Thursday, September 30, 2010

Volume 5 release

Hey everyone,

Tomorrow is the 1st of the month, marking the release of Volume 5 of Life After Death. There will be five stories: two from Steven Ormosi, one from Scott Thurlow, and a two-parter from J. Ian Manczur.

A Midday Connoiter by Steven Ormosi
-In which brothers meet and the shit is shot

The Haggard Hazards of Haggling (Zombos Pt.3) by Scott Thurlow
-In which our hero braves the trials and tribulations of post-apocalyptic bartering

Moral Dissonance by Steven Ormosi
-In which lines are made in the sand..and crossed.

Ike and Dave's Infinite Playlist of Music to Be Murdered By (Pt. 2) by J. Ian Manczur
-In which Ike and Dave philosophize guns and zombies

Ike and Dave's Infinite Playlist of Music to Be Murdered By (final) by J. Ian Manczur
-In which our heroes finally headshot some zombies while listening to groovy tunes

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

LAD Website Shorts: Just Another Dead

Just Another Dead
by J. Ian Manczur

“Where do we go from here,” she begged, “where do we go from here?”

Do I lie to her again? Do I say everything will be ok? Do I smile sweetly? Hope that she believes me?

I smiled sweetly. “Everything will be ok,” I lied. Again. She believed me.

She cried into my chest. Soft heaves. I put the gun to her head. She didn’t feel a thing.

It was over. I took off the bookcase, it fell to the floor. I ripped off the planks, one, two. I unlatched the deadbolt. Removed the chain lock. Flipped the handle’s lock. Opened the door.

I walked out in tears, firing at ever increasing silhouettes. Five. Four. Three. Two. I turned the gun on myself. One.

Who was I? Does it matter? Just another dead. Who was anyone? That girl? Someone I met. Strangers two days before. Another I lied to. That I told that everything would be ok. That I smiled sweetly for, hoping that she believed me. Just another dead.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

LAD Website Shorts: Zombies 101

Zombies 101
by Steven Ormosi

“They’re not zombies, how many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Well then what are they, Val?”

“I have no idea, but they’re not zombies. Zombies are dead slaves of Voodoo priests and priestesses, dude. These things obviously don’t serve anyone, they just eat people. Also, zombies can’t turn others into zombies, only the living can create a zombie.”

Zip rolled his eyes, “Listen, I’ve watched like a hundred zombie flicks. These things are straight out of 28 Days Later.”

Val rubbed her temples, “How can I explain this to you any more clearly? Those were not zombies, these are not zombies. Romero stole the word and made it mean something completely different than was originally intended. Didn’t you ever see White Zombie?”

“No,” Zip admitted.

“I thought you were some big horror film fan. Well, it’s a movie from the 30’s. It’s about real zombies. The ones made from crazy rituals.”

“So…that still doesn’t answer my question. What are these things?”

“I don’t know, but they’re a lot closer to vampires than zombies. They feast on human flesh. They transform anyone they bite. The only difference is that they seem to be dumber than a bag of hammers and they don’t have the usual weaknesses. But those always seemed made up anyway. I mean, vamps are allergic to sunlight, garlic, can’t see themselves in mirrors? That’s retarded. It’s like someone said, ‘Damn, these things are way too badass, I’ve got to lame them up a little bit.’”

“Ok, so they’re basically unstoppable, dumb shit vampires. How does that help us get out of this hole?”

Val paused for a moment, then sighed, “It doesn’t at all. We’re fucked. We’re going to die down here. But at least you won’t die ignorant.”

“I’m not dying down here,” Zip said, crawling toward the exit, “Come on you vampire bastards! Let’s see what you got!”

Seconds later there was a scream and then a sickening snap. A trickle of blood seeped into the entrance and Val heard a low pitched gurgling. She shifted her body back as far as she could into the blackness as the thing approached. She tried to keep her breathing steady, but the fear and anticipation turned it quick and ragged. A tear rolled down her face as she braced for her next life.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Poetry: Not 'Til Now

Not ‘Til Now
by Steven Ormosi

You were just a monster ‘til now
Now you don’t drink all the time
Now you don’t hit me
Now you don’t hit mommy
Now you don’t get angry
Now you just get hungry
Now people protect us from you
Now we have a fence to guard us
Now the neighbors come over to make sure we’re ok
Now I don’t have to lie to them
Now I can sleep at night
Now I can remember your good parts
Now I can love you.

Poetry: Bad Sun on the Rise

Bad Sun on the Rise
by Steve Ormosi

After the sun breaks the horizon
Is when it really sets in
No more hope in a new day
No more excitement that the light brings
(Brought)
And I can’t help but wonder
Where our history went
The people we knew
The chances we took on them
Gone, now.
There is only me left
Solop-static and teary eyed
All that’s left now
Are my dreams of that grave future,
Are my nights before the dawn.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Poetry: Before We Came to This Place

Before We Came to This Place
by Kathryn Ormosi

Y’know,
I can almost pretend that things are just the way they should be
When I wake up in the morning
I still revel in the last, dreamy bits
of sleep
in that euphoric moment
when the world is fresh
and waiting to be explored again.
Sometimes, I can even make it through breakfast
as the first swallow of coffee
hot and sweet
makes me glad to be alive.
Somewhere around the fifth spoonful of oatmeal
I realize
it tastes like a mouthful of glue.
and that is when
I start to remember.
There will be no exploring, no driving for hours
to find the finest ocean beach
the hidden mountain creek
the tiny yellow flowers in that meadow down south.
I am here.
Captive.
Unless of course, I run the gauntlet
of creatures.
Creatures who, formerly, ate oatmeal
and swallowed great satisfying mouthfuls
of hot coffee and juice and pancakes
around my table.
Creatures who, formerly, smiled
at my indignant reaction
to stories in the newspaper.
Creatures who, formerly, leaned over my kitchen sink
to wash dishes from the last night’s supper.
Of course, then, their eyes were alive with feeling,
for me.
Now they wait outside.
Just watching
for me.
I can’t let them in.
I can’t think about them.
I can’t wish it back.
I can only dream in nightmare worlds
over and over,
of the sweetness
of life
before.

Poetry: The Porch

The Porch
by Kathryn Ormosi

I’ve wiped up the blood
as best I can
I’m afraid some
seeped
through the cracks
And no matter how hard I try
I can’t seem to get it all.
I know it’s there
darkening
as time goes on
but it never quite goes away.

