They’re sitting in wicker chairs on the beach. Fiasco, clothed now and wincing under the sunlight, gives the man a sidelong glance with a sip of his pineapple juice. He feels like he drank a fifth of cheap tequila and ate some turned cow liver, and neither the juice nor the soft hush of water cresting the sandy banks does anything to dampen the headache. To make matters worse, somewhere, someone is playing a ukulele cover of Jimmy Buffett’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise.”

“Dude, even though we found your stuff,” the guy continues, “I don’t know if anything was lost or stolen, so you should totally check into that.”

He’s young, maybe in his late twenties. With gleaming white teeth and thick, crazy hair, he’s drenched in the heavy reek of sweat and Axe Body Spray, wearing nothing but a pink Speedo and three coats of fur on his chest.

Fiasco has a strange urge to ask if he’s been treated with Frontline.

Instead, he nods; one hand brushing the small lump in his pocket, the other the silent phone hanging from his neck. “Already have. But I’m missing some kittens. Did you happen to find any of those?”

“Kittens? Woah! Why would you have kittens with you out here? How, even?”

“Long story,” Fiasco mutters.

The guy nods, then says, “Look dude, sorry I gotta jump into it like this, but who are you?”

Fiasco’s certain he just saw a flying insect land and hide in the man’s chest rug. ”Dr. Lucious Fiasco, from the United States.” he says, inching back a bit in his chair.

“Oh yeah! You and I were chattin’ online,” the guy beams. “Right on! Sorry you came in the way you did but, welcome to Punta Muerte! ‘Where life is valued above all’!”

Fiasco grimaces at the invisible steal rod raping his cornea.

“If I remember right,” the guy says, “you didn’t book very long, mister–”

“Doctor.”

“–Doctor, and most of our guests stay for at least a week. So, what were you wantin’ to do here in our primo commune?”

“Hasubu.” Fiasco rubs his temples. “I need to meet her.”

“Ha…Hasubu?” the guy asks, leaning back, his smile fading. “How do you know about her?”

“Long story,” Fiasco says again.

“Sorry dude, but noooo bueno. Hasubu is gnarly old, and really private. She’s the owner of the land. We…uh…we earned a special right to do our studies and classes here…” something dark flickers across his eyes with that last bit. His gaze grows hazy, distant, as if he’s reliving something deeply unsettling. After a minute he blinks, shakes his head with a smile, and goes right back into that annoying pollyanna. “But, yeah, she’s the last of some old tribe, so I can’t just–”

“Fine,” Fiasco growls, standing up. His head hurts too much to argue with this weirdo at the moment. “We can talk about it again later. Right now, I need to find my kittens.”

“Now, that we can help with,” he smiles again. “Ah, and there’s just the babe to help you right now!”

Fiasco turns and finds himself facing the woman that he spoke to last night in the hut.

“Gina Marie, meet Doctor Lucious Fiasco,” says the guy with just a little too much excitement. “He’s crashin’ here for a few days, and he lost his kittens in the woods. He needs you to help him find ‘em.”

Gina smiles. “Sure! Well Doctor, let’s go have a look. We didn’t find you far from the yoga center, so we should probably start back out that way.”

“Sounds good,” Fiasco says, shambling behind her.

ѺѺѺ

A bell jingles and the bartender raises his head just a bit. Fiasco turns, giving the newcomer a quick look. The woman dances away, oblivious to him as he enters.

It’s a kid. Maybe ten, maybe younger. Fiasco isn’t really good with children, so they all kind of look the same to him. But he definitely doesn’t look old enough to be strolling in like he is, his blonde hair strangely clean of the sand and dust this place kicks up. He watches Fiasco as he comes, a soft smile on his face as he takes a stool, two away from Fiasco, at the bar.

“Hi Pete,” he says, his voice deeply confident and casual. “The usual.”

“Sure thing, Adam,” the bartender smiles. With the same certainty he demonstrated on Fiasco’s water, the glass is soon filled and placed before the kid.

Was that whiskey? Nah, apple juice… the doctor thinks, but his thoughts are pulled away when, behind them, Bette Midler’s “From a Distance” clicks in. Fiasco moans. He hates that song.

Shirking off the kid and trying to take his mind off that terrible track, he goes back to his story, saying, “Anyway, it didn’t take us long to find the kittens, but it took even less for shit to get real…”

ѺѺѺ

“La Communa de Muerte was established about ten years ago,” Gina says, stepping through a thick patch of leaves ahead. “It’s a bit of a mouthful, so most of us just call this place Punta Muerte. It’s geographically honest at least.”

“Have you been here long?” Fiasco asks, dodging a bent branch that comes swinging at his face.

“No,” she says. “Just a couple weeks. I specialize in Permaculture, so they brought me in to oversee some projects.”

Fiasco doesn’t hear her as he only has enough attention to focus on both where he’s stepping and how her ass looks in those shorts.

“So, you want to meet Hasubu?”

“Huh?” he says, looking up.

She throws him a glance over her shoulder. ”Hasubu? I overheard you earlier.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty important that I do.”

“It’ll be tough getting to see her, she doesn’t see anyone except Luis.”

“Luis?”

“That guy you were talking to,” she smiles back at him.

“Oh. Right.”

“But I don’t know why you would want to anyway, she’s just a strange, old woma–”

Her voice breaks as something long and muscular suddenly snaps through the thick brush, throwing her out into a clearing.

“Mmmm… what the fuuuu–” Sherlock says at Fiasco’s chest, just in time for the demon to step through, the full of its decrepit body standing before the Doctor. It’s shorter than the last, but just as ugly. It’s wearing a bright-orange Jackson 5 T-shirt.

“Feeeeeskoooo…” it snarls.

Without a word, Fiasco scrambles sideways through the thicket. Slapping the heavy leaves aside, his foot snags in a hook of gnarled roots, and he’s soon face first in the nettled earth. Somewhere, Gina screams, but he can’t think about that now. He’s yanked his foot free and getting to his knees just as he feels the shirt pull back from his skin, lifting his body from the ground. He realizes the thing has him as its eyeless maw comes in close to his cheek.

“Cooooooome waaaaaath meeeeee…” its voice rumbles, puffing a fume of putrid breath in Fiasco’s face.

“Fuck that!” he screams, thrashing at the thing. With a loud rip, his shirt tears, dropping him back on the ground, knocking the air from his lungs. Gasping and stumbling, he pulls his arms from the tattered remains of his shirt. The thing swings at him, just barely missing his bare back when, from somewhere, a large chunk of wood smacks it square in the face, distracting it.

“Doctor!” Gina yells, but Fiasco’s going again.

Running — trying to get as far from the beast as possible — he plows into something hard at the waist, scratching his flabby gut. It doubles him over, spinning the world and landing him on his back. Blinking, he realizes it was his fallen tree! From the woods, Gina screams, and Fiasco frantically looks for the bag. Again, another scream, closer this time.

Then he sees them.

His hand closes around the strap of the satchel just as something frigid and oily coils around his chest. Without a thought, he reaches in, hoping the kittens are still alive, and with a war cry of his own, turns to throw one into the beast’s face…

ѺѺѺ

“So?” The bartender asks, leaning in close.

Fiasco had stopped, if only for a moment to contemplate another drink. His throat is getting pretty dry from all the talking, but damn is that water nasty. He briefly thinks about ordering an actual drink, but stops when it reminds him of the kid. Turning, he sees the little guy’s also leaning in, eagerly curious of the stranger’s tale.

“I…well…remember what I said earlier? It was like that.” Fiasco says, antsy to be too descriptive with the kid right there.

“And the girl?” he asks in that accent.

Fiasco licks his lips. “She was alright. Some minor scratches. But it definitely got us talking…”

ѺѺѺ

“What…was that?”

Fiasco shrugs as he takes a count of his kittens. They all seem to be alive, but Puddles didn’t do too well with that demon. He figures their health makes an impact on their ferocity.

“Mmmm… The hounds of hellllllll.” says Sherlock. “They serve The Daaaaaaark Lord.”

Gina jumps at the sound. Trembling, she backs away a step, her eyes jerking between the talking phone and the slop on the ground. She looks like she wants to say something, but nothing comes out except something that’s part sob and part heavy breathing.

“Listen Gina,”Fiasco says, recognizing the look in her eyes.” I have to see Hasubu. Now. Or we might just find ourselves dealing with more of those…things.”

Tears streaking her cheeks, she nods.

“So, we can go back to camp and you can talk to that guy?”

She gives another stiff nod.

“Cool,” he says with a rub of his temple. “Then we get some aspirin. The frogs in this place give you killer headaches.”

ѺѺѺ

“Talking Gina into it was easy.” Fiasco says. “On the walk back, I told her my story, about Loriel, Sherlock, the Hounds, and Panacea. She took it surprisingly well. It’s funny, I got this sense that she almost expected what I was saying. Like it made sense to her.

“That guy back at the beach on the other hand, that was a different story. Even with our scratches, and Gina’s half teary report, he spouted all kinds of crap about how it was forbidden. It was looking like I might have to cut him, but then something strange happened…”

He goes quiet, leaving a moment of theatrical silence.

“What happened?” asks the kid, all wide eyed and annoying.

Fiasco gives him a dirty look. Then, turning to the bartender, he says, ”Hasubu herself called the guy on his cell phone and asked for me by name.”

© 2012 J. Chris Lawrence

“You had no money?” asks the bartender as he wipes the counter with a rag.

“No, I managed to get what I needed from my, um, girlfriend. But I still had to say goodbye…”

ѺѺѺ

“B-4,” comes a withered voice.

The cold room shuffles with the sound of loafers on linoleum and leathery fingers repositioning game pieces on their boards. And there’s a lot of them. The true living dead, these geriatric gamers litter the dozen tables filling the otherwise unused auditorium.

“B-4,” repeats the voice from the front of the room. He’s an older fellow, maybe in his nineties. He’s good enough at his job, though he tends to say the number too many ti–

“B-4.”

Fiasco rubs his temples. Trying to distract himself, he looks down at his mother’s Bingo board. Nope, nothing’s changed. They still don’t have–

“B-4.”

“Ma, please, can I go?”

“Oh, hush Lucious,” says Martha, staring down over the rim of her glasses. “You want a free handout, you can’t complain.”

“It’s not a hand out if it’s for the fate of the world!”

She gives him a sarcastic look.

“I-9,” says the man.

“Listen Ma, I can’t waste any time,” Fiasco glares at the motley pieces, laid about in no formal pattern. “I need to get to South America as soon as possible.”

“I-9.”

“Lucious,” Martha sighs, her smile hardening. “You’re my son. My only son. And I don’t know what is going on, but I know what I saw. If you have to go…” Her eyes well up, her lip quivers.

“Ma, not here. Look, I’ll be safe. I have the kittens–”

“Oh, it’s not the demons I’m worried about son.” she says, putting her hand on his. “I know you’re all grown up now, and it’s time for you to go out on your own. But there will be women out there. Evil women that want to suck your soul through your penis.”

“Jesus, Ma!” Fiasco bursts, looking around.

“I-9.”

“Promise me you won’t sleep with any hussies, Lucious. You have to save yourself for the right girl you know.”

“I’m sorry to tell you this, Ma, but I’m not a virgin.”

“Sure you aren’t hunny,” she smiles, patting his hand.

“Fine,” Fiasco says. “I promise, okay?”

