A Call to Action by Ed Jenkins
by Steven Ormosi
I see you all here today and I allow myself to be hopeful for the future. Not only our future, but the future of our children, and our childrens' children. We have lived through the greatest tragedy ever visited upon this Earth and yet we survive. But I think it is time to do more than survive. I think it is time to thrive. And once we have unleashed our potential here, we will spread out again and retake what is ours. Manifest Destiny was a term once used to cut a swath clear across what used to be this great country of ours. It is no longer an American idea. Now it is a human one. We are responsible not only for keeping ourselves or our city or even our country alive. We are accountable for the survival of the entire human race.
A large part of that is due to the courage of a man who sacrificed everything to make sure that the wrong people did not take power. I know you have all heard this story by now, but it is one that should never be forgotten throughout the rest of human history. One we will pass on from generation to generation. Jonah Smith made the ultimate sacrifice earlier this week. He gave up his own life to make sure that there was a better and brighter future for us all. Even upon threat of death, he did all that was necessary to make sure that kidnappers and murderers do not take control of this city through deception and lies.
My opponent in this race, Max Donovan, had agents capture Jonah and attempt to force him to lie to all of you about the nature of my campaign. If he had come forward with what they wanted him to tell you, I believe that our cause would have been lost and our city torn asunder. Instead, he was able to relay a message via an intrepid reporter. One who he was only allowed access to if he agreed to tell her lies that would have falsely inflated the validity of Mr. Donovan’s campaign and demeaned all of the tireless and good, hard working people helping with mine. Jonah knew in his heart that he could not do that and was able to slip the reporter a note detailing his capture and subsequent torture. We believe that Jonah’s death in the quarantine cages was no mistake, but the work of Donovan himself. We are now collecting evidence to corroborate that. Those responsible will be punished.
In the meantime though, Donovan is still out there, trying to tear down that which we strive to build. He is battling us at every turn and though he may think that he is doing right, I know that his obstinate meddling, even after he has lost the election, is something that could destroy us in this delicate time. Can we allow that?
No, you are absolutely right. We cannot allow it. Again, I say, we must all band together now or know that we will all be torn apart.
We are few, but we are strong. We will survive this. I am, in fact, assembling a small search party now. It will be their job to go out into the world outside our walls and see what is left. What is usable. To find out if there are any survivors. And to find out how intense the threat on the outside still is. I know stepping beyond the walls still makes some of you apprehensive. Believe me, I share your concerns. But we cannot be controlled by our fear. We cannot let it keep us in. We are prisoners. This world is not ours right now. We must take it back. This excursion is the first small step towards doing that. The members will be announced within the week.
I also want to address some concerns voiced that we will shut down the bazaar. These are perpetuated by Max Donovan’s camp and could not be further from the truth. Our marketplace is the cornerstone of what drives us. Yes, there will be regulations at some point, but I think that will only make the market stronger. For now, you need to know that your stands are safe. As many of you know, I often walk through for dinner or a coffee. Believe me when I say that without the bazaar we would have torn each other to pieces by now and I have no intention of letting that happen.
So we have to keep on growing and creating. We have to do the things that make us human without fear or equivocation. We have to prove that we are better and stronger than those things outside. When they hungrily call for our blood, we will answer with theirs. This is not only a call to arms. This is a call to strength, to humanity. The next coming months will be the new baptism of civilization. One by fire, no doubt. All we can do is make ready our hearts and steel our nerves. It will not be an easy task, but it will be a rewarding one. Our world, back in our hands.
The only obstacle is our own fear. We must together make a stand and if those who used to be part of our race will not understand what is ours, then we will show them! We will be a united front against the horrors. We will no longer cower from that which goes bump in the night. They will not break our walls! They will not enter this sacred city, not today, not tomorrow, not ever! All the hordes of the world will not, by force, drink a drop of our blood, or set a scratch at the nape of a single one of our necks, inside this place. The only enemy we have to fear is that which sows destruction amongst our own ranks. If destruction is our lot, then we must be its author and finisher. As a city, no, as a nation, of free men, we will live forever, or die by suicide.
Heed me. We must rebuild the pillars of our society. We must become the beacon that humanity uses to find its way back from the brink. And we must gain the freedom that our forefathers preached about. Not from tyranny this time, but from ultimate destruction itself. We will join our voices together and shout: The legions of Hell will not prevail against us.
Thank you, and God Bless America.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Volume 4: Bitter Truths
Bitter Truths
by Steven Ormosi
“Took you long enough,” Jonah yelled down to him.
“So where are they?” Ben shouted back indignantly.
“There was only one, I saw him running around so I cranked the siren. He started coming up the ladder. I shot him.” Jonah pointed at the ground where the creature was laying.
Ben went up and fired a shot into its head. “Well that’s lucky. C’mon down and help me search the wall for the leak.”
Ben had brought the emergency radio in and gave the folks inside the all clear before they commenced the search.
“This is weird shit, Ben. I don’t see any others and I didn’t notice any cracks on my walk through yesterday. Where the hell did it come from?”
“Beats me, man,” said Ben as he stepped behind Jonah, brought up his gun handle and smashed it down on the back of Jonah’s head.
Jonah fell in a heap to the ground and immediately grabbed at his head, unaware of what had happened. He turned over just in time to see the second blow with the butt of the gun crash into his face, and then everything went dark.
Jonah awoke with a monstrous headache, he was tied to a chair. There was a table in front of him. Ben and another man who Jonah didn’t recognize were standing across the table from him. Ben spoke.
“Hey buddy, I’m real sorry about bashing you in the head like that. I didn’t really have time to convince you to come along. I know you’re a little groggy right now and probably don’t really know what’s going on. Being as you’d put it all together in a few minutes anyway, I’ll just help you out. You rang the siren earlier because you saw a null skull. You then killed that nullie. I came in and knocked you out and dragged you away. I had a few friends help me cover up said situation. And no, you don’t get to know who they are. Anyway, the whole point of this little smash and grab was to make it look like you were killed in the line of duty. Now everyone wanted to just kill you for real, but we’re pals and I convinced them that you were more important alive. I’m gonna let this stuff sink in for a bit. We’re gonna have someone come by and take a look at your melon. Then I’ll let you know the rest of the plan.”