I can’t believe
how much there was.
How it pooled
around your head
I couldn’t stop it
from coming out
You couldn’t move, I know.
But your eyes followed me
silently,
fading
with each pump of your
heart.

The gunshot took me by surprise.

I knew about the gun.
I didn’t know you were sitting out there,
each night
watching for the intruders.
I didn’t think the trigger
would be so easy to pull.
I didn’t know
how much blood
there would be.
And how
you never
quite
go
away.

Poetry: Legacy

Legacy
by Steven Ormosi

These infected have left us undone
Expectantly waiting behind a shotgun
We’re racing and racing and racing the clock
And pacing, and thinking and acting half cocked
But before the day that they take our last
We’ll bury our dead and honor the past
One final stand will have to be made
They’ll bring their teeth, we’ll bring our blades
Though try as we will to win in this fight
They’re tirelessly working to prove might makes right
So now it’s our time to ride at the sun
And our unholy children will snatch up the crumbs.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

If You Want Something Done Right: Interview Transciption

J. Ian Manczur: Hi guys. Steve Ormosi.

Steven Ormosi: (waves) How are ya?

Ian: And Scott Thurlow.

Scott Thurlow: (nods) How you doing?

Ian: Alright, this is the first interview for Life After Death. Steve, you had conceptualized Life After Death. Can you explain to us the process of creating it?

Steve: Well, I had the initial idea, a long time ago, a long time ago. I mean, you know, maybe not that long , in comparison. Two or three years ago. I wanted to do a novel about zombies, but I wasn’t really ready to take on a project like that yet. Life After Death was more of a thing that I could look into all the different tropes that encompass zombie movies or post-apocalyptic movies. I could explore them all, in their own separate stories. So, I basically told you guys about it. You were both really excited about it and that’s how it kind of got started, doing this.

Scott: I just want to interject. Because we love zombies and also like to write.

Steve: Pretty much, yeah. So, we started writing the stories and the plotlines, storylines, came up out of that, out of the first ones that we did. All of our original concepts and ideas were a lot different than what we eventually came out with. I think it turned out really well. It has definitely helped, at least my writing has gotten better because of it, which I’m happy about. And hopefully it continues to get better, as we get deeper into the stories and plotlines that are developing for LAD.

Ian: Alright, Scott. How did you get involved in Life After Death?

Scott: Well, you just heard the first half of it. As Steve said, we all were kind of a little writing circle, group, if you will. We were interested in the same kind of things, in terms of literature, in terms of genres. IE: zombies, horror(general), of course, post apocalyptia. So, being that we are trying to improve ourselves, as artists and as writers, I thought it was an awesome way to start up. See where it took us. It was a pretty bumpy ride, but we saw it through.

I think, the greatest thing, as Steve said, it just helped us become better writers. We’re becoming ones, now, as we continue to work on it. And seeing, as it develops, where it takes, where we go, with characters, storylines, and settings. See how we can improve ourselves. Also, get ourselves out there as a brand. As LAD Publishing, perhaps, and we can branch out to other things. Of course, this is our main project and we are focusing on it. A lot of time and effort and research into it. See where it goes, where it takes us, and in what way.

Ian: Alright, what separates your work from the mass quantity of other zombie related material? Why should we read Life After Death over any of the others?

Steve: Well, I think a big thing is that it’s not solely a zombie book, not solely zombie stories. It’s more about the people after the zombies have already massacred and destroyed the world. So, when you see a zombie movie, a lot of times, it’s about people running away and being scared for their lives. Most people don’t stop and think: what happens to those people afterwards, they are still equally screwed. That’s kind of what we are trying to deal with. The putting back together of society, after..

Scott: The rebuilding.

Steve: Yeah. Exactly. After it’s destruction, pretty much. Seeing how people deal with that destruction, not only on their own personal level but on a societal level, as well.

Ian: Anything to add, Scott?

Scott: No, pretty much.. Actually, I think one of the lines, from one of Steve’s story, goes as such, I believe, correct me if I am wrong: “Once the apocalypse becomes mundane, world peace goes out the window.”(1) Which, I think, pretty much sums up what we are trying to explore. As he said, most of the other genres, or the other things in the genre, that you will see, read, hear about, is about people struggling, running away, it’s all just action. It doesn’t really explore how it would be like to live and try to regain humanity, itself, as a species, now that they’re fighting this threat that they never had to face before. How do you fight something like that? What’s it like to live through something like that?

I think that’s what makes LAD stand out or a little bit different from all the other zombie related things and apocalyptic related things out there. It’s that we are exploring our characters, not just fighting, well they are fighting zombies. That’s, sort of, only a little part of it. It’s not the entire thing. Not the be all, end all. So, that’s something we are trying to do, to inject our setting, our world, with a little bit of a different spin. See how that goes, and then explore our themes within that.

Ian: You mentioned characters, and how it is a character driven story. Either among your own writing, or your fellow writers writing, redundant, what are some of your favorite characters from Life After Death?

Scott: Well, I’ll go first. I am a big fan of the man behind the camera right now. He has a character named Theo, which he introduces him in the first story of issue one.(2) I think we discussed this, but it was interesting because, you as a writer did not like this character. But me as a writer, myself that is, reading the story, I sort of identified with him. So, that little interesting aside. Theo stood out, initially, as a character that I liked.

I obviously like my character, unnamed of course, from the first story.(3) The readers will get his name later on. Of course, being that it was my first character, the one I put probably the most time developing, getting a feel for, obviously I have an affinity for him, as a character.

I don’t know. I think we have more characters to come that we haven’t even seen yet, so we may surprise ourselves with what comes out.

Steve: For me, I’m always kind of self-conscious, or self-degrading, about my own stuff. So it’s tough to pick one of my characters. In terms of your guys characters, I love the Drunk.(4) He’s great. Always good for a laugh. You know, laughs are important, especially after the end of the world.

For Scott, actually, I think my favorite characters of yours, so far, is one that was introduced before, but just got his first actual story.(5) It’s Strizzy and his stall.

Scott: Oh, yes.

Steve: I like that story, I like his mindset.

Scott: Thank you, buddy.

Steve: I guess, my favorite character that I’ve written, so far, is Bruce Jenkins,(6) who is supposedly the..

Scott: He’s a good character.

Steve: ..the mayor’s brother. I don’t want to give anything away, but..

Scott: Spoiler alert!

Steve: ..that’s not necessarily confirmed.

Ian: Don’t worry, no one’s watching.

Steve: That’s not necessarily confirmed yet. A lot more stuff to come from him in the future, which should be good.