“Okay.”

“O-2,” says the man.

“Ah!” smiles Martha, laying a piece down. “I have Bingo.”

ѺѺѺ

The song changes again. This time it’s Toto’s, “Africa.”

“She was crying,” Fiasco says, leaning back a bit. “Throwing herself at me. But I told her, ‘Baby, you know I love you, but I gotta roll. The world needs me!’ Then I tore myself from her clutching arms, and set out to a strange new land…”

“It must be hard, leaving your woman behind,” says the bartender.

“Yeah, pretty tough.” He says, sliding off the stool and stretching his arms. There’s a turning in his gut that he can’t seem to shake off, and though he still feels every bit as thirsty as before, he doesn’t dare another drink of that water. He adds: “But the ladies, they’re a dime a dozen. Plenty of fish in the sea.”

“Yet you said you are not good with the women,” the bartender grins.

“What? Oh, no, I was just joking,” says the doctor as he retakes his seat, one hand instinctively calming the kittens at his side.

“You just wait.” he says, throwing a thumb of his shoulder. “That chick will be all over me by the end of the night.”

The bartender chuckles with a shake of his head.

“Anyway, getting to Punta Muerte was quite the journey. The plane could only get me to the capital city. From there, I had to ride a bus to the Carribean coast.”

“It sounds like a long travel.”

“It was.” Fiasco nods. “For hours I sat, bouncing on that torn seat; my baggage between my legs, baby cats at my hip, and a chicken on my lap. That last one just wandered over, and each time I tried to move the damn thing, it pecked me. Anyway, when that was done, then I started the hike.”

“A hike?” asks the bartender, pale eyes gleaming.

“Like a long walk. Punta Muerte is out in the middle of nowhere, so it would be another couple hours on foot through the forest. But it was cool. I knew what I was doing.”

ѺѺѺ

“Mmmm… I think I’ve seen that treeeee already.” says Sherlock, hanging loose at the doctor’s neck like electronic bling.

“Shut…up,” huffs Fiasco as he cuts his way through the thick underbrush. “I…know…what I’m…doing…”

“Mmmm… you’re the expeeeert.”

Fiasco stops, still gasping. He jerks the water bottle from his bag and takes a deep drink. Wiping sweat from his brow, he looks around. Big, bushy woods. Large green leaves. The chirping, buzzing, whirring ambiance of the forest. And the fucking phone is right, it is the same tree.

“I think… I should… rest.”

“Mmmm… I think you’re dooooooomed.”

“Thanks… for the… vote of confidence,” Fiasco says, sitting on the trunk of the fallen tree in question. In the satchel hanging at his side, the kittens mew and wine, begging for their own reprieve from the sticky heat.

Eyes closed, he ignores them, toying with sleeping for a bit, but with the sun already on the descent, he knows it’s best to keep moving. Still, it feels good to just…relax.

Something tickles his hand, and he absently shakes it off.

Then he feels it.

His eyes shoot open.

“There’s something…on my face,” he says. “I can feel it…”

“Mmmm… well, I can’t seeeeee it from here, dipshit, so yoooooour on your own.”

“I’m going…to try to remove it…” Fiasco whispers. He reaches around, keeping his body as still as possible as he searches for a stick to profusely beat himself with in hopes to slay the unholy thing. But just then, it springs from his cheek onto his lap.

He can’t help but laugh.

“It’s just a tree frog,” he says, wiping the sweat from his face, his eyes stinging from the salty excretions.

“Mmmm… that is adorabllllle.” says Sherlock. “Mmmm… and hiiiiighly poisonous.”

“Wait, what?” Fiasco asks, but he’s cut short as a strange man suddenly bursts through the brush. Dressed in a sweat-stained tank top and tight jeans, he looks like the poster boy for a weird, eighties biker cliche. He’s dragging behind a large sack that’s growling and pulsing with random jerks and pokes, as if there’s something inside that desperately wants out. The man stops in front of Fiasco, looking him over with hard eyes beneath a bleached bandanna.

Staring at him, Fiasco can’t help but hear Kenny Logins’ “Danger Zone”.

“Goddamnit!” the man growls through a bristled beard. “I’m in the wrong story!”

“You’re…what?” Fiasco asks, but just like that off at a run, disappearing through the trees.

Then Fiasco sees the leaves. They’re dancing, flowing and swaying to a strange rhythm. He realizes they’re all pulsing to the beat of his heart. He reaches out, but stops as his hand is followed by a hundred others trailing behind.

“Mmmm… aaaaaaare yooooooou oooooookaaaaaaay, doooooooooctooooooorrrrrr…” a sluggish voice asks.

He tries to speak but only colors escape his lips.

Everywhere, there’s laughter. It’s echoing, repeating. Above, the stars streak as the sun drains like wet paint down a darkening canvass.

But the trees are changing, growing, extending into thick, erect penises.

“They’ll swallow your soul!” comes his mother’s voice, and still the cackling persists.

He’s running. The massive leaves slap his face and limbs tear at his arms as his bare feet are poked and stung by jagged brush. There are spiderwebs, all over, everywhere, crawling along his exposed skin. And there’s screaming now, screaming against the laughter in the shadows, screaming while hands reach around him, holding him, carrying him into the dwindling black.

Somewhere, someone is bellowing, “Sherlooooooock!”

Fiasco wakes to realize it’s him.

Blinking, he rubs reality back into his eyes. He shuffles a bit before he realizes he’s on a cot, and completely naked beneath a thin sheet. Clutching his throbbing head, he glances around the small room. There are some medical supplies on a counter nearby. On the wall, a picture of a black Jesus stares down at him with the quote, “Give peace a chance” below his outstretched hands.

A woman walks in. She’s a frumpy kind of pretty, her long hair puled back in a ponytail with random wisps curling around her face. She smiles at him. In a very american accent, she says, “You’re awake! Good. You had us worried there.”

“Where…where am I?” asks Fiasco.

“La Comuna de Muerte,” she says, testing his forehead. “Just on the outskirts of Punta Muerte.”

“Good,” he says, closing his eyes. “I’ve made it.”

“Made it?” she asks.

But he’s already snoring.

© 2012 J. Chris Lawrence

The phone is ringing.

“Ma,” Fiasco says, clutching her arms. “Ma, you have to calm down! Listen to me, you’re safe! Just breath!”

He watches the clarity slowly bloom in her moist eyes as she takes in the reality that it’s over; that whatever just happened, they survived.

“O-okay,” she finally stutters through wracked breaths. “I’m c-calm.”

Ring.

“Are you sure?” he presses.

“Y-yeah,” she says, jerking an attempt at her usual, soft smile. “I-I’ll be fine now son.”

“Good. Now, here’s what I need you to do. Gather up the body, wrap it in garbage bags, dismember the remaining parts using the axe in the shed — the big one, not that tiny hatchet — and then dig six holes at least six feet deep each in the backyar– Ma? Ma?”

She’s screaming again.

Ring.

“Right. Okay then, plan B. Turn off the oven so you don’t burn dinner, and I’ll answer the phone.”

Sobbing, his mother wanders away while Fiasco walks over to the phone.

“Hello?” he answers, staring at the basket of inoccuous kittens.

“Lucious? Thank God! I heard the most awful sounds coming from your house! I was worried Martha might be hurt.”

“Yeah, hey Mrs. Bushney,” says Fiasco. “We’re cool here, just had to liquefy a demon with a kitten.”

“You…what?”

“Listen, I’d love to chat, but I still have a naked man to bury, so I kinda gotta get going. I’ll let ma know you called.”

Click.

Kittens.

He looks over at Muffles — still all newbornish in that monster’s goop — his mind toiling at what the hell he just witnessed. Moving over to Loriel’s corpse, he casts a glance to and fro between the slain man and the feline.

“Seer of that which is not yet?” Fiasco scoffs. “Bet you didn’t see that shit coming.”

With that, he gathers up the kittens and takes the basket over to the plastic wrapped couch. Spilling out the contents of his mother’s purse, he slips the little critters inside and hangs it around his shoulder. Best to be prepared, he thinks. Even if it does clash with this shirt.

Then he goes for the garbage bags and duct tape…

ѺѺѺ

Silence. Then: click!

A new song starts.

Fucking Counting Crows; that annoyingly overplayed “Mister Jones” song.

“Tell me,” says Fiasco, leaning in close to the bartender. “And be honest. That woman over there, she’s not… I mean, it’s kind of strange to have some hot redhead just dancing in here, right?”

But the woman isn’t dancing now. She slides up on the stool next to the doctor. He leans back, giving her a wide eyed, uncertain glance.

“Hey Pete, how about a cranberry juice?” she says, her voice bringing to mind movies about ice picks and sex.

“Sure, no problem Jessica,” the bartender says with a smile.

Guess that answers that question, Fiasco thinks as his eyes drift down to her breasts… Well, if she’s not a demon, she may be on the market. Make a move!

“So… on the rag, huh?” Fiasco offers his most charming smile.

“Excuse me?” she asks, incredulous.

“Oh, I just figured because you ordered a cranberry juice, which some women like drinking to alleviate menstrual cramps. Well, that and your breasts are swollen. I can tell by how careful you’ve been to not brush them against anything, not to mention that they’re far too tight for a woman your age and this isn’t the kind of place for that type of surger–”

“Creep!” she scowls, slapping him across the face before taking the freshly filled glass and sulking back to her music.

The bartender barks a boisterous laugh.

“Was it something I said?”

“I think so,” he nods.

Fiasco shrugs. ”Never was good with women.”

“I see that. And yes, she is a worker for me.”

“Really?” Fiasco asks, glancing over his shoulder. “You mean you pay her to just…dance like that?”

“I am a blind man, stranger, I do not see her dance.”

“Then what are you paying her for?”

“To be my eyes,” he winks directly at Fiasco.

It makes the doctor’s skin crawl.

“Please,” says the bartender as he rests an elbow on the counter. “Continue your story.”

“Okay,” Fiasco says with a rub of his cheek. “I’m not normally the type to do what strange, naked men tell me to, but I had to know how Loriel knew about Panacea. So, I took care of the mess, did away with the body, and had my ma– er… girlfriend drugged up on enough brandy and cough medicine to sedate an ox. With only a few hours of night remaining, I hit the shower and then headed upstairs to my computer. I knew that if I were going to get anywhere, I’d need some help…”

ѺѺѺ

Sitting at his desk, beneath the amber light of a lamp, Fiasco pulls out the small vial from his pocket. He turns it between his fingers, watching the light-green fluid slosh about inside. “Fate of the world…” he mutters, calculating, trying to piece everything together.

With a sigh, he slips Panacea back into his pocket, bringing out a smart phone in its place. This he cracks open with a screwdriver. He goes to work, his fingers moving like spider legs: rewiring, soldering, augmenting the device with a chip of his own. When finished, he wraps it in duct tape and turns it on.

Beep.

Buzz…

Pop!

“Mmmmm…” it hums.

He taps it a couple times. “Sherlock? Hey, Sherlock?”

“Mmmm… what the fuuuuuck, Doctooooor?” it says. “Mmmm… you couldn’t waaaaarn me before dooooing that?”

Fiasco grins. “Quit your bitching, I need your help.”

Silence. Then, “Mmmm… that’s a firrrrrst.”

“Yeah, well, something’s happened.”

“Mmmm… did you lose your viiiirginity?”