Jonah’s head lolled on his neck as he struggled to spit on Ben but only ended up getting it on the front of his own shirt.
Some time later, a man came into the room. He was alone. He shone a light in Jonah’s eyes. He checked the bump on Jonah’s head. Jonah flinched away when he touched it. Then the man walked out. Ben strolled in a couple of minutes later.
“Looks like you’re going to be just fine, Jonah. A clean bill of health.”
“Fuck you, Ben. Tell me what’s going on.”
“What’s going on is that Kelly, is a megalomaniacal monster who is going to destroy this city if Jenkins is elected. She’s got her hand in so many pies around here that she makes the Free Masons look like amateurs. I know you don’t know too much about what she really does, but she’s dangerous to this place and to our survival. Max Donovan has to win that election.”
“And what do I have to do with that?”
“You, my friend, are in the perfect position to help us out. Look, nobody wants a war, but that’s exactly what this city is headed for if we don’t get ourselves straight. We can’t tolerate Kelly running this town, she’s a mobster, a terrorist. We’re going to try to do this without causing the people of the city to break apart, but if Max Donovan doesn’t win, everyone is going to find out exactly the same information that I’m about to share with you.”
Jonah swung his head up to look into Ben’s eyes. “So you’re saying that you are going to show me something, or tell me something that will make me turn on one of my closest friends. That is, after you’ve already knocked me out, dragged me to some dungeon and tied me to a chair. Sorry if I’m a little skeptical.”
Ben took a folder from a bag he had on the floor, opened it and took out several photos, “These are pictures of Kelly’s father. His name was Patrick Finnegan. He ran almost all organized crime in the city before the collapse. We have evidence that Kelly is following in her old man’s footsteps. She has a crew of lieutenants who work under her.” He took out more photos and spread them out in front of Jonah. “You probably recognize them. These men have been discretely terrorizing key figures in the city telling them that if Ed Jenkins doesn’t win this election, certain bad things are going to happen to them and the people they care about. These men are known criminals, killers.”
Jonah laughed, “You can’t be serious. Yeah, I recognize them. I play cards with them every week, they’re a little bit rough, but they’re not killers.”
“Don’t be naïve, Jonah.” Ben pulled out several more pictures from the folder, Polaroids this time. “These people were all killed by Kelly’s crew. These have been taken within the last two weeks.” He pointed at one. “This one shows her top lieutenant, Perry in the act of executing a man who went against her requests.”
Jonah stared at the likeness of the man he knew as a bad bluffer holding a gun to the head of another man who was on his knees, crying. “This can’t be real.”
“Well it’s not like there’s Photoshop anymore, buddy. We’re lighting our houses with candles, remember? Trust me, that’s the real McCoy.”
“Kelly wouldn’t…”
“She would and has. Listen, I wish that I had some way to make this easier for you, but the truth is that she’s a killer who’s trying to become a fascist dictator through Ed Jenkins. We can’t let that happen. Look at this.” He pointed to another picture. “She gave the order that started this fire. Twenty people were killed in this building. She’s a monster, Jonah. Worse than those things outside the wall. At least they’re not aware of what they’re doing.”
“Ben, I don’t know. I don’t know how to get my head around this.”
“I know it’s tough. I’ll give you some time alone, but we can’t afford much. You need to work this out, soon, if Jenkins wins this election, it could be the end of mankind as we know it.“
Ben picked up the photos and his bag and left the room.
Jonah called out for Ben.
“Yeah, Jonah,” Ben said as he entered the doorway.
“What are you proposing?”
Ben said, “I have to know you’re with us, Jonah. That you won’t betray us. You have the chance to be the most important person in the history of the human race right now. Your choice could ultimately decide whether we survive as a species or are torn apart from within. You’ve got to pledge your allegiance.”
Jonah sighed, “I don’t think I really have a choice, but you’re right, Ben, those photos you showed me. Things like that can’t happen for no reason. Things like that are unforgivable. I pledge my allegiance to your cause.”
“Ok,” Ben said, “Here’s the plan. We’re going to bring you back and say that Max sent out a search party to find you. We’re going to tell everyone that we saved your life. You are then going to implicate Ed Jenkins for the breach of the wall. You’re going to have to ride out a week in quarantine. We’ll make sure you get your own cage. But before that happens, we’ll have a reporter come and take a statement from you. You’re going to tell how Ed Jenkins’ campaign manager, Kelly let those creatures through. She was seen by several people near the wall when the siren was going off. It won’t be hard to pin her for the breach with your testimony. That should be plenty to convince people that Jenkins doesn’t have the people at heart.”
“Well, let’s get this over with.”
As they pulled him up and untied him, Jonah’s head swirled with the consequences of what he was about to do. Ben was right, this was a huge decision, one that shouldn’t be taken lightly. The right words, the right tone. Everything needed to be perfect. Hell this might be the last important thing he’d ever do. He didn’t want to screw it all up now.
They led him through a series of houses near the wall, he assumed so that no one saw him as he approached the quarantine cages. They led him inside. He sat down.
A reporter came into the room and sat down in front of him. The metal mesh between them reminded Jonah of Confession, back in the days when absolved sin meant anything.
One day I’ll break, thought Jonah, but not today.
“So where are they?” Ben shouted back indignantly.
“There was only one, I saw him running around so I cranked the siren. He started coming up the ladder. I shot him.” Jonah pointed at the ground where the creature was laying.
Ben went up and fired a shot into its head. “Well that’s lucky. C’mon down and help me search the wall for the leak.”
Ben had brought the emergency radio in and gave the folks inside the all clear before they commenced the search.