Scott: Who’s your favorite character, Ian, J. Ian Manczur?

Ian: Well, I’m not self-conscious. I love my own writing. So, I love everything I ever created.

Scott: But who’s your favorite character or a character you like?

Ian: I particularly agree with Steve, that the Drunk is perhaps one of my most brilliant creations… in all modesty.

Scott: Can you tell our no fans what the Drunk’s actual name is?

Ian: Mike Allen. Which I don’t think I… aside from my own personal commentary on my website,(7) I don’t think I’ve ever actually mentioned his full name. In fact, that might confuse people because I do mention him as Mike in this coming week’s volume 4.

Steve: I think you might have said his name. (grabs Volume 1)

Ian: I didn’t say his name in ‘The Drunk’ originally.(8)

Steve: No?

Ian: Speaking of which, you’re grabbing right now(in reference to Steve holding the magazine), not you Scott(in reference to Scott’s hands on his crotch, which he moves away with resignation), Steevo. (laughter) What are you holding right now?

Steve: This is the first volume that we..

Scott: Of Life After Death.

Steve: Right, of Life After Death, the magazine. The first two we actually put out in physical form. We have since gone to putting them up on the internet on the blog that we have. We are going to be moving websites soon, though, so look out for that. This is just the first issue. This is what I am going to be reading from today.(9)

Scott: We will all be reading excerpts from issue 1.

Steve: Right.

Ian: Is there any future… Now you mentioned that you are going from.. went from a physical magazine to an online publication. Is there any future plans to return to a physical representation of Life After Death?

Steve: Yes. In fact, I think after the sixth or possibly seventh issue, we are going to do a collected edition in kind of a novel format.

Scott: It would be more of an anthology. We were talking about rearranging the order of them a little bit. We’ll see how it goes.

Steve: Right. We’ll have to look at all that stuff when the time comes.

Scott: We are planning to put out another physical product.

Steve: We should have that. That will contain all the stories, the short stories that we have up on the website now, and the poems that we have up there as well. And I guess we are going to try to put any art that we have, which isn’t much at this point.

Scott: Ask us about art.

Steve: I don’t want to talk about art.

Ian: I don’t want to talk about art either. Any artists watching this: you suck. Just kidding, please send us stuff.

Scott: If you think you can actually do something, work with us. Let us know.

Ian: What has been the greatest difficulty in creating the magazine, speaking of art.

Scott: That. Art. Art is the greatest difficulty. I will look directly at the camera and tell you, as we all know. It was hard because it isn’t our forte, so we had to sort of wing it. We got some good results, but it took a lot of time and effort and, again, we can’t do everything, all of us at once. So, we sort of had to cut our losses. It was a good experience and I’m glad we put out two issues. They looked great. In the end, it was an amazing time, but just trying to get everything to come together, as well as being on top of the writing, editing, and everything else we were trying to do. Because, we mentioned the blog, we were still trying to set up things with that. We were trying to push it out in other ways, too. It just became more convenient to.. get it out.

Steve: Deadlines for artists have been, in my experience, kind of tough to maintain. Not only that, but doing the layout of the book. I had never done anything like that before. That was kind of a learning experience. I think it could have come out better, but at the same time it didn’t come out too badly. It’s a lot easier now that I’m not spending seven or eight hours doing that the day before I wanted it to come out.

Ian: Anything else that I, that you would like to mention?

Scott: Check out our site.

Steve: Yea, just go to the site. www.lifeafterdeath-comp.blogspot.com

Scott: Gotta remember it, but we have other ways of checking us out.

Steve: Or check us out on Facebook.(10)

Ian: Which is Life After Death, no need for a - or a comp.

Steve: Just throw in Life After Death.

Scott: Straight up Life After Death. You’ll probably see a picture of this(points to Volume 2 cover). So, you can check us out in other ways on the various internets.

Steve: All seven of them.

Scott: We also have business cards.

Ian: Hmm, yes. Well, gentlemen, thank you for your time.

Scott: Thank you, J. Ian Manczur.(nods)

Steve: Thank you.(waves)

Ian: And those of you watching us, read our shit.

Scott: Thanks for reading.


_____________________________________________________
1 Our World
2 Theo’s Story
3 All You Fucking Zombos
4 The Drunk: A Prelude of Ed’s & The Drunk’s Christmas Special
5 Fresh Grinds From Strizzy’s(Reluctantly Added, "Scummy") Stall
6 The Big “It”
7 www.smoothedcube.blogspot.com
8 I did.
9 We recorded partial audio readings of our stories from Volume 1. They will be available sometime in the future.

If You Want Something Done Right: An Interview with the Creators of Life After Death

Welcome to the first ever Life After Death video feature. Do you like brain munching zombies? Yea, how about headshots? Or even better, thousands of zombies being killed in rather implausible but badass ways? Me too. That is why I am apologizing.

This is an interview. Hosted by me, J. Ian Manczur, interviewing Scott and Steve. It will be giving a little insight into the creation of Life After Death. Nothing too fancy, but if you are fans, maybe it will be something you would like to see.

WARNING: The audio is a little low, I apologize, but it is my first production.

A few solutions:
*Change the video resolution to the highest quality, maybe that will help.
* Read along with the transcript provided here.
* Turn our video into a game of mad libs and imagine what we are saying. Then, write us nasty letters about all the terrible things we said of you and question how we knew the dark secrets harbored in your subconscious.

Without further ado, Zombiepiece Theater:

Monday, September 6, 2010

Volume 4: Upon The Pondering of Arms: Nathaniel's Journeys Part 1

Upon The Pondering Of Arms: Nathaniel’s Journeys Part 1
by Scott Thurlow

The first throat that Nathaniel cut did not bleed.  Not that it was really blood anymore, but almost none of the stuff that usually came out, did this time.  The rest of the head came off cleanly after a second slice with his short, serrated hunting knife.  It glinted faintly beneath the moonlit road as he worked quietly.  The dead thing he was kneeling over had lost both its arms and must’ve slowly leaked most of its bile out at some indeterminate prior point; stumbling about whatever its existence had been like before it was ended just now by Nathaniel.  He briefly wondered at the circumstances that had led to its armless condition.  It was helpful that it had been much easier to take down in this case.  Nathaniel also wondered how this one survived for so long without the use of its limbs to prey on the living.  He certainly hadn’t seen anything like it, until now.  He wasn’t particularly surprised by it though.