“What? No. I mean, yeah, but not…”

“Mmmm… Sure you diiiiid, doctoooor…”

ѺѺѺ

“After arguing with him for about forty minutes, it became clear he wouldn’t accept no for an answer. So, I told him what he wanted to hear. You know, to shut him up. Then we got to work.”

ѺѺѺ

“Mmmm… this is iiiiit.” says Sherlock.

The phone is propped up on a small picture frame that was previously holding a small, circular pic of Fiasco as a knobby teen holding a knobby Atari controller. The doctor wired Sherlock to see through the camera, and had it aimed at the monitor.

Fiasco looks over at the rigged device with a nod. ”I can’t imagine there’s more than two Punta Muertes in South America, though apparently, Google Maps shows one in Southern California and another in New Jersey of all places.”

“Mmmm… so, whaaaat are we waiting fooooor…?

“Huh?” Fiasco asks.

“Mmmm… Dooooctor, we must leaaaaave immediately! Your life may depend on iiiiiiit.”

“Since when are you so worried about my life?”

“Mmmm… I… weeeell…”

“Punta Muerte,” Fiasco reads from their mission statement, “is a Green Technology Education center, located on a private lot of two hundred acres. Ideal for the student of Self-Sustaining and Green Technologies, our facilities are welcome to visitors year round. Come taste our succulent fruits as they burst in your mouth and drip down your chin. Ooops, there’s some on your cheek. We’ll get that. Then enjoy our ocean side beaches where sand gets in all the right places…

“What the hell kind of place is this?” Fiasco scratches his chin.

“Mmmm… heaven, Dooooctor…”

Then he sees it. The women. Lots, and lots of young, hot, scantily clad women, trying their best to look studious as they stare, blatantly stoned at an exotic tree. There are about twenty pics like that as Fiasco scrolls down.

“That explains that. But we have a problem Cassinova. I don’t have the money.”

“Mmmm… don’t bullshit me Dooooctor. You worked for the United States government. I dooooon’t know why you live with yooooour mother, but you can’t teeeell me you are broke.”

“Well…I am. I’ve been spending all my money on…something.”

“Mmmm… whaaaat?”

“Just…something. Nevermind, the point is, I don’t have the cash.”

Sherlock makes a strange buzzing, sighing sound, but says nothing more on the matter.

“Right. So, I’m going to get some sleep. In the morning, I’ll ask Ma for some money, then we’ll go, okay?”

Silence again. Then: “Mmmm… fine, but plug meeeeeee in to this thing. Mmmm… I do not sleep, and I’d like to… suuuurf the web…”

Fiasco links the phone to his PC with a smile. He can’t help but feel a pang of pride seeing his creation being so functional. As he wanders over to his bed, he wonders what kind of chassis he can build for Sherlock when this is all said and done. He wonders with more than scientific curiosity what his AI friend, his only friend, will do with actual arms and a body…

Then he hears the fetish porn, and Sherlock humming excitedly across the room.

Eyes closed and exhausted, he lets himself fall hard onto his bed.

Squish!

Serenaded by the moans of choking women, and soaking in the afterbirth of his mother’s cat, Fiasco buries his face in his pillow, embracing the lull of a well earned sleep.

© 2012 J. Chris Lawrence

“It’s about Panacea,” says the man.

Fiasco stops, a hand instinctively reaching to his pocket. “How do you know about that?”

“Lucious? Who is it?” calls his mother from in the house.

“No one, Ma,” he yells back, but he’s looking at the nude guy a bit closer now, sizing him up. “You better start talkin’ man. How the hell do you know about Panacea? Is this some kind of blackmail?”

The man smiles and steps back. “I assure you Lucious Fiasco, this is no such thing. My name is Loriel, Fallen of the High, and witness to that which is not yet!”

Fiasco scratches his ass.

“I have come to warn you, Lucious Fiasco. The Dark Lord wishes to see you fall.”

“No shit. He had me fired for no fucking reason.”

“You do not understand,” says Loriel. “The Dark Lord is very dangerous, and it knows what it is doing. It set you on a path, Lucious Fiasco. It wants you to complete a role in its grand scheme, and if it cannot achieve that, it will settle with your head.”

“…Right. No, that makes sense. Honestly.” Fiasco mutters.

“It seeks to thwart the Architect, Lucious Fiasco. It will see your world burn if need be.”

“Okay, look, I’m going to close the door now. It was awesome of you to drop by and show me your penis and all, but I really need a beer right now–”

“You have the power to stop it, Lucious Fiasco. Find Hasubu, in South America, in a commune near Punta Muerte. She is an ancient of great wisdom. She will help you complete your Panacea. But be warned, Lucious Fiasco, should you stray from the Golden Path, the hands which seek to save may in turn–”

Suddenly, a scaly hooked shaft bursts through the man’s chest.

“What the shit?” Fiasco screams as black blood sprays his face. He falls into the house, scrambling backward, away from the gore, while Loriel’s face falls cold, his body hanging limp on the large blade.

With a squishy sound Loriel slides to the ground in a heap of nakedness.

And then Fiasco sees it.

ѺѺѺ

“What was it?” asks the bartender, leaning in close.

“Well,” says Fiasco, running a hand through his hair. “I suppose you could say it was a demon. I mean, it certainly looked like something you’d see in a classic horror movie. You know, like something between Pumpkinhead and Alien, or maybe something Guillermo Del Toro would’ve made.”

“I do not know these things.”

“Okay, well, suffice it to say, it was pretty ugly. Scaly and thin; joints bending backward; all mouth and no face kind of thing. Horns. You know. I’ve seen a few since then, call ‘em The Hounds. Sometimes they’re big, sometimes they’ve got wings, but usually, they all look pretty similar, and they all have the same weakness.”

“Weakness?” asks the bartender.

“Yeah, and boy did I learn it the hard way. See, there I was, laying on the ground with this beast hovering over me. But I wasn’t scared, I had a plan…”

ѺѺѺ

“Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck!” Fiasco screams, his voice cracking like pubescent boy as he wildly kicks himself away from the hulking beast.

“Hunny?” he hears his mother say, but it’s cut short, followed by the sounds of screaming and breaking glass.

It steps into the house, one clawed foot falling next to Fiasco’s face. The thing’s eyeless face hooks down, glaring at him. No, not at him. In him. Through him. A cold chill clenches his stomach.

Somewhere, his mother is whimpering in terror, and all he can think to do is scramble, to scurry back and away, away from this thing as if he can somehow escape it. Then he sees the large, hooked shaft rise from behind it; a grim tail stained black from Loriel’s blood and glistening under the living room lights.

The beast growls out a throaty laugh.

“Feeeeeskooooo” comes a deep rumbling from its chest. “cuuuuuume… waaaaaaath… meeeee…”

Screaming, Fiasco slaps his hands about, searching for something, anything to protect himself with. He feels one fall on something curved and firm. The demon poises to attack and without a thought, he pulls it out in front of him.

The beast stops.

Fiasco gasps, hiding his face behind the bottom of the basket.

The beast steps back.

The kittens on the other end of the basket mew.

ѺѺѺ

“So then I realized, it’s scared of these little things! It’s staggering away while I rise, bravely holding out the basket. My girlfriend wept behind me, her bosom heaving while I pushed the beast a step away, turning the tables!”

ѺѺѺ

“Lucious!” shreaks his mother, “Lucious, what are you doing?”

Fiasco is pressed back against the couch, the plastic cover forgotten, a kitten in both hands. “Shut up Ma! I’m thinking!”

Then, without a thought, he throws a kitten at the beast.

Everything he knows, everything that makes sense, this is when it all turns around. The kitten transforms mid-flight — from curious, confused and gentle, its newborn eyes suddenly burst open; mouth agape, its snarl revealing an unspeakable, fanged rage! It lands on the demon, and with the fury of a snake scorned begins ripping into it. The room echoes with agonizing roars as the hound falls to its knees, the little kitten scurrying along its body, nipping, tearing, shredding the monster. Each bite sizzles with green smoke, melting flesh like salt on a slug, permeating the room with an acrid stench. Fiasco’s stomach lurches as he stares upon the putrid sight.

And just like that, it stops.

All that remains is Muffles, the day old kitten, amidst a glop of hound waste, all close-eyed and trembling.

For a long moment, there is only silence.

Then Fiasco’s mother starts screaming again.

ѺѺѺ

The bartender bursts into laughter. ”You are a funny man, stranger,” he says.

“Funny. Yeah.” Fiasco smirks under dark eyes.

“I like your stories. Please, tell me, what happened next?”

The song changes over from the jukebox, and still the woman dances. This time it’s Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.”

Fiasco leans back a little. “Well, I’ll be honest. This is where it gets a little weird…”

© 2012 J. Chris Lawrence

“No, not good at all. That job had insurance, and I have this nasty, recurring rash that costs a lot to treat every month–”

“Oh, no, no!” says the bartender, shaking his hands. “I mean making a deal with the Devil. That is bad juju my man.”

Fiasco shrugs. “The government’s done worse. Besides, the Devil’s the least of my worries.”

The blind man crooks a brow, but says nothing as he refills the cup from a jug behind the counter, his hands moving with eerie precision. Meanwhile, in the background, The Rolling Stone’s “Sympathy For the Devil” aptly clicks into the jukebox and the woman dances away.

“Anyway,” Fiasco continues, eyes wide and staring at his water, “they make the decision, and then they fire me, and that scientist calls me a douchenozzle, and poof! The meteor’s gone. Just like that.”

“So, what did you do?” the bartender asks in his accent.

“Me? I was all cool with it. It ain’t no thang.” Fiasco says, scratching his head. ”But see, there was this project I was working on. Well, two actually…”

ѺѺѺ

“Goddamnit!” Fiasco shouts, slamming the door behind him.

“Mmmm…what’s your problemmm?” comes an electronic voice from the computer at his desk.

Fiasco plops down in the chair, staring at the monitor. The screen shows a Window’s Desktop, scattered with documents. In the corner is a small green box with an audio wave image. Though not much, this GUI is the closest thing to a face for the artificial intelligence program that he’s had the time to fashion. He scowls at it as he rips open a drawer, pulling out a bottle of Vodka and taking a swig. Wincing, he lays back and closes his eyes.

“Mmmm…fine, don’t answer me. Be a diiiiick.”

“Those jackasses fired me!”

“Mmmm…ha-ha! You suuuuuck.” it says.

“No shit, Sherlock,” he says.

“Mmmm…keep digging, Whatsssson…”

“Right. Well, you might like to know that this means we’re done. I’m off the project.”

Silence. Then, “Mmmm…well, that blowsssss…”

“Tell me about it.” Fiasco sighs.

“Mmmm… I will miss you doctorrr, you are not like the othersss…”

Fiasco takes another drink and coughs. Somewhere in his turning gut he realizes that he’ll miss this machine too. Dubbed the Sherlock 7 (A)eronautics (S)upport (S)ystem, it is an Artificial Intelligence program made to be implemented into military aircrafts, and possibly later upgraded to overseeing whole networks of military computer systems. Something of an on-board co-pilot. Sherlock is a resounding success… if you want a human in the machine. But not all humans are made to be pilots. Some are simply made to be porn addicts that toil away at simulated farms on social media sites all day.

As it turns out, if you give an A.I. enough autonomy, it might just choose the latter.

“Mmmm…what about your…side prooooject…?” asks Sherlock.