“This is weird shit, Ben. I don’t see any others and I didn’t notice any cracks on my walk through yesterday. Where the hell did it come from?”
“Beats me, man,” said Ben as he stepped behind Jonah, brought up his gun handle and smashed it down on the back of Jonah’s head.
Jonah fell in a heap to the ground and immediately grabbed at his head, unaware of what had happened. He turned over just in time to see the second blow with the butt of the gun crash into his face, and then everything went dark.
Jonah awoke with a monstrous headache, he was tied to a chair. There was a table in front of him. Ben and another man who Jonah didn’t recognize were standing across the table from him. Ben spoke.
“Hey buddy, I’m real sorry about bashing you in the head like that. I didn’t really have time to convince you to come along. I know you’re a little groggy right now and probably don’t really know what’s going on. Being as you’d put it all together in a few minutes anyway, I’ll just help you out. You rang the siren earlier because you saw a null skull. You then killed that nullie. I came in and knocked you out and dragged you away. I had a few friends help me cover up said situation. And no, you don’t get to know who they are. Anyway, the whole point of this little smash and grab was to make it look like you were killed in the line of duty. Now everyone wanted to just kill you for real, but we’re pals and I convinced them that you were more important alive. I’m gonna let this stuff sink in for a bit. We’re gonna have someone come by and take a look at your melon. Then I’ll let you know the rest of the plan.”
Jonah’s head lolled on his neck as he struggled to spit on Ben but only ended up getting it on the front of his own shirt.
Some time later, a man came into the room. He was alone. He shone a light in Jonah’s eyes. He checked the bump on Jonah’s head. Jonah flinched away when he touched it. Then the man walked out. Ben strolled in a couple of minutes later.
“Looks like you’re going to be just fine, Jonah. A clean bill of health.”
“Fuck you, Ben. Tell me what’s going on.”
“What’s going on is that Kelly, is a megalomaniacal monster who is going to destroy this city if Jenkins is elected. She’s got her hand in so many pies around here that she makes the Free Masons look like amateurs. I know you don’t know too much about what she really does, but she’s dangerous to this place and to our survival. Max Donovan has to win that election.”
“And what do I have to do with that?”
“You, my friend, are in the perfect position to help us out. Look, nobody wants a war, but that’s exactly what this city is headed for if we don’t get ourselves straight. We can’t tolerate Kelly running this town, she’s a mobster, a terrorist. We’re going to try to do this without causing the people of the city to break apart, but if Max Donovan doesn’t win, everyone is going to find out exactly the same information that I’m about to share with you.”
Jonah swung his head up to look into Ben’s eyes. “So you’re saying that you are going to show me something, or tell me something that will make me turn on one of my closest friends. That is, after you’ve already knocked me out, dragged me to some dungeon and tied me to a chair. Sorry if I’m a little skeptical.”
Ben took a folder from a bag he had on the floor, opened it and took out several photos, “These are pictures of Kelly’s father. His name was Patrick Finnegan. He ran almost all organized crime in the city before the collapse. We have evidence that Kelly is following in her old man’s footsteps. She has a crew of lieutenants who work under her.” He took out more photos and spread them out in front of Jonah. “You probably recognize them. These men have been discretely terrorizing key figures in the city telling them that if Ed Jenkins doesn’t win this election, certain bad things are going to happen to them and the people they care about. These men are known criminals, killers.”
Jonah laughed, “You can’t be serious. Yeah, I recognize them. I play cards with them every week, they’re a little bit rough, but they’re not killers.”
“Don’t be naïve, Jonah.” Ben pulled out several more pictures from the folder, Polaroids this time. “These people were all killed by Kelly’s crew. These have been taken within the last two weeks.” He pointed at one. “This one shows her top lieutenant, Perry in the act of executing a man who went against her requests.”
Jonah stared at the likeness of the man he knew as a bad bluffer holding a gun to the head of another man who was on his knees, crying. “This can’t be real.”
“Well it’s not like there’s Photoshop anymore, buddy. We’re lighting our houses with candles, remember? Trust me, that’s the real McCoy.”
“Kelly wouldn’t…”
“She would and has. Listen, I wish that I had some way to make this easier for you, but the truth is that she’s a killer who’s trying to become a fascist dictator through Ed Jenkins. We can’t let that happen. Look at this.” He pointed to another picture. “She gave the order that started this fire. Twenty people were killed in this building. She’s a monster, Jonah. Worse than those things outside the wall. At least they’re not aware of what they’re doing.”
“Ben, I don’t know. I don’t know how to get my head around this.”
“I know it’s tough. I’ll give you some time alone, but we can’t afford much. You need to work this out, soon, if Jenkins wins this election, it could be the end of mankind as we know it.“
Ben picked up the photos and his bag and left the room.
Jonah called out for Ben.
“Yeah, Jonah,” Ben said as he entered the doorway.
“What are you proposing?”
Ben said, “I have to know you’re with us, Jonah. That you won’t betray us. You have the chance to be the most important person in the history of the human race right now. Your choice could ultimately decide whether we survive as a species or are torn apart from within. You’ve got to pledge your allegiance.”
Jonah sighed, “I don’t think I really have a choice, but you’re right, Ben, those photos you showed me. Things like that can’t happen for no reason. Things like that are unforgivable. I pledge my allegiance to your cause.”
“Ok,” Ben said, “Here’s the plan. We’re going to bring you back and say that Max sent out a search party to find you. We’re going to tell everyone that we saved your life. You are then going to implicate Ed Jenkins for the breach of the wall. You’re going to have to ride out a week in quarantine. We’ll make sure you get your own cage. But before that happens, we’ll have a reporter come and take a statement from you. You’re going to tell how Ed Jenkins’ campaign manager, Kelly let those creatures through. She was seen by several people near the wall when the siren was going off. It won’t be hard to pin her for the breach with your testimony. That should be plenty to convince people that Jenkins doesn’t have the people at heart.”