Nathaniel wiped his knife off habitually and checked his victim’s pockets for anything of value.  Empty.  When he was done he stared down at the severed head.  The eyes returned the look darkly, remaining unblinking and unforgiving detached from the body, as always.  That was fine by him.  He didn’t really forgive them either.  Nathaniel stood and kicked the head away from his path before moving the stumpy corpse to the edge of the woods he had come through and continuing cautiously on the causeway.

Further up, Nathaniel guessed about a mile or two at most, he came across a couple more of the things shuffling on the side of the road and honking in short bursts to each other.  Both had all their limbs intact, which was going to make his task slightly more challenging than the last encounter.  He looked around for anything in the immediate environment that could possibly aid him, or trip him up if he didn’t see it before engaging the fight.

Squatting down to the side of the road behind some thick but sickly-looking scrub growth that appeared to be enjoying a stranglehold on the shallow bank, Nathaniel uncoiled a length of rope from his pack.  He snipped off what he figured would be about the right length and edged closer to the two snuffling monsters.  He didn’t recognize either.  Not that he was expecting to, but sometimes he just never knew.  It did make it that much easier to focus on the next part however.

He crawled as silently as he could towards the nearest one that had its back turned to him.  The other one still honked on, but now it seemed to be hunched over something on the opposite side of the road.  Nathaniel figured this was the best chance he was going to get, and sprang to action.  He lunged forward and wrapped the rope around the first one’s feet, quickly tying it off before yanking on its legs.  It went down with a muffled honk, slamming face first into the ground.  His knife was out as he scrambled to run it cleanly and deeply enough across the back of its neck, which did ooze black filth profusely, though Nathaniel didn’t have time to watch.

The second one was now rounding to see what the commotion was and presumably why its “friend” had stopped communicating.  Nathaniel braced himself for its charge.  As it came at him, he stepped aside and tripped it, sending it sprawling in the ground, with a noise very much like the first had made.  That was the key, he had found.  Get them to the ground, remove their mobility.  He grabbed a decent sized rock he had spotted earlier and moved to methodically bash it against this one’s head before it could get back to its feet.  The geyser of gore that spewed forth mostly made up for the earlier missed sightings, though as always, Nathaniel tried to avoid getting too much on him.

Afterwards, he wiped himself down and glanced around, making sure it was safe to pull out his flashlight and recover his tools from the fight.  Another lesson learned long ago: be thorough.  He gathered the rope back up and set about checking the pockets of these two.  One had a half pack of gum that was as hard as stone.  The other had what appeared to be a faded, losing lottery ticket.  Aside from those, neither had anything useful for Nathaniel.  More junk.  He sighed and set about the second part of his ritual.  Nathaniel figured the ditch was as good a place as any for their true graves, as he dragged both bodies into it.

With the “burial” complete, he moved to the side of the road where he had seen the second thing crouched before the fight.  Examining the patch of earth closely with his flashlight, he could now clearly see the object it had been so intensely craned over earlier.  A mangled and gnawed arm lay there, decorated with some kind of tattoo that Nathaniel was unable to fully make out due to its state of extreme decay.

There was still a lot of road and night to go, and although it seemed to be fairly smooth sailing for now, Nathaniel was acutely aware that he could never know exactly when a storm might rise up out of the sea and swallow him up.  He didn’t like the looks of that arm, the sight of it lying there, discarded like a used baby’s bottle, which it might as well have been.  It made him uneasy, unlike anything else he had done and seen so far this night.  Gazing at it was making him think back on another arm he once knew.  Anna’s.

It happened roughly a week after television stopped making sense, and the day after Anna had taken a turn for the worse over the previous night.  By then there were hardly any more rumors and garbled government warnings and instructions coming out.  Most of the people left in their town had boarded up their homes into miniature, picketed fenced fortresses, lined like sentinels up and down the street.  Nathaniel and Anna had been no exception.  Before that, they had heatedly talked about whether or not they should leave, evacuate, like it was at first being advised to do, or stay and hold out against whatever might be coming their way.  Nathaniel and Anna were as uncertain as everyone else in town on the issue.

“But where to?”  Nathaniel had said, over their seemingly endless debates before the day.

“I know we’ve heard they’re quarantining, or trying to I guess, somewhere, but we haven’t heard much of anything else.  The closest one is supposedly a hundred miles away, and there’s no telling what they’re really going to do to us.  Or be like.  And besides…” On and on.  While Anna would constantly respond that, “surely someone was doing something about ‘all this’.”  They went back and forth like this each day before going to bed, restless but thankful for each other.

It was about nine-thirty in the morning that day, when they suddenly heard a crashing of garbage cans and muffled voices outside their lovely light lavender home.  Nathaniel looked over, not expecting to see Anna out of bed yet.  The night before she was tossing and turning for hours before finally settling down.  She didn’t look too well still, but he thought that her being on her feet was perhaps an encouraging sign.

“Sounds like something’s… going on…down the street,” she slurred.  “Maybe help…or some news about …anything…finally…”  She stumbled over to the door as Nathaniel nervously followed and embraced her in the doorway, halting her.

“Hey.  Wait.  Just be careful.  Take it easy, Ann.  Maybe you should have some water or something first.  You don’t look so well.  We don’t know even what’s going on, we probably should wait…”  She shrugged limply out of his arms without a word and opened the door to step out, heading towards the sounds of the commotion.  Nathaniel followed suit behind as Anna led him partly into the street in the direction of the disturbance.  No amount of news coverage description or any other kind of second-hand account or wild imaginings could have prepared him for what he was about to witness.

The first group of people he recognized were their neighbors, the Hardy family, from two houses down.  They were a slightly older married couple named John and Amy, joined by their older son, Charlie.  All three chased the younger Hardy boy, Jason, across their yard and into the street in something akin to a ludicrously aggressive, reverse game of tag.  Upon catching Jason, John, Amy and Charlie Hardy began to greedily consume him.  Nathaniel yelled unintelligibly, and very loudly, a reflex, just then at the horribly surreal scene that was now playing out before them.  Which was to be the beginning of the end.

As soon as they finished chewing on poor Jason, they rose up and began advancing on Nathaniel and Anna, who herself was now faltering and stumbling quite a bit with every step.  The three Hardys however, happily united as a family in their gruesome game, were eager for another round.  Nathaniel was yet composed enough to grab Anna’s hand and start pulling her as rapidly as he could back across the street towards their driveway, supporting what now felt like her full weight.  The Hardys hurriedly followed in their footsteps.