“Panacea? I guess I’ll scrap it. I need the lab here to keep it stable.”

“Mmmm…you can always take it with you and complete it when you are able, Doctorrr… Mmmm…then use it to control the worrrlllld…”

“This is true. “ Fiasco mutters, scratching his chin. “But it’d be dangerous. One small mistake and it could easily turn into a contagion.”

“Mmmm… even betterrrr…”

Fiasco stares sidelong at the computer. “What’s your deal about world domination anyway? Don’t you think that’s a bit cliched?”

“Mmmm… You made me to think like a huuuuuman…”

Fiasco nods. “Well, I s’pose you got a point.”

Suddenly, the door flies open. Fiasco just sits, holding the vodka in hand.

“Oh, hey, sorry,” says an intern. “They told me you were already gone.”

“Well, I’m not!” Fiasco growls. “So get the hell out of here!”

“Um, okay…” he mutters, walking away.

Fiasco hears the intern’s muffled voice down the hall calling him a dick.

After a moment, he suddenly sits up. “You know what? Fuck this. Fuck them.”

“Mmmm…that sounds hot, can I watchhhh?”

“What? No. I mean, figuratively.”

“Mmmm…what do you have in mindddd…?”

“I’m lead on this project.” he says. Reaching into his pocket, he rips out a small USB device. Slipping a drive in, he types some keys and waits for the file to transfer.

“Mmmm… Doctorrrr?”

Once finished, he reaches for the bottle of vodka, says, “They don’t want me? Then they don’t get you.”

“Mmmm…what are you doooooing?” Sherlock cries.

With that, Fiasco pours the spirits in the machine.

First there’s a hiss. Then a pop. And finally, the screen goes dark.

ѺѺѺ

“That’s when everything got all screwed up.” says Fiasco, petting a kitten in his pouch.

“What did you do?” asks the bartender.

Forgetting himself, Fiasco takes a deep chug of his water. The acrid taste is oddly familiar, but he can’t place it as he struggles through the drink. A fury of coughs and gasps later, he wipes the tears from his eyes and says, “I did what anyone would do. I went back to my place…”

ѺѺѺ

“Ma! I’m home!”

Tired, Fiasco shuffles into the old house. The living room spreads out from the front door; well tidied, the bland furniture is wrapped in plastic covers and gowned in floral patterned blankets and throws.

It reeks of cornbread.

“Okay hun,” comes his mother’s age-trembled voice from the kitchen down the hall. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

Fiasco drops on the couch, wincing at the crinkle of the wrapping. A large Tabby leaps up into his lap. He scratches it behind the ear.

Then comes a Callico. He pets that one.

Then comes a fluffy white one. He nuzzles that one.

Then comes a jet black one with a white spot on his chest. He ignores that one.

Then comes a–

“Ma, I think we really need to consider getting rid of some of these cats.”

“This,” she calls back, “coming from a forty-five year old man, still living with his mother!”

“Ma, we already talked about that. It’s a financial thing.”

“Oh, sure it is, hunny,” she smiles, coming into the room with a large basket in her hands. “By the way, Marbles had her litter today!”

Fiasco sighs.

“On your bed,” she adds. “It’s still kind of messy.”

“Wonderful.”

“But here, they’re so cute!” she holds the basket of mewing imps beneath his face like a platter of food.

The doorbell rings.

“Would you be a dear and get that?” she asks, handing the basket over.

“Sure.”

He staggers over to it, bearing the basket. He looks at them for a moment, then carelessly drops it aside.

The door reveals a handsome man, clean shaven, with long, flowing blonde hair.

He’s also naked.

“Okay,” Fiasco says. “Listen, if this is about those websites I signed up for last night, that wasn’t me. See I have this A.I. friend that likes to hack my–”

“Lucious Fiasco?” the nude man asks.

“…Um. Yeah. Okay chief, seriously, whatever it is, I’m not interested.”

But the man suddenly steps in close, clutching Fiasco’s shoulders tight. The doctor staggers back a step from his baby-butt shaven, flopping genitalia.

“You must Listen!” he cries, his eyes a penetrating stare. “For your life is in great peril, Lucious Fiasco! And the fate of the world rests in your pants!”

© 2012 J. Chris Lawrence

Eyes squinted and lips tight, he raises the weapon in his free hand. It’s warm and squirmy in his grasp as he holds it out, feeling the fur between his fingers. The beast shuffles nervously, falling back a step.

“Yes,” says Dr. Fiasco. “You know what this is, you infernal beast! You may not have eyes, but you see well enough what I hold before you!”

The kitten in his hand mews.

“Now, you got two choices. You can either return to your new master and tell him he won’t win, or stay, and see what happens when I use this thing!”

The creature growls, dancing a dance of frustration. Fiasco knows it’s not equipped for much autonomy, and making actual choices probably hurts it a bit. But fuck it, he figures. It’s worth a try.

Suddenly, it stops, and with a twitch, straightens up. Two massive wings burst out from either side of the back of its shirt, and with a screech, they swoop it up into the sky. He watches it go, all the while still holding the kitten outstretched.

About two minutes after it’s out of sight, he pulls the kitten in close to his chest. “Sorry to have to do that to you, Snuggles. But  it’s a necessary evil.”

The kitten mews again, its eyes wide and searching for food.

More soft mews and purs can be heard as he pulls open a leather satchel strapped over his shoulder and gingerly lays the kitten inside. There it rests with the small, squirming group of its fellow litter. The sound is cut short as he seals the tongs.

Looking around, he sees nothing but cracked earth, moribund trees huddled in patient wait for death, sand in petty drifts and pools, the burning remnants of the plane crash, and the shifting visage of countless mirages.

“Looks like I have some walkin’ to do” he says with a sigh.

With that, he picks a direction and goes, the rising sun heavy on his back.

ѺѺѺ

The wind blows the door open. Dr. Fiasco enters, his face a gritty scowl as he shoves it shut behind him. The dusty bar sits mostly empty with nothing more than a beautiful woman standing by a jukebox, shaking her hips to that Joan Jett song, “I Love Rock ‘n Roll,” and a blind black man standing behind the counter. He’s wiping a glass, his milky white eyes locked eerily on Fiasco.

The woman throws a glance over her shoulder at the Doctor as he shambles up to the counter. Sliding up on the stool, he shushes the kittens at his side. The bartender gives a big, gleaming grin.

“What will it be?” he asks, his accent thick.

Fiasco looks around, getting a sense of where he’s at. “Water,” he says. “And answers.”

The bartender laughs. “Water we have. Answers…? This be no place for that.”

The song ends. With a click, a new record slides into place. Soon, Fleetwood Mac’s “Gold Dust Woman” is playing.

The bartender brings a glass of a pale, yellowish liquid. Scraps of dust and dirt float on the top. Fiasco surveys the drink with a weary eye, then with a shrug, downs it. Sour, it immediately comes back up, back into his glass.

“Blech!” he belches and spits grit.

“Where you from, stranger?” asks the bartender.

“The desert,” says Fiasco. He casts a glance over his shoulder at the woman. She’s moving like a stripper without a pole. Something seems off with her. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s a redheaded bombshell; an Elizabeth Hurley in Bedazzled kind of devil. Not the type you’d find in this breed of hovel.

“Mmm…” the bartender mutters. “Dangerous ways.”

“Yeah, well…” Fiasco trails off. A kitten mews. The bartender looks down with his blind eyes to the source of the sound.

What was that? A twitch at his lips? Was Fiasco seeing things?

“And what bring you to the desert?” presses the bartender, his grin broadening.

“It’s a long story,” Fiasco says, petting Puddles, a kitten aptly named for his urinary habits.

“We like stories!” laughs the bartender. “Please, share it.”

Giving the room one more look over, Fiasco nods. “Alright. But you probably won’t like it much.”

“Try me,” the bartender’s teeth gleam.

With a sigh, Fiasco leans back a little on his stool. “Okay, it all started about a few months ago, back in…well, back where I’m from. I worked for NASA, the United States National Aeronautics and Space Administration. I worked on some pretty top secret shit. I was a higher-up too. Had it made. Then some weird shit happened.”

“Sounds exciting!” says the bartender.

“Yeah, exciting,” Fiasco scoffs. “A meteor was going to hit. The report came in, and all the higher ups assembled to discuss what we would do. It was Newman that was in charge, and he was quick to address the problem…”

ѺѺѺ

“How long do we have?” asks Newman.

A tall, solemn man, he’s standing in a large room. There are monitors all over the walls, each labeled with the NASA logo; each showing different graphs, figures and images; all saying the same thing: impending doom.

There are a few others in the room. A General; a Scientist; a doctor of science and shit; a hot chick that always gives him coffee black when he orders it with cream, but never wears underwear so it’s cool. The scientist is the one that speaks up, clearing his throat.

“We’re guessing, sometime tonight sir.”

Newman nods. “And what do we have in our arsenal of solutions?”

“Not a lot,” says General Wesley, standing from his seat. “Our initial idea was to fly a ship to the calm side of the meteor, put on a drill team on the surface, and detonate it from the core, but our legal team informed us that we would be breaking copyright laws.”

“Yeah, that’s been done,” adds the scientist.

“Fair enough,” says Newman. “What else did you come up with?”

“Er…well, that’s all we had.” says General Wesley.

“That’s because no one asked me,” mutters Fiasco. “I have a tool that can–”

“So then,” the scientist chimes in, ”with nothing better to do, we decided to pray.”

“You…what?” says Newman.

“Pray, sir.” says the scientist.

Newman strokes the thick of his beard, thinking for a moment, then nods. “Fair enough. It’s what I’d do if I couldn’t think of anything better. Were there any results?”

The Scientist shuffles the pages before him on the table. “Well…um…it depends really.”

“Depends?”

“Um…well…God never responded. But…”

“But,” says General Wesley, “we got a response from the other guy.”

“What other guy?” asks Newman.

The Scientist and the General spare a knowing glance to each other. “Well, you know…” the Scientist says, pointing down.

“I see,” says Newman. “Well gentlemen, as pathetically deus ex machina as that may be, what are we looking at?”

The General clears his throat. “Er, he said he’d take care of the meteor, that he could do that because God was passed out or something, but that we had to…to do something for him.”

“Which is?” Newman taps his foot impatiently.

“Fire Dr. Fiasco,” says the Scientist.

“And call him a douchenozzle,” General Wesley adds helpfully.

For a moment, there’s silence.

“Wait, what?” asks Fiasco from the corner of the room. “You can’t be serious!”

“Are you serious?” Newman asks the team.

“We’re serious,” they nod.

“The fuck?” barks Fiasco.

Newman walks aside, gazing unseeing into a monitor on the wall. Certainly not the expected desires of an infernal demigod, he thinks as he rocks on his heels. But it’s also one of the most benign expectations he could imagine a demigod would have. No virgin sacrifices, no bombing innocent people, no forcing interns to suffer through a season of Glee, just the firing and salt-on-the-wound words for a generally brilliant, yet reclusive scientist.

“Um,” says Fiasco, “you guys know I’m still here, right?”

No one responds. After a long minute, the Scientist rises from his seat as well. ”Sir, we must decide.”

“Like hell!” shouts Fiasco. “There’s nothing to decide! This isn’t a problem, I can easily destroy the meteor by using my Galactic Magnetic Supercondu–”

“Gentlemen,” Newman says, turning to the group, ”with a planet at stake, I fail to see any reason not to acquiesce with the Unholy One.”