“Well, let’s get this over with.”
As they pulled him up and untied him, Jonah’s head swirled with the consequences of what he was about to do. Ben was right, this was a huge decision, one that shouldn’t be taken lightly. The right words, the right tone. Everything needed to be perfect. Hell this might be the last important thing he’d ever do. He didn’t want to screw it all up now.
They led him through a series of houses near the wall, he assumed so that no one saw him as he approached the quarantine cages. They led him inside. He sat down.
A reporter came into the room and sat down in front of him. The metal mesh between them reminded Jonah of Confession, back in the days when absolved sin meant anything.
One day I’ll break, thought Jonah, but not today.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Volume 4: Fresh Grinds From Strizzy’s (Reluctantly added, “Scummy”) Stall
Fresh Grinds From Strizzy’s (Reluctantly added, “Scummy”) Stall
by Scott Thurlow
You open your mouth and your teeth smell like they took a shit
scrawled underneath:
at leas the zombos don’t! shit, that is!
Huge fuckin hail, man!!
(a peace sign in faded green)
across in recent red:
NO FOR THE WICKED
Bitches all have their own agenda
Give ‘em a boxpunch to the curb!
(As an added suggestion): curbstomp the whore
So long slut!
BULLEts!! GUNs!! DECICDE NOWWW
Do It For The Troops
Connect the dots, dillhole
Are we not already connected on all possible levels, thereof, otherwise?
The Time-Being is eating my time, AGAIN.
what a catfucker!
Zombosniffer!
(added to that):
Feed him some minutes/seconds then, asshole!!
(under that):
It’s Cool Bro-- Just Eatin My Time…
GO FUCK YOUR (ZOMBIE!) GRANDMOTHER
And so on, so forth.
A mix of graffiti from before and after. The writing on the wall, as it were, if you will. An assorted array of much other such whimsical nonsense gibberish that was good for a chuckle or two as one passed the time or by. They were rendered in vibrant colors that were pleasing to the eye-- luscious hues of reds, yellows, and blues, a whole prism too. Sometimes with alternatingly elaborate and badassly basic designs to accompany each phrase interpretation. Free art. Many had the “zombos” incorporated into them in some humorous or grotesque way as well, some freethinking artists adding their own touches along the way. Myself being no exception. They were sprawled everywhere like a kaleidoscope of glorious guttural salutes to the absurdly dark, ridiculous humor, that was rapidly becoming the norm for these times of ours.
The times of the “ZomboApoc,” as one of my associates with that rusty rifle, called it. He told me his name was H. Hunting, III. , “Esquire.” Quotations emphasized. And that his little saying “ZomboApoc” was still copyrighted. Whatever good that might do. Still, it seemed to make him feel better, so I let it be for the time being. I helped him along just recently with some harebrained scheme to sell what amounted to nothing more than one of those faux poetic graffiti slogans itself to one of the mayoral candidates. The last time he stopped by, before I asked him how that “adorable little whore” of his was, I had to remind him again, that, if he did not politely ask me to, “put my fucking disgusting coffee down,” that next time I heard him say such to me, I would personally feed him to the “zombos” of the “ZompoApoc” (copyright) myself. Or sue him for infringement. This is how H. Hunting III, “Esq.” and I went about our business, whenever he came in search of something from me. Or if I were able to articulate a more profitable plan unto him; the Jenkins deal being such an example.
Ah, you may be asking who I am. What is my role here in these days of olden times that have returned upon us all? Simple. I am merely a humble craftsman. One who knows how to barter certain things, in various ways, usually with lucrative returns, for all involved. Nothing more complicated than that, really, so on the subject I shall say no more. It should hopefully be immediately apparent though, friends, that the market of yore that we find ourselves in, is itself wondrous rich in treasures and tales. Allow me to regale you with some choice ones:
I once hadn’t done any laundry in some time, since it was often hard to find good help these days, in the ZomboApoc. (Henceforth I will call it such, as agreed upon in a previous matter. Let it be noted here that I make any and all attempts to uphold a bargain and keep my word in these times, while many others might not.) There was another acquaintance of mine who offered to me some small advice upon my inquiring of him what his actions and decisions were, when he was faced with a laundry quandary of his own. When asked what I should do about this confounding quandary of the laundry kind of mine, he replied that, “One thing he knew, was not to go to William the Q.” That is, William the Un-Clean. Because William will “totally un-clean your shit.” So, from William Q., I did not find myself seeking cleaning or laundering services to be rendered for any time soon.
Later, I learned the real story. It was not really William the Q’s fault. He had gone quite mad early into the chaos (that is, of the ZomboApoc, and events leading up to it) but somehow survived. He spent most of his days endlessly scrubbing and re-scrubbing scraps of otherwise useless discarded cloth. Scrubbing so madly, so furiously intently, that he often rubbed his hands and fingers raw. Smearing blood over ruined rags and shredded shirts (some of Mag Mike’s early designs likely among them) but still William the Q. scrubbed on. His son, Q. The Younger, was still attempting to salvage his father’s failing business in the wake of the ZomboApoc. Sometimes, it was unavoidable though that someone’s wash got lost along the way to the elder William’s demented relentless cleaning.
Patron: What the fuck do you think you’re trying to do me here, anyway, huh? You won’t pull the wool over my eyes, buddy. Whose fucking eyes, who the fuck’s eyes do you think you’re trying to pull the wool over on? Huh? NOT ME BUDDY. NOT TODAY.
Young Q: “Don’t get your fucking panties in a bunch, pal. Relax. We can work something out.”
Patron: Hey, YOU don't get YOURS. AND EVERYONE! HEAR ME! HEED MY WARNING! DON’T TAKE YOUR WASH TO WILLIAM THE Q. OR HIS IDIOT SON. THEY WILL UN-CLEAN YOUR SHIT! WILLIAM THE UNCLEAN, Q. THE UNCLEAN, THE UNCLEANER OF THE Q.’s! RIGHT HERE!”