He made it back just to the edge of their driveway before the herd of hunting Hardys caught up and pounced on Anna, ripping her from Nathaniel’s grip as she shrieked.  They dragged her down by the back of her pretty flower-patterned green dress and throttled her gurgled scream as they tore her into her like dogs would a raw bloody steak.  Disturbingly, it resembled almost exactly the manner that had befallen Jason.  Horrifyingly hypnotizing; morbidly mesmerizing in its brutal efficiency.  Charlie seemed to be especially enjoying the feast, munching gluttonously on Anna’s left arm.  Munch.  Munch.  Munching.  Crunching and chomping away at it like it was his favorite, most delicious snack in the whole world.  That was the thing that paralyzed Nathaniel with absolute unspeakable dread, utterly freezing him and rendering him unable to move or think as he saw it happening.  Incapable of deciding in favor of either fight or flight, he could only simply watch in numbing fright.  Then in a flash, that part inside him realized that he had only those two choices: start moving again or succumb to the same fate in seconds.  He chose.

Other events had been unfolding out in the streets and yards of their (no longer) quiet town during this short time.  More people, neighbors, workers from local stores, school teachers, were coming out of their houses.  They were being followed or led by one another in what would have been a comically fast paced chase of circles, were it not for the excessive violence involved when one caught up to another and put a grisly end to it.

Tears were streaming uncontrollably down Nathaniel’s face as he dashed the final feet to the car as fast as he could.  He could hear the Hardys getting up again to start their abhorrent chase, with him now their target, and let out another animal yelp.  As if in gross response, they too all started to make noise.  He wasn’t sure if it was at him, or each other, or both, and he did not want to know.  But the noise went on, got louder, as they all joined in and got closer.  It was the most horrible sound Nathaniel had ever heard in his entire life.

He fumbled with the keys but managed to get them out and slam the door behind him as he fell into the relative safety of the driver’s seat.  He found himself besieged then by the various people he knew throughout his life, singly focused on the idea of devouring him and probably everyone else left alive in the neighborhood for breakfast.  Foremost amongst them were the recently revenant Hardys (from two houses down) and Anna.  Sweet, adorable Anna.  His Anna.  Their grating voices croaking outside the car window jolted Nathaniel to action as he thrust the keys in and started up the engine.  He backed recklessly out of the driveway, hitting one of them on the way, Amy it looked like, which made him start crying even harder.

Before Nathaniel had a chance to pull away down the street, he looked out to the last vision he would ever have of his town, and of Anna.  The front of her dress was stained darkly from the bites at her neck while her mauled arm appeared as if it had been dipped in tar or grease.  She was at the head of the small crowd that was converging on his car, joining those who had suffered the fate of the Hardys, and billions of others now throughout the world.

 She looked out at him distantly with cold, cold, eyes, which were also still so very, very, blue, and now hopelessly gone.  They would never again be the shining stars Nathaniel had always told Anna they were to him.  He forced himself to turn away and jammed on the gas pedal while frantically wiping the tears from his own (very much alive) eyes.  Then, with no room for other thoughts, he sped off and kept driving far, far away, for a long, long time, finally stopping to bawl some more before collapsing into a fretful sleep.  He had locked himself in his car on the side of what he fearfully hoped was a safe enough section of whichever road he was on.  He could not think of or bring himself to do anything else at the time.

After that Nathaniel drove in a daze for miles and days on end.  Stopping surreptitiously to check stores and gas stations, any place nearby on the road that seemed like it might offer shelter or supplies.   He also found a few nightmarish surprises.  He would sleep always locked away, silent and hidden, under the layers of blankets in the back seat of his car.  Then it was back to driving.  Nathaniel decided to only drive in one direction, east, away, ever away.  Away from his former life in his former small town and former neighbors, the Hardys, and former girlfriend, Anna (thinking about her was like running a razor across his brain, so he tried not to do it often. Though it was difficult at times.)  All of whom had eaten and made a wreck of everything he knew.  He cried profusely along the way, alternating it with bouts of furious, blinding rage (spent punching the seats until his fists hurt too much or he got too tired to continue) that he had previously not thought himself capable of.

A multitude of other events had transpired during and since that time of endless driving, but they were far too many for Nathaniel to think about or remember as clearly as the one that had just come to him in that moment, staring down at the arm in the dead of night.  He decided he was no longer going to look at it or dwell on it, or any other arms, and what they did or did not mean, or might or might not have meant.  Instead, he walked away and despite the night’s activities was slightly less wearied.  It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, all in all.

Sometime recently the city he heard about was where he decided he’d head next, and though Nathaniel knew it was still a ways to go, at the present moment it was as if he were being carried to it on the invisible tide. Nathaniel found himself sensing that, just as it was impossible to tell when the gale storms would begin to batter, likewise sometimes a perfect calm will arise out of nowhere and settle.  He sailed serenely onwards, always watchful.  He kept a pace that allowed the rest of this night’s journey to seem to at once take forever, and no time at all.

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Volume 4: The Drunk's Christmas Special

THE DRUNK'S CHRISTMAS SPECIAL
The Adventures of Schmoopy and Other Tales from the 23rd Floor
By J. Ian Manczur

“And that, kiddos, is how I killed zombified Santa Claus and took over as the new Santa.” Mike turned to his assemblage, a baker’s dozen of ten year olds. “Yes, what do you want?”

“Doesn’t Santa Claus wear red?”

“Red was the color of the old regime, besides red is a communist color. Do you know what communism is, kiddos? No, well it doesn’t really matter anymore. I had all the elves vote and we chose Hawaiian shirts. Why? Because I firmly believe in the wondrous tenets of democracy, through a federal constitutional republic, and you should too. Those tenets chose, or dare I say demanded, that Hawaiian style shirts be worn. I guess it’s not really Christmas-y per se, but I do have the big bushy beard. And presents! Snickers, Butterfingers, Baby Ruth, Charleston Chew…I‘m keeping that for myself. Here, kid, have this Hershey kiss instead. Alright, glasses, what do you want?”

“Mom told me Santa Claus wasn’t real.”

“Santa? Not real? I’m right here.” Mike backhanded the kid across the face. “That real enough for you, you little shit? Give me that candy bar back and get the fuck outta here. Here, tubby, you look like you would enjoy this. You, the ugly one.”

“I..”

“No, not you, the ugly, fat girl next to you.” Tears welled in the girl’s eyes and she ran away crying. Mike turned to the original responder. “Fine, what were you going to say, Scrappy Doo.”

“My name’s Billy.”