The others mutter in agreement.

“Make it so guys,” he concludes. Then, turning back to the monitor, he adds more to himself than anyone else: “Besides, it’s just one man after all. Really, what’s the worst that can happen…?”

© 2012 J. Chris Lawrence

In Florida, a nude man growls, devouring the face of another while the police gaze on in horror. They fire upon the man, yet he does not stop, and still they fire more. Finally, the atrocity ends, leaving the world awash in numb disbelief and a flurry of excited posts about a coming Zombie Apocalypse.

Then, reports of other acts of cannibalism arose. There came talk of Bath Salts, a new cheap drug that offers all the highs a cheap drug can, with the minimal side effect of a craving for human flesh.

America has descended into madness, half denying this horrible reality, the other half stocking shotgun shells and Mapquesting their nearest mall.

Even the United States Government had to step in, to keep the populace calm. But Americans are not stupid. We know that anytime the government says it’s not true, it must be!

Soon, it will be all out Bedlam.

I have it on good authority that on Monday, the Eleventh of June, the most egregious act of man yet will occur. A terrible act that will make of these events the thing of flowers and kittens. When it comes, there will be no turning back.

Come this Monday, Agoraphobe’s Lament returns.

May God have mercy on us all.

…Except for Fiasco. That’s the asshole that started all of this.

He’s gotta die.

The Widow’s Tale

Folly’s Website

Dark Tales of Lost Civilizations (anthology featuring Folly’s work)

Taking the Wind (Folly’s most recent publication)

Perched on the laurels of existence, there rested the architect. Impossibility danced behind his eyes as he gazed on, piercing the mysteries like a lancet in a really nasty, ingrown hair. Thus spewed forth the chowderish substance that grew to become his most unusual creation yet — mankind. The creator saw it was good, smoked a spliff, and rested his eyes. This was the creation of the world.

Yet, like Sea-Monkeys, humans thrived in their little world, growing and dancing, slaughtering their own kind out of mortal fear of eclipses, homosexuality and pork. Soon, they learned institutions, science, weapons and porn. Hollywood was born, and their purpose came to fruition. The rein of man over the world was ubiquitous, absolute.

Then came the dead.

Stirring in his slumber, the Almighty awoke in grumbling unrest, for he cared not for the monotonous noise of the undead. Yet, blinking his eyes upon the world, a fury filled his breast! Since when did his laws turn so arbitrarily upon themselves? When and why, amidst his much deserved nodding off, did this abomination occur?

That was when he looked, in all his glory and totally Godly awesomeness, beyond the tethers of mortal eye, and saw the truth.

This was all that Goddamn Fiasco’s fault.

Thus was born a quest for vengeance! The Almighty brought into destiny a great hero, come to make right the wrongs of the universe, and to bring about an end to the atrocious living man responsible for breaking God’s laws, and forcing him to wake from his stoned slee–

“Wait, wait, just stop there.” You say.

“What?” says God, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Are you trying to tell me that Fiasco is responsible for all of this?”

“Well…his name is Fiasco.” God mutters.

“And you want me to…”

“Kill him, yeah,” God smiles.

“That’s totally insane!” you bark. Then, trying not to be too loud, “I’ve never killed anyone. And you, why on earth would you…of all people…er…whatever, want me to commit murder? Isn’t that, you know, against a rule or something?”

God chuckles, his young face beaming.”Oh, c’mon Mack, you can’t seriously be surprised. I mean, have you ever read the Bible? For fuck’s sake man, damn near every religion agrees on one thing: I like to slaughter people.”

“You’re fucked up!”

God nods. “Yeah, well, be thankful you’re not Abraham. That cat was down for whatevah.”

“No,” you shake your head. “It’s not happening. You want to kill me, do it. I’m not going out there and doing your dirty work for you.”

“Mack, Mack, Mack…” God sighs. “Why is your pussy hurting so much over this? I mean, let’s be honest here, you aren’t foolin’ anyone.”

“Fooling…? No, I’ve never killed a single person!”

“Psh. Not what I meant genius. But I’ve seen what you do with your spare time. You know, in between those phone calls, the knocks at the door…”

“Oh.” you say.

“It’s all simulated war and zombies,” God smirks. “Games where you shoot your fellow man in the face with a shotgun. And how does that make you feel?”

“Actually, pretty goo–wait! There’s a difference! A video game isn’t real!”

God shrugs. “True, but then, neither is porn. Sure, it’s poorly acted, but that shit’s as scripted as a movie. And how does the real version of that work out for ya?”

You stare at him.

“Look, all I’m sayin’ is, you seem to really like being alive. And I can, you know, make that happen. Alls you gotta do is, take this here,” — suddenly, there is a gun in his little hands. A big one. It’s shiny — “and do what you do naturally, what you fantasize, what feels good! Then go home. Scott free. It’s a get out of death free card mixed with a license to kill, and it’s my divine will, so I think that technically makes you a prophet of sorts. What more could you want?”

He slowly slides the pistol into your tremulous hand. It’s heavy and cold on your skin. You have to admit, it does feel kind of good…

“No,” you say, shaking you’re head. “It’s not right. Fiasco may be kind of creepy, and he may be bent on the destruction of the world, and you may hate him, but he’s actually kind of…cool. Hell, he’s the Lord of geekdom, did you see his entertainment center? He’s got a damn 3DO. I mean, nobody has a 3DO!”

“Well, I’ll leave that with you,” God sniffs, stepping back toward the door. “You decide. But remember Mack, this isn’t a popularity contest. This is a matter of life and death, and the keys to this ride are in your hands.”

With that, he’s gone.

“Psh. If you’re so great, why don’t you do it yourself,” you mutter in the safety of God’s absence.

Suddenly, there’s a knock on the door.

“You okay in there?” calls Fiasco.

“Um. Yeah!” you say as fear bolts through your chest. Twisting and turning, you look for a place to hide the gun.

Knock! Knock!

“Yeah!” you yell, “Just some bad hellbeast making a reappearance. Be right out!”

“What?” he calls on the other side.

Without another thought, you stuff the gun down the back of your pants. Just then, the door busts open. Fiasco is standing there, dressed in a thick grey hoodie, Super Soaker in hand; his wide eyes darting madly about the room.

“Where is it?!” he growls.

“What?” you cry.

“The hellbeast!” he bellows.

“I was just taking a shit!” you scream.

“Oh.” He stops, looking you up and down, not questioning why you’re pants aren’t around your ankles. “Sorry man, I misunderstood you. Ever since Sherlock’s been using the bathroom for his…er…recreational interests, I’ve sound proofed the walls. Kinda hard to hear…”

Shaking, you nod. Say, “It’s…cool…”

With that he steps out.

Five minutes later, you emerge. Sherlock’s red light turns to you for a second, then returns to a Facebok feed.

“Mmmmm…the cat is riding a vacuum cleanerrr…ha — ha — ha! I love the internetttt…”

“Um…Dr. Fiasco,” you say, walking over to him. He’s sitting at his chair, Turbo Graphix-16 controller in hand. He’s playing some old school game called Splatterhouse.

“Uh huh?” he says, pausing the game. His mouth slightly ajar, he gives you a cock-eyed look. Uncertainty clutches your gut as you look at him, but you pull the gun from your pants anyway and show it to him. His mouth closes and he nods.

“God?” he asks.

“Um…yeah,” you say.

“Yeah, he does that shit all the time.” he unpauses the game. You watch as a creature’s head is splattered on the screen, and are hit with a burst of nostalgia. He says, “I guess there are rules, he can’t kill people directly or something. So he always tries to talk my guests into killing me.”

“I…” you say, at a loss for words.

That explains why he doesn’t have many house guests, you think.

“Hey man, it’s cool. I’m glad you didn’t.” Suddenly he pauses the game again, casting an nervous look your way. “You’re not, are you?”

“No! N-no, of course not!” You sputter.

“Cool,” he goes back to the game. “Sit down man, we can throw on something two-player if you want.”

Relief warms your veins, and you lay the gun down on the end table. Slipping into a chair nearby, you run your hands over your face and just stay that way, wondering what will come next.

“He’s got your balls, doesn’t he?” asks Fiasco. You nod. He nods too. “Look, you can chill here man. All we do is drink beer and play video games. Well, you know, if you’re into that kind of thing.”

Looking through your fingers, a smile touches your cheek. “Do you,” you whisper, “do you…have a phone?”

“Nah. Fuck that. It’s just me and Sherlock, chillin’ in the privacy of our pad.”

Your smile spreads.

He adds, “Damn, are you cold? I’m chilly,” as he tosses a hoodie on over his head.

You start laughing. Oh! The great comedy of Pan! The humor of the Gods, that you should be led to Cibola, in defiance of divine will! That there would be no more Deb! No more Coworker! No more Hellbea–

Suddenly Fiasco’s head explodes.

“What the fuck?” you scream, his blood splattered now on your face.

“Mmmm…I felt threatened, what with the hoodieeeeee…” says Sherlock, laying the gun back down on the table with a long, robotic arm. “Mmmm…gotta stand my grounddddd…”

Shaking, you stare into Fiasco’s brain matter while his robotic creation goes back to its pc.

You sit that way for a long time. You have no idea how long it is, but time seems to stretch on forever. A fly buzzes around and lands on the pink chunks. You can see its little black mouth-thing going to work. The fly runs about for a minute, and then buzzes off. It lands on your cheek. You stay still, even as it tickles along your flesh.

You wonder if this is what shock feels like.

Just then, you realize you are standing. And now you’re walking, numbly toward the not-bathroom door.

“Mmmmm…take it easssyyy…” says Sherlock. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t dooooo…”

You don’t respond.

Throughout the day your feet carry you; down long, dusty roads, beyond hoards of the zombies out to sell Dyson Vacuums and Tupperware. You pass the living dead, shopping for cell phones and bantering at street corners about something called Kardashians. You pass the roaming hoard flanking the road; signs on one side telling you to vote for freedom, for Obama, and signs on the other telling you to vote for freedom, for Romney. Rubbing the handcuffs at your wrists, you go, shuffling your feet past gas stations and their peaking prices, past giant billboards advertising Dancing With the Stars.

Wiping the sweat from your brow, you pass a house of worship, next to the shattered remains of what was once a home.

You walk into the remains of your living room through the giant hole in the wall. You pass the bullet holes and mess of food. You step past the blood stains and flip the couch back over. Sitting down, you turn the TV on.

At least the Xbox still works, you think.

Suddenly, somewhere down the hall, a baby cries –

The phone at your side rings –

Outside the undead moan –

A knock falls upon your door –

And behind the couch, you hear a strange, familiar, chittering kind of laugh –

With nothing better to do, you close your eyes and smile.

If only you had a beer.

(SPOILER ALERT!)

– Will Mack will do it? Will he take the good Doctor’s life for his own, or will he puss out?

What do you think? Share your comments below, and keep your eyes peeled for the season finale of Agoraphobe’s Lament, due this weekend!

See, here’s the thing. It started like a usual Thursday morning at the pub. Some shady redhead offered to buy me a drink. Next thing I know, I’m dodging bullets and running from South American drug lords. Which is cool, because, you know, it’s a usual Thursday morning. But then, on my way back to the States, I kinda got caught up in Acapulco. And, well, let’s just say I learned things about my body I’d never known before… particularly the part where you can survive for a few hours after having your kidneys stolen.