Such was the scene in the market, from time to time. But yet, Q. The Unclean he remained known henceforth and thereafter that particular instance, and thus my reason for not bringing my soiled undergarments to him (vis-à-vis the story as related to me) or his Young son for laundering services.
Mag Mike, I mentioned him just now, is a fine fellow. One of my favorites in fact. The fact that he also carries around a pristine magnum pistol, dissuades in no small way. He tells me he ran a shirt printing press or some such of that nature, before the ZA (I will shorten ZompoApoc to ZA, from now on, for brevity’s sake.) In a type of business, in his own words, that was “Run directly, out of the home.” Novelty shirts had lost much of their appeal as clothing since then, but can still be useful in terms of raw material, so he traded what he could get for them after it was clear there was not going to be much further demand for clever apparel.
Mag Mike's real passion in life is gambling. Games of chance and fortune. He and a couple of other enterprising entrepreneurs have assembled in their spare moments (and with the help of some of Kelly's goons/associates) a small-time gambling ring that is increasingly encroaching in its radius. They plan to set up/build a full-scale casino, eventually. I wish them only the best of luck (and also help them along, where and when I might be able to.)
Another:
Overseen/heard in Brothel Alley
(Storyteller’s Note: This is somewhat of an urban legend in our time. I learned a great deal of it piecemeal, but as best can be recounted and reconstructed, I shall try my utmost. Dependent upon whom you ask, and for reasons known only to themselves and now lost, the two young gentlemen of the ZA who feature in this next tale usually have supposedly decided on Roman-ized and bastardized versions of their names. It was said to be a popular passing fad of some sorts. Much like this ZA nonsense, that I would like to remind, I am yet continuing to mention, as per previously arranged terms.)
“E. Pluribus Stevie”: “Render unto us an answer, bitch. Which of us, if either, are you going to fuck, today?”
“B. Barnibus Bradley”: “And why?”
“Shut the fuck up Barnibus. So again, I ask, him or me?”
“Yes, bullets or gun, baby? Let one of us have some fun.”
“Will you please stop saying that. You know how teeth-grinding-ly annoying it is, to me.”
“Fuck you, I’m fond of it.”
“Fine, I but will say to you this: If you. Do not. Stop. Fucking saying. That stupid shit. It is going to be You. Versus. Me. Right next to the wall. And you will be receiving a fucking one-way ticket. From me. To you. For a ride. From which. You will never. Be fucking returning. Ever. It will be the last hurrah and final bon voyage, for you, zombofucker.”
“Fine, I shall stop. For now.”
“Thank you. Now, let us return to the topic. [To a girl, “Lily”]: So, is it in fact, going to be me, or Barnibus?”
“Lily”: “Oh, I dunno…I like you both, you know…”
“Yes, we know. Now decide, please, whore, if you will.”
“We haven’t got all day, baby.”
The girl’s supposed suggestion to solve the situation at hand was as follows: “Can’t we work something else out? What if you guys fight…each other…for me…?”
(Storyteller’s Note 2: I pause and beg another moment to impose myself directly at this point. A customer of mine who shall remain nameless, once rather wittily himself interjected at this point in the story. And, borrowing a phrase from the wall, he commented that one of the two “soldiers” should have responded thusly: “Bitches indeed seem to all have their own agendas.” I felt this augmentation lends a certain panache to the spirit of the original legend. I include it here for appreciation or discarding, as you see fit. I shall return now to the scene at hand.)
The Roman bastards looked at each other. Not a bad idea, “from this cunt,” they agreed.
E. Pluribus Stevie and B. Barnibus Bradley both agreed upon the terms of the duel. It was to be to the death. They shook hands, then. It was the honorable thing to do, it was said.
E. Pluribus then taunted his companion, “If I win, I shall come in, or on, or some combination thereof, her face.”
“Over my fucking grave.”
“See you in hell. And OMFG to you, too.”
The duel then began. E. Pluribus Stevie slipped out a garrote and walked ten paces while B. Barnibus Bradley drew a banged up katana in one hand and a rusted army knife in the other. He tromped off in the same manner as his counterpart, going the opposite direction. Lily herself sat and watched distractedly. In a turn of events in her favor, the duel was said to be brief, and mercilessly short.
E. Pluribus then stood over B. Barnibus’ strangled body, and proclaimed, “Over your. Fucking. Grave, it is, Zombofucker. Fuck your bullets, and your guns.”
Finally, to Lily, “It appears as if the choice has been made for you, slut. So, let’s dance, shall we?”
Thus was the sordid tale of how E. Pluribus Stevie, slew his former brother-in-arms, B. Barnibus Bradley on the streets of Brothel Alley (according to some witnesses who may or have not have been there, I cannot vouch for all. However most agree the drama unfolded in a manner that reasonably resembled the above, with only moderate embellishments and exaggerations added) and, it may be presumed, fornicated with Lily the working girl, and came in, or on, or some conjunction of either, upon her face.
In any case, they had been spared the trouble of being “escorted” outside the wall and city itself. An event that was likely to have shortly occurred, were the incident described above not to have taken place, more or less as I have heard it told, and recanted for you just now.
So you see, this is life in my market, the city, and during the ZA in general. Filled with colorful characters and dastardly deeds. The personifications of the wall phrases acting out their odd parts and various eccentricities upon the stage. Welcome to the jungle/madhouse, friends. May I get you a cup of coffee? Perhaps you’d be interested in making a deal. What have you to offer? Let us see what I can arrange.
by Scott Thurlow
You open your mouth and your teeth smell like they took a shit
scrawled underneath:
at leas the zombos don’t! shit, that is!
Huge fuckin hail, man!!
(a peace sign in faded green)
across in recent red:
NO FOR THE WICKED
Bitches all have their own agenda
Give ‘em a boxpunch to the curb!