“From here on out, it’s Scrappy Doo, got that children? Santa deems it so.”

“Will you finish the story that you started last night?”

“And that is why you are Scrappy Doo, because you are an ungrateful little monstrosity of a child. You’ll just have to wait for Uncle Ike’s big birthday bash tonight to find out what happens to him, Uncle Dave and Jack. But, I will let you in on a secret, one of the three dies.”

A group of adults rounded the corner. “Hey Mike, keeping the children entertained?”

“You know it. All set up for the bonfire tonight?”

“Oh yea, almost time to get blitzed. See you later, Mike.”

“Catch you later, Dave. So where was I?”

Scrappy Doo spoke up. “You were telling us why you weren’t telling us the story.”

“No, no, I finished with that. You, glasses, wait, I‘m naming you Sherman, you pasty ginger asshole. Now, what is it?”

“Mom told me that we shouldn’t listen to any of your stories. That you lacked morals and smelled like a hobo.”

“And who is your mother, Sherman?”

“Caitlyn.”

“Caitlyn…” Mike laughed. “Well, she may have the right to criticize my hygiene, but MORALS? Bah, I’ll talk to her about morals the next time I catch her on her knees out back of Ed’s.”

One of the girls rose her hand. “What does ’on her knees’ mean?”

“Well, darling, that means Sherman’s mother is a dirty prostitute. Anyway, if she thinks my stories have no morals, I’ll give her one with plenty of morals. This is a story of what it means to be an American. This story is about freedom, self-determination, and gratuitous nudity. This is the story of Simon.”

It was a wonderful time to be alive. Everyone else was dead, all the people that had pissed him off and what a list that was. Simon had the amazing ability of immediately finding a damning flaw in almost every person he had ever met. Those who escaped his keen eye for wickedness usually proved themselves equally worthy of demise within five minutes of conversation.

Yet, even in his revelry that the entire rest of humanity was gone, Simon knew that it was mostly speculative. The only death he was entirely sure of was that of the ugly Ms. Aberdash’s prized dog Schmoopy. Simon didn’t know the breed of dog Schmoopy belonged to, but he did know it was small, loud and had the penchant to poop in his doorway. He hated that dog and when he realized that Ms. Aberdash was most likely dead, he took his revenge. Kicking in her apartment door, which was next to his, he found Schmoopy lying in her bed. Probably knowing his intent, and with equal hostility, Schmoopy went for the ankles. It was a daring attack, but the dog soon found itself launched off the 23rd story balcony to the streets below.

In celebration of his victory, Simon threw all of his own clothes off the balcony. He had long before decided that nudity was natural and that should the opportunity arise to live naked for the rest of his life, he would take it. It seemed to Simon that the time had come. He had only been clothed in order to appease those who had demanded he wear clothes. They were dead now, so their rules, their laws, no longer applied.

Before, he had to be careful about his public nudity. Yes, there were the occasional opportunities at the nude beach, but it was a long drive away. Simon’s public nudity had been mostly regulated to the locker room of the local gym after his biweekly swimming sessions. No more, though, his buttocks was for the world to see. Simon was the only person left alive. It was now his place to make the rules. The new rule, the new law, would be everyone had to be naked.

He decided to announce his decision from the balcony. After all, weren’t all great moments of history shouted from balconies? With furious declaration, Simon shouted to the world, “I’m naked!” The zombies had no opinion on the matter.

A distant “SHUT UP” echoed through the streets. Damn, someone else survived.

It didn’t matter, though, they, and a likely clothed they, were probably on a lower floor than he. Simon had the height, Simon had the higher balcony, Simon had the rule of law. They would have to listen to him and be naked too. Then, Simon came to a realization. There were a number of other high-rises in the area. If they were even on the 24th floor of another apartment block, then Simon would have to be clothed once again. That wasn’t going to happen, he needed to be proactive.

Gathering what goods he cared to keep, which were few, Simon climbed the stairs to the top floor of his apartment building, the 25th floor. The likelihood of any other survivor having a higher floor than the 25th was nigh impossible.

Upon reaching the pinnacle of his lawmaking career, Simon had a very difficult choice to make. There were two apartments on the 25th floor. Although he had already decided on occupying the whole floor, for how could he risk having another live on the same level, he still needed to choose between his living quarters and his office as president of the world.

He sat in the hallway between the two, deciding with the grave importance of a man whose job it was now to make grand decisions on things, whether to live in the apartment that sat opposite or the same as the one he had until ten minutes ago lived in. The deciding factor ended up being the view from his apartment, one that he would sorely miss. At first, it seemed obvious that he would choose the apartment on the same side that his old apartment was on, which he had lived in not thirty minutes ago. Then, came the realization that he would be spending the majority of his days legislating and proclaiming his will; so let it be written, so let it be done. Only nights would be spent in his living quarters. Thus, it was finally decided to take the apartment that sat opposite the building of the apartment that he had lived in previously, fifty-six minutes ago.

What a choice it was, too, the apartment was unlocked for him. Upon entering, Simon was surprised to find five men who all looked surprisingly similar staring at him. He couldn’t quite comprehend why the five men were sitting in his apartment, but he was too worried about the ramifications to say anything meaningful. Meanwhile, the men were also dumbfounded by the sudden appearance of a rather naked man in their threshold.

After a rather long and rather awkward pause, one of the men asked, “Why are you naked?”

“Why aren’t you naked? It’s the law!” Simon quickly fled. He had debated fighting them for the right of presidency, but he had only one gun, which was downstairs, while three of the men had already pulled guns while the other two went for theirs. He could no longer stay in his apartment building. It wouldn’t be long before the men demanded Simon wear clothes and he could have sworn that they owned a cat, and he hated cats more than he hated ugly Ms. Aberdash’s stupid dog Schmoopy. People who own cats could not be trusted.

His next law was going to outlaw pets of all kinds, except birds. The only place he could think to go was the hospital. It was the tallest building in New Shroudsburg and Simon doubted anyone would be living in the hospital. From there, no one could challenge his rule. His only stop on his way out was to pick up his trusty cat-killing rifle and a rather large stick that had caught his fancy one day. Simon left his apartment, his sanctuary on the 23rd floor, to brave the new world, naked.

“And what do you think of that, kiddos?” The chaos of children in front of him sat still, unsure of what to make of Mike’s story. “Fine then, but you must admit there are at least two, probably more, morals to that story.”

“I‘m confused.”

