fan-fucking-tastic though, make no mistake. Mark my words, and rest fully assured, of that. We shared a few more of the Jackals I had managed to snatch earlier, throughout. She was one person in the ZOMBPOC that could convince me to willingly part with them. Not many people could get away with that. But as always, sooner rather than later, we had to sweetly and sorrowfully part ways, Amber Shanahan [Winters] and I.

“Time te’ go, love-y. Off with ye’ now,” she said with her signature wink and crazy kitten smile, as she rolled out of bed to scurry me out of her room. She could be so very fucking cute in her casual callousness, as well. Like all great whores, she was deceitful, manipulative, and heartless-- possessing an astoundingly cruel beauty. It was why I may have fucking loved her. At the very least, it was definitely why I loved fucking her. Time for me to go, Love-y. But I shall return, at a point in the very near fucking future. Have no doubt of that. At the end of the day, the unavoidable fact remained that we all had jobs to do. Additional remaining facts: Zombos don’t shit. And They have not got me yet. There is truly no fucking peace for the wicked.

I trudged back downstairs and traded back five of the remaining bones on my note for a final drink. I happened to run into a Watch guy on the way out. I traded whatever else I had left to him and told him keep me in mind. He mumbled something about Jenkins and I hastily nodded, promptly thanked him for the reminder. I’d heard through the [Strizzy] grapevine that there was an open tower spot via some very bad fucking shit going down. I never had anything against the guy who gave it up, I’m guessing unwillingly. But I still had high hopes for eventual life in the ZOMPOC, and I thought it best to keep my options open.

After departing Al’s Playhouse for the night, almost all of my personal interest tasks were crossed off the list. The plot was close to being concisely wrapped up into a pretty little package. My destination had moved to the final planned stop for this night. Along the way, I paused to add a few variations of phrases that Amber and I had thought up to the wall art. It was another pastime of ours, during breaks, as she might say, “from ‘tweens’t th’ fucken’ sheeets.” I quickly scribbled: You can't give a blowjob to a dickless zombo! [Mine.] And added: What about handjobs to (H)armless! [Hers.] My personal top pick however: Go lick a zombo’s ass! At least it won’t taste like shit! But I digress. This was mere distraction. There was one last thing to do.

Sneaking over to the spot of my faithful and trusty “Fuck You” sign, [true friend] I thanked it for being there still. I then lit up one more Jackal. Had to fucking smoke, right fucking now. I peered out over the gap and listened. That noise. That fucking noise. It has to stop. But it cannot, will it? It will never fucking stop. Fat fucking chance. Not fucking likely. That'll be the goddamned day. Not a fucking chance in ZOMBPOC hell, will that noise, ever stop.

Same with the council. First that older guy, now this Jenkins fool [even though Strizzy said he was solid, so maybe he’s not such a scumbag after all. It remains to be seen] I just wanted to get some fucking peace and quiet. But both they and the zombos kept saying, “NOOOOOOO.” [Well, not the zombos verbatim, but…] They would not, in fact, could not, ever fucking relent. They were incapable of it. Did not know the fucking meaning of. I would have said, “Fuck ‘em all! Let God sort ‘em out! Because I can’t take this shit anymore!” But, it seems, in the ZOMBPOC, neither could God. Either he quit, or he got fucking fired for being incompetent. Goddamn zombos ran ‘Em right ‘outta business. Whichever, seems now it’s fallen on me do the job at hand.

I steadied my rifle, with its freshly inserted Renders, and held it at the ready. Exhaled some smoke then tossed the Jackal. In that moment, I focused all my annoyance at the recent drudgery. How none of it approached what could be considered even close to any kind of fucking fun, at all. And in that second, I decided that: I have had it up to fucking here, with all this shit! Never, ever, is this shit going to fucking fly! Not on my time, buddy! Not in my fucking ZOMBPOC!

I fired the shot off. A split-second later, I was satisfied as all hell to see it score a direct headshot. The round sprayed the zombo’s brains and bloodshit all over the side of a far part of the outer wall. POW, motherfucker. Gained the lead. Practice makes fucking perfect, it would appear. Now, for real, that’s enough. The steam has been let off, in every possible way. All out of steam, for now. Time to head back to base for bed [and maybe a shot of the dwindling Hydra.] So long, and thanks to the ZOMBPOC for all the fucking zombos, for headshots with Renders, and last but definitely not least, for girls like fucking-Amber-Winters/Shanahan.

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