(As an added suggestion): curbstomp the whore
So long slut!
BULLEts!! GUNs!! DECICDE NOWWW
Do It For The Troops
Connect the dots, dillhole
Are we not already connected on all possible levels, thereof, otherwise?
The Time-Being is eating my time, AGAIN.
what a catfucker!
Zombosniffer!
(added to that):
Feed him some minutes/seconds then, asshole!!
(under that):
It’s Cool Bro-- Just Eatin My Time…
GO FUCK YOUR (ZOMBIE!) GRANDMOTHER
And so on, so forth.
A mix of graffiti from before and after. The writing on the wall, as it were, if you will. An assorted array of much other such whimsical nonsense gibberish that was good for a chuckle or two as one passed the time or by. They were rendered in vibrant colors that were pleasing to the eye-- luscious hues of reds, yellows, and blues, a whole prism too. Sometimes with alternatingly elaborate and badassly basic designs to accompany each phrase interpretation. Free art. Many had the “zombos” incorporated into them in some humorous or grotesque way as well, some freethinking artists adding their own touches along the way. Myself being no exception. They were sprawled everywhere like a kaleidoscope of glorious guttural salutes to the absurdly dark, ridiculous humor, that was rapidly becoming the norm for these times of ours.
The times of the “ZomboApoc,” as one of my associates with that rusty rifle, called it. He told me his name was H. Hunting, III. , “Esquire.” Quotations emphasized. And that his little saying “ZomboApoc” was still copyrighted. Whatever good that might do. Still, it seemed to make him feel better, so I let it be for the time being. I helped him along just recently with some harebrained scheme to sell what amounted to nothing more than one of those faux poetic graffiti slogans itself to one of the mayoral candidates. The last time he stopped by, before I asked him how that “adorable little whore” of his was, I had to remind him again, that, if he did not politely ask me to, “put my fucking disgusting coffee down,” that next time I heard him say such to me, I would personally feed him to the “zombos” of the “ZompoApoc” (copyright) myself. Or sue him for infringement. This is how H. Hunting III, “Esq.” and I went about our business, whenever he came in search of something from me. Or if I were able to articulate a more profitable plan unto him; the Jenkins deal being such an example.
Ah, you may be asking who I am. What is my role here in these days of olden times that have returned upon us all? Simple. I am merely a humble craftsman. One who knows how to barter certain things, in various ways, usually with lucrative returns, for all involved. Nothing more complicated than that, really, so on the subject I shall say no more. It should hopefully be immediately apparent though, friends, that the market of yore that we find ourselves in, is itself wondrous rich in treasures and tales. Allow me to regale you with some choice ones:
I once hadn’t done any laundry in some time, since it was often hard to find good help these days, in the ZomboApoc. (Henceforth I will call it such, as agreed upon in a previous matter. Let it be noted here that I make any and all attempts to uphold a bargain and keep my word in these times, while many others might not.) There was another acquaintance of mine who offered to me some small advice upon my inquiring of him what his actions and decisions were, when he was faced with a laundry quandary of his own. When asked what I should do about this confounding quandary of the laundry kind of mine, he replied that, “One thing he knew, was not to go to William the Q.” That is, William the Un-Clean. Because William will “totally un-clean your shit.” So, from William Q., I did not find myself seeking cleaning or laundering services to be rendered for any time soon.
Later, I learned the real story. It was not really William the Q’s fault. He had gone quite mad early into the chaos (that is, of the ZomboApoc, and events leading up to it) but somehow survived. He spent most of his days endlessly scrubbing and re-scrubbing scraps of otherwise useless discarded cloth. Scrubbing so madly, so furiously intently, that he often rubbed his hands and fingers raw. Smearing blood over ruined rags and shredded shirts (some of Mag Mike’s early designs likely among them) but still William the Q. scrubbed on. His son, Q. The Younger, was still attempting to salvage his father’s failing business in the wake of the ZomboApoc. Sometimes, it was unavoidable though that someone’s wash got lost along the way to the elder William’s demented relentless cleaning.
Patron: What the fuck do you think you’re trying to do me here, anyway, huh? You won’t pull the wool over my eyes, buddy. Whose fucking eyes, who the fuck’s eyes do you think you’re trying to pull the wool over on? Huh? NOT ME BUDDY. NOT TODAY.
Young Q: “Don’t get your fucking panties in a bunch, pal. Relax. We can work something out.”
Patron: Hey, YOU don't get YOURS. AND EVERYONE! HEAR ME! HEED MY WARNING! DON’T TAKE YOUR WASH TO WILLIAM THE Q. OR HIS IDIOT SON. THEY WILL UN-CLEAN YOUR SHIT! WILLIAM THE UNCLEAN, Q. THE UNCLEAN, THE UNCLEANER OF THE Q.’s! RIGHT HERE!”
Such was the scene in the market, from time to time. But yet, Q. The Unclean he remained known henceforth and thereafter that particular instance, and thus my reason for not bringing my soiled undergarments to him (vis-à-vis the story as related to me) or his Young son for laundering services.
Mag Mike, I mentioned him just now, is a fine fellow. One of my favorites in fact. The fact that he also carries around a pristine magnum pistol, dissuades in no small way. He tells me he ran a shirt printing press or some such of that nature, before the ZA (I will shorten ZompoApoc to ZA, from now on, for brevity’s sake.) In a type of business, in his own words, that was “Run directly, out of the home.” Novelty shirts had lost much of their appeal as clothing since then, but can still be useful in terms of raw material, so he traded what he could get for them after it was clear there was not going to be much further demand for clever apparel.
Mag Mike's real passion in life is gambling. Games of chance and fortune. He and a couple of other enterprising entrepreneurs have assembled in their spare moments (and with the help of some of Kelly's goons/associates) a small-time gambling ring that is increasingly encroaching in its radius. They plan to set up/build a full-scale casino, eventually. I wish them only the best of luck (and also help them along, where and when I might be able to.)