“Sherman! Jesus Chris..topher Columbus. Not another word, NOT ANOTHER WORD! Fine, if I must spell out everything for you, this was a tale about individuality, about carving your own path in life. Your life is your own, never let anyone else stop you from being you. Yadda, yadda, yadda. But, in reality, in times such as now, we need the enterprise of every single person still alive. There are still men who will be dishonest, men who will lead you astray, men who will try to take advantage of you. The only real defense you have against them is to be true to yourself. Remember my wise words.”

“What happened the naked man, Santa?”

“Oh, well little girl, he died. I mean, he was naked. And crazy; really crazy… So, I guess that makes my point moot. Instead of this being a tale of morality or a parable, let’s make this a cautionary tale. Individuality is bad, trying to make your own way in the world will just lead you to your deaths. So, remember kiddos, conformity is the key to success. Do what your elders tell you and always agree with the majority. Yeah. That’s the American way. Now, who wants cookies?”

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Volume 4: Ike and Dave's Infinite Playlist of Music to be Murdered By

THE HOST FROM THE SOUTH
Ike & Dave’s Infinite Playlist of Music to be Murdered By
by J. Ian Manczur

Ike leveled his rifle. He had been casually surveying the horde, seeing what there was to see and risking the off chance that a ghost from his past would choose to appear. In previous efforts, he had been lucky enough to find nothing but strangers. Today, in what was an inevitability, an old acquaintance shuffled amongst the dead. The man had no name, no history. Whoever he might have once been was lost with his life. The only thing Ike knew was that the man had saved him. Ike had planned to meet the man, to introduce himself and thank him for his life. The chance never came; now, the man was dead and Ike had failed him. With a pull of the trigger, the man turned to chunks and mist. It was the least he could do.

He put down the gun and settled back in his chair. Theo snickered next to him, wearing a sneer that seemed to be forever imbedded in his face. It wasn’t a pleasant look, aging Theo at least ten years. “What was that all about?”

Ike thought carefully on how to respond and decided to ignore the question altogether. Instead, he emptied and cleaned his rifle in ritualistic fashion.

“Being secretive, are we? Let me guess, settling an old debt?”

“More or less.”

Theo only accompanied Ike in Dave’s absence. Otherwise, he would be skulking downstairs doing who knows what. It didn’t take long for Ike to find out that Theo had little, if anything, interesting to say. Mostly he talked about his past, his father and his regret of not joining them at the island retreat. Ike doubted that a paradise haven for the wealthy existed and decided that anything Theo said was probably a lie. Yet, bad company was better than no company at all, especially if the bad company provided beverages.

Ike sat back, drinking Theo’s beer and nodding along to the stories he only half listened to. After paying the appropriate amount of attention listening to someone who had given him free alcohol, Ike departed, citing the lie that he was concerned about Jack’s well being. Ike proceeded to trade up to a more silent, if unconscious, companion. He returned indoors to find the bundle of blood-washed bandages and fever stained sheets that compromised the being that was once Jack. He wasn’t a pretty sight.

Most that decry their ill fortunes fail to see their own responsibility. In Jack, though, Ike saw a man more than just afflicted by self-made destruction; here was a man that was a victim of circumstance. Of all the conceivable and many inconceivable maladies that crossed Jack’s path like a parade of black cats, the fact that he was still alive only added to the improbable nature of his luck.

And thus in the style of his life, any impressive actions he had taken towards the larger good were bogged down and overshadowed by his reputation for ill fortune. Ike found himself tempted towards the negative, even with his many positive remembrances and his self proclaimed immunity towards the swaying opinions of lesser men. Perhaps, he too was swept up in a conspiracy of fortune against Jack.

With the last of his thoughts pondered, Ike returned out to the unexpectedly empty porch. Theo had made a hasty retreat coinciding with a racket coming from the nearby window. The sound meant that either Dave was returning home or a zombie was breaking in, each being enough of a reason for Theo to not want to be around.

Gun drawn for the unlikely latter reason, Ike was happy to find Dave attempting to squeeze through the bedroom window. Ike pulled the chair from under Dave’s entrance and sat across the room to observe his friend’s troubles. And what troubles they were. Dave found himself wedged face down and out, his shirt caught on jagged metal, and his body parallel to both the wooden floor and the alley two stories below. He frantically waved his feet to reach the chair he had placed for easy access back in the room; the same chair that Ike now occupied. With a good dose of jiggling and wiggling, contorting and exhorting, and tearing and swearing, Dave finally made it in the room. As he dusted himself off, Dave noticed Ike sitting in the room. “Thanks for the help.”

“You’re welcome. So, what’s up?”

“I have good news and bad news.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“Really? Ok, well, the roof next door is too high. We could probably make it, but Jack can’t.”

“So we leave Jack then. Done and done.”

“No!”

“No?”

“I can‘t believe you are so casually suggesting we kill him.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Ease off the gas. No one said anything about killing.”

“Leaving him is basically the same thing.”

“If anything, we’re doing him a favor. The grenade, the Molotov, the rusty nail: all Jack, all to himself.”

“But…”

“Kid, he ran over Captain Ripps with a school bus.”

“While saving those kids.”

“Fuck them. He. Ran. Over. Captain Ripps.”

“I do miss that dog.”

“You didn’t have to scrape him off the tires.”

“He didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

“What’s your point?”

“He’s just unlucky.”

Dave shrugged. “I can‘t argue with that.”

“Sooner, rather than later, he’s going to die. He can only take so much punishment.”

“Not necessarily.”

“The man lit himself on fire!”

“That doesn’t mean we should leave him alone to die.”

“Not alone, he’ll have Theo.”

“That’s worse.”

“Maybe we’re meant to, you know, maybe it’s his fate.”

“I don’t think it works like that.”

“It does.”

“What do you want me to say, Ike?”

“That you trust my judgment and will leave Jack behind.”

“I’m not going to leave him. If you want to go, you have my blessing.”

“Blessing? Anyway, I’m not going to go without you.”

“Then it’s settled.”

“You’re really not going to back down, are you? Fine. So, what was the good news?”

“There’s this nice little garden back yard thingy. We should be able to cut through, almost all the way down the block, pretty easily. Even better: zombie free.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? Jack can totally stay with us.”

“After all that?”

“You should have started with the good news.”

The two split, each off to their own tasks to prepare for the next day.

As night settled in, Ike and Dave were joined by a more conscious and more upbeat Jack. Ike couldn’t decide if this turn was due to Jack’s tenacious will or the copious amounts of painkiller that Jack had ingested. Either way, he played a mean game of three man Hearts for a person that had suffered enough to kill a luckier man.