It was a long weekend.

Anyway, to get to the point, the finale is coming. It’s just been delayed. But I’m back in saddle again (to quote a cheesy Aerosmith song, and therefore make my humor at least on par with a bad Jackie Chan/ Owen Wilson movie), and plan to cut it out this week for your reading pleasure!

In the meantime, I recently won a caption contest, and was given a review by none other than the lovely Nezza of Hella Sydney! As it turns out, she has a thing for Agoraphobes and the walking dead, which happen to be the most important features that I value in an opinion (a passionate appreciation for Huey Lewis and the News is a plus as well, but really, no one’s perfect), so as you can imagine, this made my day!

Seriously though, she makes me look like I know what I’m doing, and that’s no small feat. So drop over and check that out, and when you’re done, give her blog a read. Her humor is top notch… and oddly educational.

J. Chris Lawrence: “Of course this is a professional establishment! This is authentic Chinese carpeting! Now, just hang your coat over there on the tent pole and we’ll get started…”

Now I realize this post is late as I promised to announce the winner at 9pm PST. But as I was writing this post and surfing Chris’s blog, I got a little carried away with the reading and lost track of time.

4 hours into Chris’s blog, I got a little jelly. Chris is the writer Yin to my Yang. We both like writing fiction and humor, but mine is light; his is dark. So while I’m frolicking around Sydney eating cupcakes and writing posts about unicorns, Chris is delving into a zombie apocalypse and getting his work published. Well f**k me.

Chris created Agoraphobe’s Lament, (a blog on his comedic dark fictional character Mack living amid the zombie apocalypse), Ars Gratia Artis, (a mini blog), and most recently he started J. Chris Lawrence (a heavier blog where he showcases work unrelated to his fiction blog). Overachiever much?!?

I was more intrigued by his zombie fiction blog. His clever use of the English language combined with sharp humor and just the right amount of suspense is enough to make readers return for follow-up posts. His blog has developed quite a following which speaks for itself. And because I’m a cheap bastard, I followed his blog. Who doesn’t want a free e-book in their Inbox?

So without much further ado, I’ll let J. Chris Lawrence’s blog Agoraphobe’s Lament take it away with my favorite post: Mega Buttload and the Pony Pirate.

Because pasty homosexual vampires is so 2009.

Glancing down, you find a rusted steel rod near your shoe. In a better world, the showdown theme for The Good, The Bad and The Ugly would be playing somewhere as you slowly you reach for it, your fingers digging into the gritty road material, closing around the weapon. Through your nose you breath as sweat courses your brow, while across the street the Hellbeast moves out a little into the dawning light. It chuckles as it follows your hand, sees the weapon. Your eyes lock and your heart pounds as you prepare for the fight.

Two more eyes appear.

Then four.

You drop the rod. “Fuck that!”

Arms flailing and screaming like a girl, you run from the Hellbeasts, your feet digging into the soft gravel, kicking a spray with each broad stride. Risking a look over your shoulder, you see their numbers have swelled to half a dozen.

“Help!” you bellow, passing an old woman on a porch. She just sits, fanning her face and smiling blindly into oblivion as six snarling beasts hop and dash along.

Taking a turn down another aisle of trailers, you’re struck by how oddly quiet everything is, and for once you actually wish you would encounter someone, anyone. A zombie even! You throw another glance back and see the number doubled! Gasping, you face forward just in time to barrel into the front end of a large, black rape van.

With an awkward “Oomph!” you hit the ground.

Dizzy and blinking back a headache, you roll over on your chest and look up in dire acceptance of the incoming fuzzy vengeance of God, bent on your destruction.

Suddenly, two shoes step out from your peripheral vision, and with a grunt, a steady stream of clear liquid sprays out at the beasts. One by one they are struck, and with a chittery wail, burst into flames and melt like hairball-wax. The remaining half slows as the stream dies off, their grins brought tight into a strange twist of horror.

You hear a jerky, pumping sound and suddenly there’s another blast catching them in the faces before they have a chance to react. Two manage to scurry away, protected by the body shield of their infernal brethren. The rest are soup on the street.

As the feet turn to you you, the pain in your head engulfs you, and just like that, the world turns off.

—

“Hey, you alive?”

“Mmmm-it looks like you killed him, doctorrrr,” comes a strange, slightly distant electronic voice.

“Shit, you’re probably right. A’right, light up the pit. We’ll char his remains beyond recognition and disperse the dust in the air during the next thunderstorm.”

“Mmmm-will do, doctorrr…”

Your eyes jerk open. “Wait!” You cry, sitting up.

“Mmmm-seems we were wrongggg…” says the strange voice.

“Yup,” says the man in front of you. “Seems like.”

Blinking life into focus, you find yourself sitting in a large, leather theater seat. The man is hovering over you; his head hung at an angle, his two large eyes bugged behind a thick pair of glasses. His dark, greasy hair is disheveled and chaotic, and the look he’s giving you makes you question his stability. Nevertheless, you welcome your new found situation. It’s a far cry from future Hellbeast dung.

“Where am I?” You ask. “What happened?”

The man nods, his intense eyes still locked on you. “Yeah, he’s definitely not dead. And not undead for that matter.”

Stepping back, the man regards you for a moment before dashing off to a cluttered table along the wall to the left. Following him with your eyes, you take in the massive room. Your breath catches at the nerdgasm pulsing in your loins. Before you is a massive HDTV, flanked by rows and shelves of what appears to be every video game and system ever made. You spot random, familiar titles in shelves dedicated to old NES, and over there are classic Turbo graphix 16, Sega Master System, even a damn Colecovision! Along the walls are similar rows of DVDs, VHS, Betamax, Casettes, 8-Track, Vinyl records and CDs.

It’s a multimedia utopia.

Rushing back from the table with a Pepsi in hand, the man gives you a crooked grin. You guess he hasn’t had many guests in a while.

“Sorry ’bout all that whole burning your remains thing,” he says. “It’s just, I can’t be caught with another body, not so soon.”

You try a smile as you take the drink. You think it’s working, because his smile broadens.

“Who are you?” you ask, turning around in the seat, trying to find an exit. There is one. Two actually, on the other side of the room; both on either side of a strange steel rod with a bright red light at the tip. The light is aimed directly at you.

“Dr. Fiasco,” he says.  ”And that’s Sherlock.” He points to the metal contraption by the doors. Suddenly, it rises from the ground. You can hear a soft hum as it hovers over in your direction. It lands at your side, and the light turns to you.

“Mmmm-wuzzupppp mon frerrrrrre?” it says.

“Um, hi,” you reply, shrinking slightly back into your seat.

“Yeah, you’re lucky to be alive,” says Fiasco. “That was crazy how many Hellbeasts were chasing you! You must have pissed God off pretty fucking hardcore for that kind of retribution.”

“You’re a doctor?” you ask, confused.

“Uh huh,” he says, his wide eyes slightly distant. “Yeah, I use to work for NASA actually. I’m a scientist. I make shit, right Sherlock?”

“Mmmm-fo shizzle my nizzzzzzzle.”

“I made him. The greatest work of Artificial Intelligence in existence. Sherlock is fully capable of thinking for himself, just like a human.”

“You mean like IBM-Watson?” you ask.

“Nah, Watson just plays Jeopardy and shit. Sherlock was actually built with the goal of assisting America’s world domination in mind. You know, kinda like Sky Net from the Terminator movies, only with different results.”

Shifting in your seat, you look back at the steady red light. “So, what happened?”

Fiasco shrugs. “I made him too good. He’s so human, he took on our flaws. Now all he does is watch Family Guy, use Facebook and watch free porn on the internet.”

“Mmmm-speaking of which, I’mmmm, uh, going to jump on Farmvilllllle.”

Fiasco watches the machine glide to a PC stationed in a corner of the room. “That means he’s going to wank it to some Redtube.”

“Red-what?” you blink. “Wait, so… it doesn’t want to rule the world?”

“Oh, no, he does, he’s just too lazy to do anything about it.”

“Mmmm-fapfapfapfap…” says Sherlock.

“Right.” you say, slowly standing. “So, uh, how did I get here?”

You pretend to stretch your legs as you gauge the distance to the doors. Picking the correct door might be a gamble, but so is sticking around this place.

“You passed out,” Fiasco nods. “You’re lucky I happened to be in the area. Truth be told, I woulda left you there, but I was wondering what you did to get so many of those bastards on you.”

“I take it you’ve encountered them before,” you mutter.

“Oh, yeah. God hates me. That’s why I never leave home without this.”

Fiasco bolts to the table again and returns with a classic Super Soaker, the old kind that use to leak all over the place. You can tell by the smell that it still does.

“Vinegar,” he grins.

“Ah,” you smile back. “So, hey, do you have a bathroom I could use by any chance?”

“Most definitely,” he says. “Door on the right.”

“Thanks!”

Closing the door behind you, you take a deep breath and leave the Pepsi on the sink. You run some water and splash it on your face. You have no idea where you are, what time it is, or if you are going to be ass raped by a mad scientist and his world domineering sex addicted computer or not, but you figure the chances are likely that, either way, the last twenty-four hours will end by taking you places you never wanted to go…

Flushing the toilet, you turn and pause. Standing by the door is a young boy.

“Clever,” says the kid. “Hiding in a secret Military Prison.”

Stumbling back, your legs catch on the toilet and you fall on it, hard. “G-god?”

“Do you have any idea how rough of a day you’ve given me?” he bursts, stepping forward. “I told you, I told you that I’ve been forced to make cut backs. I’ve had to take time out on all kinds of important things to make sure you die as planned, and you just…don’t die!”

“Um. Sorry?” you mutter.

“But hey, don’t worry ’bout it,” he says, flashing you a nonchalant grin. ”I’m actually not here to kill you.”

Your eyebrow crooks.

“Actually, I’m here to make a deal.”

“A…what?”

“Yeah, I went ahead and fired the Devil. Cutbacks, you know. Anyway, I’m required by law to tell you that I am now officially working as the Devil, and am willing to offer you a traditional deal. Hell, we can even do the signature ‘with blood’ style if you want. Anyway, here’s the skinny: I’ll grant you a get out of death free card. No more Hellbeasts, no more me hounding you. You just go back home to that nice TV I gave you earlier, you play your games, drink your beer, and forget this day ever happened.”

“Er…Okay? What’s the catch?”

“Nothing much. All you do is one simple task for me. So, you game?”

Clearing your throat, you say, “Do I have a choice?”

God smiles. “Nope.”

You nod. You figured as much, but you’re scared to ask, “So, what…uh, what do you want me to…do…?”

God grins. Leaning in close, he says, “If you want to live, kill Dr. Fiasco.”

© 2012 J. Chris Lawrence

Contest: “People Are Strange..”

Congratulations to the winners of this week’s contest! I want to thank everyone for participating. While there weren’t many people who submitted, there were a lot of great ideas shared. This week was tough for me in that I could have taken the plot in so many different directions. But as we close in on the season finale, some ideas really popped out at me. As before, the winners are mentioned below, and will have their names in the Special Thanks section should I decide to compile this into a complete manuscript. To all the other contributors, thanks again for participating!

First Place: Jeremy Preston — IBM-Watson

While I didn’t use Watson directly, I parodied the concept which both made for a solid, amusing AL character, and helped to shape the direction of the plot for not just this, bet next week’s episode as well. This was a fantastic idea!