Another:
Overseen/heard in Brothel Alley
(Storyteller’s Note: This is somewhat of an urban legend in our time. I learned a great deal of it piecemeal, but as best can be recounted and reconstructed, I shall try my utmost. Dependent upon whom you ask, and for reasons known only to themselves and now lost, the two young gentlemen of the ZA who feature in this next tale usually have supposedly decided on Roman-ized and bastardized versions of their names. It was said to be a popular passing fad of some sorts. Much like this ZA nonsense, that I would like to remind, I am yet continuing to mention, as per previously arranged terms.)
“E. Pluribus Stevie”: “Render unto us an answer, bitch. Which of us, if either, are you going to fuck, today?”
“B. Barnibus Bradley”: “And why?”
“Shut the fuck up Barnibus. So again, I ask, him or me?”
“Yes, bullets or gun, baby? Let one of us have some fun.”
“Will you please stop saying that. You know how teeth-grinding-ly annoying it is, to me.”
“Fuck you, I’m fond of it.”
“Fine, I but will say to you this: If you. Do not. Stop. Fucking saying. That stupid shit. It is going to be You. Versus. Me. Right next to the wall. And you will be receiving a fucking one-way ticket. From me. To you. For a ride. From which. You will never. Be fucking returning. Ever. It will be the last hurrah and final bon voyage, for you, zombofucker.”
“Fine, I shall stop. For now.”
“Thank you. Now, let us return to the topic. [To a girl, “Lily”]: So, is it in fact, going to be me, or Barnibus?”
“Lily”: “Oh, I dunno…I like you both, you know…”
“Yes, we know. Now decide, please, whore, if you will.”
“We haven’t got all day, baby.”
The girl’s supposed suggestion to solve the situation at hand was as follows: “Can’t we work something else out? What if you guys fight…each other…for me…?”
(Storyteller’s Note 2: I pause and beg another moment to impose myself directly at this point. A customer of mine who shall remain nameless, once rather wittily himself interjected at this point in the story. And, borrowing a phrase from the wall, he commented that one of the two “soldiers” should have responded thusly: “Bitches indeed seem to all have their own agendas.” I felt this augmentation lends a certain panache to the spirit of the original legend. I include it here for appreciation or discarding, as you see fit. I shall return now to the scene at hand.)
The Roman bastards looked at each other. Not a bad idea, “from this cunt,” they agreed.
E. Pluribus Stevie and B. Barnibus Bradley both agreed upon the terms of the duel. It was to be to the death. They shook hands, then. It was the honorable thing to do, it was said.
E. Pluribus then taunted his companion, “If I win, I shall come in, or on, or some combination thereof, her face.”
“Over my fucking grave.”
“See you in hell. And OMFG to you, too.”
The duel then began. E. Pluribus Stevie slipped out a garrote and walked ten paces while B. Barnibus Bradley drew a banged up katana in one hand and a rusted army knife in the other. He tromped off in the same manner as his counterpart, going the opposite direction. Lily herself sat and watched distractedly. In a turn of events in her favor, the duel was said to be brief, and mercilessly short.
E. Pluribus then stood over B. Barnibus’ strangled body, and proclaimed, “Over your. Fucking. Grave, it is, Zombofucker. Fuck your bullets, and your guns.”
Finally, to Lily, “It appears as if the choice has been made for you, slut. So, let’s dance, shall we?”
Thus was the sordid tale of how E. Pluribus Stevie, slew his former brother-in-arms, B. Barnibus Bradley on the streets of Brothel Alley (according to some witnesses who may or have not have been there, I cannot vouch for all. However most agree the drama unfolded in a manner that reasonably resembled the above, with only moderate embellishments and exaggerations added) and, it may be presumed, fornicated with Lily the working girl, and came in, or on, or some conjunction of either, upon her face.
In any case, they had been spared the trouble of being “escorted” outside the wall and city itself. An event that was likely to have shortly occurred, were the incident described above not to have taken place, more or less as I have heard it told, and recanted for you just now.
So you see, this is life in my market, the city, and during the ZA in general. Filled with colorful characters and dastardly deeds. The personifications of the wall phrases acting out their odd parts and various eccentricities upon the stage. Welcome to the jungle/madhouse, friends. May I get you a cup of coffee? Perhaps you’d be interested in making a deal. What have you to offer? Let us see what I can arrange.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Volume 4 release tomorrow
Hello everyone. Tomorrow is the 1st and that means another volume of Life After Death is ready to be released. There will be six stories this time, two from each of the authors. The same format will be used, with a story per day until they are all posted.
Some future news:
Now that we have a sizable amount of content and have proven to ourselves that Life After Death is going to be more than a simple side project to be forgotten, we are planning to upgrade to an actual website soon. It will probably take a little while, so keep on checking out the blog for updates.
The LAD Team
Some future news:
Now that we have a sizable amount of content and have proven to ourselves that Life After Death is going to be more than a simple side project to be forgotten, we are planning to upgrade to an actual website soon. It will probably take a little while, so keep on checking out the blog for updates.
The LAD Team
Monday, August 30, 2010
Works by Kathryn Ormosi
These are the collected LAD works of Kathryn Ormosi for quick reference:
Thursday, August 19, 2010
LAD Website Original: Carl's Story
Carl's Story
by Steven Ormosi
The plan had been worked out beforehand. There was a strict code of silence to be observed while they were on task. Four people: one to take stock of what was being destroyed, one to douse the place and light it, one for lookout and Carl was there to oversee everyone and make sure nothing went wrong. He trusted his crew, but they weren’t the smartest tools in the shed and this needed to be done right.
The cache as it turned out was located on the bottom floor of a two story house that had been abandoned, then repopulated by Billy the Kid’s customers and trusted associates. He specialized in money lending and did a little drug running on the side. They had dispatched the outside guards quietly and right now, they were fixing to burn this mother down not ten feet below a glorified opium den where several of Billy’s clients no doubt festered.