Ike reshuffled the deck. “You know, Hearts is much better with a fourth. I’m just saying, Theo might be..”

Dave cut him off, “No.”

“I don’t really understand what you have against him.”

“He almost got us killed!”

“So did Bob Hurley, but you still have a fucking hard-on for the man.”

“Fuck you, Ike.”

“I’m just saying, if he ordered you to go down on him, you’d be down there.”

Jack advised Dave to ignore the taunts.

“Stay out of this Bandages. Dave, all I want to hear you say is, ‘I don’t have a secret crush on Bob Hurley.’”

“You know, the term ‘secret crush’ is a little gay.”

“This isn’t about me, Dave my boy, this is about you.”

“Fine, I don’t have a secret crush on Bob Hurley.”

“Didn’t believe that for a second. What about you, Bandages?”

Jack interrupted the pointless exchange. “Gentlemen, if I may be serious for a moment.”

Dave sighed from relief, “Please.”

Jack adjusted himself to a more presentable position. Dave hurried over to help him, but Jack shot an aggravated look. “Don’t do that. I don’t need to be treated like a child.” Jack lifted himself up to turn to Ike. “And I don’t like you and I’m sure you don’t like me.” Ike didn’t disagree. “I just want to say that I can take care of myself.”

Ike scoffed. “Obviously.”

“Ike!”

Jack hushed Dave‘s protests with a wave. “I know that there’s no love lost between us, but for better or worse, we’re stuck together, we‘re all stuck together. I know I must look a fright, but it’s really not that bad. As the knight said: tis’ but a flesh wound.” Jack stood to make his point. “My point is, if we’re going to make it, we need to trust each other, we need to know that we will be there for each other, so, I’m making a peace offering.” Jack reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a smaller zip-lock bag. Ike and Dave stared at the contents in impressed silence.

Ike laughed, “You’ve been holding out on us, Cheech?”

“That.. is a lot of ganja.”

Jack rolled a fat joint. “I should warn you, gentlemen, that this is for medicinal purposes only.”

“Yea, it’ll cure you being a constant pain in my ass.”

“Lovely.” Jack sparked the joint.

The three played a few more rounds of cards before settling down to chat. The smoke helped ease the tension between the group. They reminisced of times before and of times together and reminded each other of how they had survived as long as they had. After their tales of bravado and their one-up-manship of the most ridiculous things seen so far, Jack brought it back to a more personal level. “So, guys, if you knew that the world was going to end the way it did, what would you have done differently?”

Dave was the first to answer. “Well, I’ve been actually thinking about this a lot.” He fished out his wallet, which Ike thought was strange that he still carried, and pulled out his debit card. “I have fifty thousand dollars that I had been saving up for awhile. I had planned to take some time off, travel and do the things that I missed out on when I was younger. I mean, I’m still young, but time has a way of sneaking up on you. I got my adventure, that’s true, but I went without for so long and now it means nothing. I would have spent every last penny. Ike?”

Ike didn’t even bother to think about it. His answer was only delayed to exhale, “Nothing.”

Dave didn’t believe him, “Nothing?”

“I really enjoy who I am.” Ike shrugged, “If I changed anything, I wouldn’t be the same.”

“How about you, Jack, what would you change?”

“When I was a kid, back in high school, I was a wild guy. My nickname was Mad Jack and boy did I deserve it. Football, booze, parties, women; it was the fucking life. I passed up many opportunities to go to college for football, I wanted my legacy to be more than just how good I was with a ball. So, I hunkered down and worked, I wanted to be an architect…” Ike passed out.

Ike woke to Dave standing over him. “You missed a great story last night. Jack’s such a fascinating guy. He went on about how his wife had cancer, and how she died in his arms. His daughter who he hadn’t spoken to in years. It was really tragic, but very inspiring.”

“Yea, sounds it. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of other opportunities to hear it again.”

“Not if your predictions come true.”

“Just as good, I really didn’t care to hear it.”

Dave rolled his eyes and exaggeratedly sighed in his Dave-ish way.

They headed down, Theo was once again nowhere to be found. Ike briefly wondered where he had gone, but his attention was soon drawn by Jack, who looked quite energetic for a dead man. “You guys ready to go?”

Ike hushed him with a wave of his finger. “One sec, we have a pre-battle tradition.” Dave took two items out of his bag and passed one to Ike. They were Ipods with headphones attached.

“I’m afraid to ask, how do you keep them charged?”

Dave tapped his bag. “Easy, car chargers. You know, abandoned cars are plentiful, especially in garages attached to houses. Like this one had a really nice Cadillac. If there’s a car, you can usually find the keys somewhere. And voila, perfectly charged Ipods.”

Ike added, “Besides, what’s the point of fighting in the post-apocalypse without a sweet soundtrack? Plus, it‘s good for teamwork. Helps with rhythm.”

Dave thumbed through his selection. “So what are we listening to today, 80s?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Karma Chameleon?”

“Red, gold and green.”

“So, we’re agreed.”

“Hmmm, I don’t know, it just doesn’t feel right for this situation.”

“And what situation would it be right for?”

Ike pondered for a moment. “Chainsaws!”

“Now that you said it, it does seems pretty obvious.”

“I’ve got it. Wake Me Up Before You Go Go.”

“Ooooooooh, that is good.”

“I know. I suggested it.”

“But..”

“What now Dave?”

“There is no disagreement that it is truly a wonderful song to kill things to, but I feel it doesn’t quite work in this context.”

“Not the right weapons?”

“Not the right scale. Wake Me Up needs to be played when we are fighting at least several hundred enemies. It’s a song you die to.”

“It’s a song you play as you are charging to your death.”

“Now you’re getting the point.”

“Such a miniscule event as this would be a waste of their talent!”

“And that wouldn’t be right!”

“Blasphemy is what that is!”

“Jack! Any suggestions?” Jack simply shook his head in disgrace. “Right-oh. Thriller?”

“Too corny.”

“Prince?”

“When Doves Cry?”

“Hell yea.”

“How can you just leave me standing?”

“Alone in a world that’s so cold.”

“So cold!”

“Maybe I’m just too demanding?”

“Maybe I’m just like my father, too bold?”

Jack turned to walk outside. “You know, I was just starting to like you guys.”

“Jack! Why do we scream at each other?”

Dave cast his eyes down mournfully, “So this is what it sounds like when doves cry.”

“I hate you both so much.”

TO BE CONTINUED…