Jeremy Preston is the owner and curator of Guitarwarlord.com, a website deicated to all things music. From informative articles on musicians across the genre spectrum, to tabs, music lessons and links to find any piece of musical equipment you could need, this place serves as an awesome hub for music lovers.

Second Place: Wendy Fujimori — Nasa mad doctor-scientist guy (Dr. Fiasco)

Wendy suggested Scientists, Engineers, and general brainiacs. This helped me to shape the Dr. Fiasco character, which is incidentally likewise inspired by my brother, Ron Fiasco. Not only did this character mold fit perfectly with Sherlock, as I said above it helped shape the entire episode, as well as the upcoming finale. This was the perfect time to tap into the scientist concept, so I found these suggestions perfect for this piece!

Honorable Mention:

Kelly Kat Phillips — The ghost of Romney’s dog.

This was a very creative and fun idea. I would have loved to use it, but couldn’t find a place for it in the episode.

Hey people of the page! I have a couple announcements to make, but first, let’s get the side stuff out of the way.

Due to the growth of the series, and the developing story arc that didn’t exist at its birth, I have decided to go back and rewrite much of the prologue. My goal is to make the introduction more interesting as well as to better open up the world for new readers. I will also be doing some edits to the first couple episodes to better blend the plot with the rest of the series. So, check it out and let me know what you think.

Now, with that said, on to business!

Due to the resounding success (at least by my meager standards) of the recent contest, “When Shotguns Simply Won’t Do…”, I have decided to start up another one, and that’s where you come in.

“People Are Strange…” calls to question what kind of uncanny freak-show you would expect to see our agoraphobic protagonist encountering out in the wilds. You suggest it, and the winner will appear as I depict them in next week’s episode.

As before, leave a post with your idea either in the comments below, or at the official Facebook page. The winners will be announced with the new episode and will be included in the “Special Thanks” of the finished manuscript (should I choose to publish it as a complete work, which is likely). Likewise, if you submit a link with your submission, I’ll post that too to help gain some traffic for your own blog or page.

What I’m looking for isn’t traditional or rational. The winner will be the participant that suggests the most fitting character for an Agoraphobe’s Lament episode. Be them zombie or normal human, they can be a caricature of popular topics and trends or just something fun and original. (Please, nobody that is real or living.) How much background you want to suggest is up to you, so long as you at least have a solid image and personality of the character. For example: an old bag lady with a glass eye and a bird’s nest on her head would suffice, though the more you add about who she is and why she’s like this – particularly if it fits in with a trending topic, either of modern times or yesteryear — the better your chances.

Some key points to remember:

1. For character ideas, practical isn’t what I’m after. Remember, this is Agoraphobe’s Lament. The winner will not likely be the deepest, practical, or meaningful character, though these things can help. It will be the one that best fits with the humor and personality of the series that wins.
2. Entrants are welcome to submit more than one idea, so even if you’ve thrown one out there, throw some more! As of now, there’s no limit to suggestions.
3. If you want to have your page shared, should you win, be sure to share it with a suggestion. Originally, the plan was to contact the winner, but that may not be possible in some cases.

So, yep. Keep it coming, and keep your eyes peeled here for more as it comes!

Important junk: Winners will be judged at the author’s discretion, based on the most amusing, creative, outlandish and fitting suggestions given. No copyrighted material may be suggested without being parodied or used in a satirical manner. By sharing a suggestion, participants are granting the author all rights to use said suggestion in this story. The Author may use the suggestion in a manner different than suggested, though this will likely only be due to the requirements of fitting it into the episode’s plot. No rights to Agoraphobe’s Lament will be granted in any way to participants of this contest. All rights of the story are reserved by the author, though I suppose that should go without saying. The author reserves the right to be a dick and renege on any aspect of the contest, though that would be stupid and counterproductive, so there shouldn’t be any concern about it. Just sayin’. The author reserves the right to not complete another episode on the time table as planned, though this will only likely occur if life is kicking his ass.

You are sitting with your back against the wall, banging your head in a slow, dull rhythm.

With a sigh, you stand up and start pacing. The camera follows your steps as you go, zooming and rotating. You are overly aware of the prying lens, voyeuristically obsessing over your every movement. It wouldn’t bug you so much if you didn’t have to pee.

You idly wonder how much longer it will be before they go ahead and waterboard you. You could use the reprieve.

“So, wha’tcha in for?” comes Cellmate’s muffled voice.

“I hoarded too much food,” you say. “So they think I work for Al Qaeda or whatever.”

Silence. Then, “Really?”

“Yep.”

Silence. Then, “Seriously?”

“Yep.”

Silence. Then, “Damn man, you’re a shady mothafucka.”

The cuffs jingle at your wrists as you rub your temples.

“What about you?” you ask, walking back toward the wall. You’ll ask anything to get your mind off your bladder.

“Me?” he yawns. “Fuckin’ set up, man. All I did was bomb some places, chanting shit in Arabic. Fuckin’ profiling. Just ’cause I do that, I’m a terrorist or something. I mean, it’s not like I did what you did.”

“Right.” you say, sliding back down and banging your head once more.

“Shh! It’s time! Get ready!”

“Huh? Time for what?”

You hear muted voices. Talking, yelling, then screaming. Suddenly the wall explodes, sending you toppling over for the second time in a day. The camera seems very interested in this part.

“Jesus!” you cry, slapping pale debris from yourself.

“Nope,” says Cellmate, snakeskin boots stepping over the rubble. “But’cha got the next best thing.”

He looks like a poster boy for an eighties biker cliche. You stare, slowly taking in the sweat stained tank top and tight jeans. Your eyes lock, seemingly hypnotized by the bleached bandanna strapped above his heavy brow; puling his flowing hair away from cold, hard eyes and a bristled beard. Over one shoulder is a large, burlap sack. It’s writhing, pulsing. In his free hand he holds a prosthetic leg. Staring up at him, you swear you can hear Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger”.

Somewhere, an alarm goes off.

He throws the limb to you, says, “Here. I got this from the guard. He won’t be needing it anymore.”

Standing, you give a nervous glance up at the camera. It glares down at you. Holding your cuffs up, you say, “Haven’t you forgot something?”

“Oh yeah.” he chuckles, wrenching a pair of chain cutters from the sack. In seconds, the steel links clatter to the ground.

“That’s convenient,” you mutter.

“Sure is,” he winks. “Now, for fuck’s sake man, we’re breakin’ out!” Throwing the cutters aside, he grabs your arm and jerks you into his cell.

“From a United States prison?” you glance at the one-legged corpse by the door. “This could be Gitmo for all we know! How the hell are we going to get out of here?”

“Trust me son, I got this.” says Cellmate, casting a sidelong grin at the large, twitching sack.

Suddenly, a bulky, armed soldier zombie rushes in.

“Freeze!” he spews through a lipless mouth, but his voice is cut short as a snarling Honey Badger lands on his face. The room echoes with screams and the thunderclap of gunfire as the beast lays into him, devouring undead flesh like a rotisserie chicken.

“Where did that come from?” you scream as a single bullet whistles past.

“The bag.” Cellmate growls. “But never mind that, let’s go. And watch out for that badger! He don’t give a fuck what he eats.”

With that, he sets off running past the incapacitated creature, dragging his impossible sack behind. You don’t have time to think or speak as you blunder after. The honey badger gives you a bored look as you leap over the dead zombie. It swallows an arm whole with a thunderous belch.

Moments later, you’re in a long corridor, your legs pumping furiously beneath you.

“I hope you have a plan!” you call, struggling to keep up.

Suddenly, two cold, grayish hands reach out from a dark doorway, catching your shirt. They drag you back into the black of a room, pulling you on your heels. Warm, acrid breath tickles your ear as it closes in. Without thinking, you swing the prosthetic leg over your shoulder in a flurry of blows, but the monster persists. After a hard slam, you lose your grip and it falls carelessly from your hand.

“Cellmate!” you scream, but he’s already at the door.

“Don’t move,” he grins as he pulls a large, steel tipped lawn dart from the bag.

“The fuck you say!?” you scream as the rotting teeth brush your cheek. With a squinted eye, he launches the dart. You feel the plastic whiz past your flesh and the creature jerk. Its grip loosens as it falls in a heap to the floor.

“C’mon,” Cellmate says with a wave of his arm. “And this time don’t fall behind!”

Huffing, you dash behind him. He leads you down one route, then another. You have no idea where you’re going, or if you’re even going to survive this.

“What… happened… to this… world?” you ask through burning gasps of breath.

“Why?” he says back. “What’s… wrong… with it?”

Suddenly he stops. It’s so abrupt that you slam into him, and you both nearly tumble to the ground.

Righting yourself, you follow his hard gaze and your stomach drops like a bag of bricks.

There at the end of the hall is a line of soldiers.

“We’re done,” you whisper, counting the rifles aimed at your nuts. You lose count at twelve.

“Like shit we are!” he screams. With that, he reaches in the bag — deep, all the way to the shoulder — and with a mighty grunt, heaves. His hand slowly emerges, pulling what looks like a pink, shiny bowling ball at first. Then you see some gray hair protruding from the sides, and with a turn of your stomach realize it’s a human being! A bald man to be more specific, in… a suit?

Fingers jammed in the man’s nose, Cellmate wrenches him from the bag. With a shudder, the man rises to his feet, and then it all becomes both terribly clear and horrifically confusing.

The man is Dr. Phil.

“Hello everyone,” the doctor says to the soldiers. “Now, we’re here to talk about all this anger you have pent up inside.”

Somewhere, there is muted applause.

The zombies glance to and fro in silent bewilderment.

“Now, here’s what’s gunna happen. There’s gunna be a change in your lives today.”

The guns slowly lower. One zombie crooks his head curiously to the side.

“Now ah want you to look into your hearts, and really, ya know, really ask yourselves, how is this anger gunna hurt you? Okay? ‘Cause that hate is gunna eat you up. You have to, to let that anger go.”

Applause. The zombies slowly stand. Guns clatter to the ground as their hands drift to their heads.

“To help you do that, I have a special guest on the lines today. The wonderful Ms. Oprah Winfrey everybody!”

The sourceless applause is uproarious as the zombies lurch and scream. Suddenly, one of their heads burst, sending a chunky spray of brain, eyes and teeth.

You look at Cellmate, utterly lost for words.

“Hellooo Guantanamoooo!” bellows Opera’s voice from nowhere.

Pop. Poppity, pop pop! One by one they fall, until finally, the last is reduced to a tomato and meat salad.

Suddenly, Cellmate throws another badger at Dr. Phil and grabs your arm. The two wrestle as you run, skipping past the corpses. Glancing over your shoulder, you’re shocked to see the doctor winning.

“Why did you do that?” you yell as you barrel into an elevator. ”He was helping us!”

“He’d have turned on us next,” says Cellmate, slapping a button on the wall. “Trust me, you don’t want that kind of hell.”

The lift shudders and begins its ascent. Muscles searing, you double over, taking each breath like a chore, while Cellmate reaches into his bag, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a match.

“How’s any of that possible!” you croak.

Cellmate shrugs. “I dunno. Ask God.”

You nod. ‘Nough said.

Just then the elevator settles and a door opens. For a moment, you’re struck by a burst of fresh, stinky air. Frozen, you stand, staring at a crest of sunlight on a distant, cloudy horizon.