Carl looked around. This was going to be important and crippling to Billy, just like Kelly needed. The place was littered with hardware and taking a few guns was tempting, but they didn’t want to give any obvious reason for retaliation. Walking around town with guns stolen just before a fire wiped out the building, along with whoever was upstairs, certainly qualified as a reason to retaliate.
Carl was hoping that they’d catch Billy himself upstairs and squash the whole feud tonight, but their intelligence had let them know he was at another house, and the security around him would’ve made the operation a logistical nightmare anyway. Just as the count was being wrapped up, the lookout signaled an interloper approaching. Carl stood near the door and waited as the stairs creaked. Everyone held their breath. A man’s voice came wafting through the door, he was singing.
“Myyyyyy body lies over the ocean, my body lies over the s—“
Carl grabbed the man’s head as he walked through the entrance and jerked it to the left until he heard it snap. “Bonnie,” he whispered in disgust.
Everyone winced.
Carl put up one finger and twirled it in a circular motion, everyone knew what it meant, "let’s get this show on the road." The crew finished dousing the room and threw a Zippo in as they were leaving through the same door as they had entered.
“Myyyyyy body lies over the ocean, my body lies over the s—“
Carl grabbed the man’s head as he walked through the entrance and jerked it to the left until he heard it snap. “Bonnie,” he whispered in disgust.
Everyone winced.
Carl put up one finger and twirled it in a circular motion, everyone knew what it meant, "let’s get this show on the road." The crew finished dousing the room and threw a Zippo in as they were leaving through the same door as they had entered.
The fire was lovely. Carl watched from a distance and smiled. Nothing like getting the job done right, he thought, the adrenaline rush slowly ebbing. Kelly would approve.
Monday, August 16, 2010
LAD Website Original: Time to Die (No One Here’s Getting Out Alive)
Time to Die (No One Here’s Getting Out Alive)
The West Coast
5.2 miles outside of Los Angeles, California, USA
We were fucked. Totally fucked. I knew it, but I’m not sure everyone else did yet. They would soon. We had no idea what we were doing, and neither did anyone in charge by now. If there was anyone left at all. Even if someone up in the chain did order us to stand down or retreat, there was nowhere and nothing left to rendezvous at.
Just a year or so ago we were fighting dudes in deserts, crawling through caves and mountains, searching for people in them. Now, people were everywhere. We didn't need to look for them at all anymore, anywhere, because they’d come looking for us. At least, they used to be people. I’ll say the enemy instead. And they were about to overrun us. It was a real No Quarter situation. All kinds of FUBAR’ed. Us or Them. Victory or Death. And it dawned on me which one it was going to be for our side.
How do you fight these things when they won’t ever give up? They won’t retreat. Killing more of them never lowered their morale. They didn't care how many of them we shredded to bits. They were just going to keep on coming until we couldn't keep up. We were all fucking Fucked, with a capital “F.”
How could it come to this? We were the best goddamned army in the world. We never lose, right? It’s funny how I always thought that, but the thing about being fully aware of your fucked-ness is, there’s a moment right after you realize that you are in fact completely and in all ways possible, absolutely fucked, that this strange feeling of freedom hits you. It’s hard to notice at first, since it’s buried under the full-on fear. But when you know, finally know, that you’re going to die, somehow awfully, sometime very soon (and there’s shit all that you, or anyone, can do about it) you just kind of go with it. I just didn't give a fuck, anymore.
I decided I would go out the way they taught us. I centered myself and aimed at the enemy. Then I started emptying my clip into them. Shouting the old training chants from back in basic. Trying to catch as many as possible before they got to me. When the freshest batch was about 20 or 30 yards away, I dropped the standard issue and pulled out my sidearm.
“Semper Fi!” I yelled as I brought my Beretta up under my chin. Just before I pulled the trigger, I flipped the enemy off. Do or die, fuckers.
by Scott Thurlow
The West Coast
5.2 miles outside of Los Angeles, California, USA
We were fucked. Totally fucked. I knew it, but I’m not sure everyone else did yet. They would soon. We had no idea what we were doing, and neither did anyone in charge by now. If there was anyone left at all. Even if someone up in the chain did order us to stand down or retreat, there was nowhere and nothing left to rendezvous at.
Just a year or so ago we were fighting dudes in deserts, crawling through caves and mountains, searching for people in them. Now, people were everywhere. We didn't need to look for them at all anymore, anywhere, because they’d come looking for us. At least, they used to be people. I’ll say the enemy instead. And they were about to overrun us. It was a real No Quarter situation. All kinds of FUBAR’ed. Us or Them. Victory or Death. And it dawned on me which one it was going to be for our side.
How do you fight these things when they won’t ever give up? They won’t retreat. Killing more of them never lowered their morale. They didn't care how many of them we shredded to bits. They were just going to keep on coming until we couldn't keep up. We were all fucking Fucked, with a capital “F.”
How could it come to this? We were the best goddamned army in the world. We never lose, right? It’s funny how I always thought that, but the thing about being fully aware of your fucked-ness is, there’s a moment right after you realize that you are in fact completely and in all ways possible, absolutely fucked, that this strange feeling of freedom hits you. It’s hard to notice at first, since it’s buried under the full-on fear. But when you know, finally know, that you’re going to die, somehow awfully, sometime very soon (and there’s shit all that you, or anyone, can do about it) you just kind of go with it. I just didn't give a fuck, anymore.
I decided I would go out the way they taught us. I centered myself and aimed at the enemy. Then I started emptying my clip into them. Shouting the old training chants from back in basic. Trying to catch as many as possible before they got to me. When the freshest batch was about 20 or 30 yards away, I dropped the standard issue and pulled out my sidearm.
“Semper Fi!” I yelled as I brought my Beretta up under my chin. Just before I pulled the trigger, I flipped the enemy off. Do or die, fuckers.
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