It’s tomorrow, you think.

“C’mon,” mutters Cellmate, ducking past you.

Following him out, you find yourself in a nondescript trailer park. A large woman in a sundress is parked in an old Buick Lesabre in front of you. A wide, toothless grin spreads across her face.

“Where are the guards?” you say, spinning around.

“There aren’t any,” says Cellmate, opening the back seat and heaving the bag in. “Annie took care of those fuckers.”

With a puff of his smoke, he turns to you and smiles.

“Well stranger, it’s been fun. But this here’s the fork in the road. Try not keep up that terrorist shit. It ain’t Christian.”

With a satisfied nod, he ducks in the passenger seat and the car peels off, leaving you awash in a cloud of kicked up dirt and gravel.

Coughing, you wave your hand back and forth. The least he could have done was give you a smoke, you think.

Suddenly, you hear a strange, hissing, ticking sound. Blinking dust from your eyes, you gaze across the road, out into the blackness beneath a trailer there.

Your blood turns to ice as you realize two familiar red eyes are gazing back.

© 2012 J. Chris Lawrence

CONTEST: “When Shotguns Simply Won’t Do…”

Congratulations to the winners of this week’s contest! I want to thank everyone for participating. The ideas given were all very well thought out, interesting, and creative! The winners are mentioned below, and will have their names in the Special Thanks section should I decide to compile this into a complete manuscript. To all the other contributors, thanks again for participating! I hope to see you all again, same Agoraphobe time, same Agoraphobe… well, you get the point.

First Place: Adam Bailey — Dr. Phil.

This was easily the most Agoraphobe’s Lament style weapon mentioned. It both fits the humor of the series, and the absurdity! Well done!

Second Place: Kelly Kat Phillips — Prosthetic Leg.

This was a tough call for me, as there were a few that came close to taking this slot. But once more, the absurdity, the humor and personality is what held precedence, and the prosthetic leg took the cake. Again, well done!

Honorable Mentions:

Joec1000 – Cat Launcher

This could easily have won, as it not only fits every requirement for the contest, it is also hilarious in action. However, it’s only, single undoing was that I had already planned on using Honey Badgers, and felt it may have been just a bit too close in effect.

Jake James — Baking Soda and Lemon Juice Super Soaker

This was an awesome idea, and it certainly fits. Like some of the others, I think this could potentially go very well in another episode.

Mario Martin — Steampunk Claws

I love the design of these. While it doesn’t quite fit the personality and world of the series, I still thinks it’s worth mentioning due to sheer creative awesomeness.

UPDATED 3/6/12 – See below

Greetings all! I’m excited to announce the first in a series of contests that wil give you, the reader, an opportunity to participate in the story of Agoraphobe’s Lament.

The rules of “When Shotguns Simply Won’t Do” are simple: post your idea for a crazy, outside-the-box kind of zombie killing weapon that isn’t your typical run of the mill tool of destruction. Be witty, be creative, but most importantly, have fun with it! Also, be sure to share a link to your own blog or website (optional). Entries can be placed either in the comments here, or at the official Facebook site.

The winner will have their undead death dealing device featured in next week’s episode. Winners will also have a mention here on the site as well as a link available for their own personal blog (should they choose to offer one), and will be mentioned in the Special Thanks section of the e-book once the series is complete, should I decide to put this in book form.

While I am definitely planning on there being a first prize (the weapon will get the most attention in the story), I may also include secondary winners, depending on the suggestions given. These people will also earn all of the aforementioned prizes.

Well, that’s about it. I look forward to seeing the suggestions, and have you guys participate in the story! And as always, thanks for reading.

Chris

UPDATE 3/6/12

Heads up! The contest is still going, and will be until the new episode is live (which I hope to finish in the next day or two, should life grant me the time). I have received a lot of great ideas, and am very excited to work on the new piece. In the meantime, I want to throw out three points for clarification:

1. For weapon ideas, practical isn’t what I’m after. Remember, this is Agoraphobe’s Lament. The winner will not likely be the most useful, practical, or effective weapon. It will be the one that best fits with the humor and personality of the series.

2. Entrants are welcome to submit more than one idea, so even if you’ve thrown one out there, throw some more! As of now, there’s no limit to suggestions.

3. If you want to have your page shared, should you win, be sure to share it with a suggestion. Originally, the plan was to contact the winner, but that may not be possible in some cases.

So, yep. Keep it coming, and keep your eyes peeled here for more as it comes!

Important junk: Winners will be judged at the author’s discretion, based on the most amusing, creative, outlandish and fitting suggestions given. No copyrighted material may be suggested. By sharing a suggestion, participants are granting the author all rights to use said suggestion in this story. No rights to Agoraphobe’s Lament will be granted in any way to participants of this contest. All rights of the story are reserved by the author, though I suppose that should go without saying. The author reserves the right to be a dick and renege on any aspect of the contest, though that would be stupid and counterproductive, so there shouldn’t be any concern about it. Just sayin’. The author reserves the right to not complete another episode on the time table as planned, though this will only likely occur if life is kicking his ass.

Glancing up from the screen, you gaze out through a window into the black of the night. Deb still hasn’t shown up; the house is a mess of food; there are blood stains of at least two strange men glazing the room like honey on an old doughnut; and your furry guests could appear any minute. Yet, here you sit — controller in hand, not a drop of vinegar in the house.

Suddenly an Xbox message comes up: CoRoCK3R69 wants to chat.

“The fuck?” you say.

Grabbing the headset from the end table, you slip it on and accept the chat.

Bloop.

“Hey, you there?” asks a familiar voice.

You rub your temple. “Yes Coworker, how did you get my live account?”

“What? Oh, I hacked your e-mail. I also took the opportunity to add myself as a friend on your account. I’m all assertive like that.”

Yep. Workplace relationship boundaries.

“So, you’re playing Battlefield 3, huh?” he adds tentatively. “Yeeeah, I went ahead and beat the story mode on your account too, got that achievement you’ve been working on.”

“Naturally,” you say, dropping the controller and grabbing a smoke.

“But, hey, there’s always multiplayer! Personally, I like Modern Warfare better. It’s so realistic! War is fucking awesome!”

You drag deep, saying nothing.

“America’s military is the shit!” he says, puffed with pride. “We should totally bomb Iran.”

“Er…” you mutter, smoke escaping with the word.

“You don’t agree?” he asks.

“I dunno, it’s just–”

“Ooooh! I get it, you’re one of those tree hugging Libertarians, aren’t you?”

“I… what?”

“I bet you even think 9/11 was an inside job!” he laughs.

“That’s a bit extre–”

“Yeah, well, you can be as crazy as you want.” Coworker scoffs. “America’s the good guys! We’d never do something like that to our own citizens!”

The wall of your house explodes.

“What the fu–” you scream as the couch topples back. The controller is launched from your hand, wrenching the headset from your noggin as you tumble over backwards in a heap. Scrambling to get your bearings straight, you hear a thunder of boots crunching in the dried blood stains of your carpeting. Looking up, you see an assault rifle in the hands of a camouflaged soldier, aimed straight for your face.

“I don’t suppose you happen to have any vinegar,” you say.

With that he cracks your face with the butt of the rifle.

You see stars, then nothing.

*          *          *

“Mr. Mack?”

A blur. A headache. Everything is cold, hard.

“Wake up Mr. Mack.”

“I’ll… take that as a no,” you whisper, blinking your eyes.

Slowly the world comes into focus.

You’re sitting at a cold steel table on a matching chair, one of those uncomfortable folding types that makes your ass fall asleep and back hurt for hours. Glancing around, you suddenly realize that your hands are cuffed behind your back and a surly, square jawed zombie in a military uniform is huffing down on you, his breath the acrid reek of decay and Bubblicious gum. The room is a nondescript white with nothing more than a single door. Glancing up at a corner of the ceiling, you’re not surprised to see a camera aimed down at you.

“You know,” you say to the soldier, “this has to be the most unoriginal setting in the history of –”

“Shut up!” he bellows. You do as you’re told. ”Here’s how it’s going to be. You are going to answer our questions, or we are going to waterboard your ass!”

Now, I’d like to stop the story to ask a rhetorical question. When you find yourself in desperate need of vinegar, and wake up in a bad action/horror film, what do you do?

You laugh.

“You find this amusing, Mr. Mack?” the zombie soldier growls. His left eye looks dangerously close to falling out of the socket.

“No sir,” you giggle, “I… find this… deeply inconvenient… and thoroughly unconstitutional. It’s just… what could you possibly want… from me?”

“Mr. Mack, we have reason to believe you may be a terrorist sympathizer.”

Your laughter intensifies. You roll back in the chair, cackling.

“W…why?” you bark through guffaws.

“Don’t play coy! Our spy drones scanned your dwelling. We could see all the food cluttered in your kitchen! We know that you have more than seven days worth stored at your house!”

You can’t breath as the tears streak down your cheeks. You think about all the blood stains and bullet holes in the walls, and roar with laughter.

Stepping back, the soldier gives you an awkward eye. Literally. It slips out and dangles at his cheek. This sends you into a fresh new burst, and he growls.

“You’re insane. But don’t think that will save you, Mr. Mack. We can detain you now indefinitely, and we will break you. You’ll never see sunlight again.”

With that he leaves.

The door locks with a heavy clunk.

It takes some time for the laughter to slow down, to fade to some random, barking chuckles. Your face hurts from all the smiling, and it occurs to you that you haven’t had this much fun in a long time.

Leaning back, you actually feel better, like a weight is somewhat lifted. You glance up at the camera. The lens rotates as it zooms in on you with interest. Looking around, a warmth fills your heart. No windows, no phone, no knocks at your door. Sure, you’ll soon have water gushed into your nose and mouth at an impossible angle, sending your body into an agonizing and life threatening shock, while large, angry men scream at you, demanding something you can never give; but there’ll be no more Hell Beasts, no Deb, and more importantly, no Coworker…

Indefinitely!

You figure it’s a fair trade.

Leaning back, you close your eyes and smile.

“Pst,” comes a voice from a wall nearby.

Your eyes pop open.

Turning slowly, you wonder if it was in your head. Surely you didn’t hear a–

“Pst! Hey, you in there!”

With a sigh, you say, “Um. Yeah?”

“Ah, sweet! I got a neighbor! Cool, now we can chat all the time, man. Keeps ya sane, ya know? So hey, did you happen to catch the Oscars? Did ‘The Help’ win?”

“Er…”

“Fuck it, we’ll find out together, ’cause I got a plan, man! We’re breaking out!”

“Um…”

“The name’s Cellmate by the way, what’s yours?”

 Turning back to the door, your smile drains like a flushed toilet.

© 2012 J. Chris Lawrence

“Shit.”

Clambering down from the counter, your feet drop on one of those box cartons of milk, spraying frothy pale cow juice across the floor. With a sigh, you face the room, surveying the damages.

The kitchen’s a mess. Each cupboard is wrenched open, their spilled contents left idly behind. Seasonings are scattered, boxes of noodles and instant mashed potatoes left in stacks. Rumaging through the heap, you toss strange, random things over your shoulder: a retainer; an antique shoehorn; some strange, glowing red crystal — the longer you stare at this one, the more it stares back — and your sister’s baby’s pacifier, still coated with Pepsi stains.

Not an ounce of vinegar.

“Shit!”

The phone rings.

You scramble for it, tossing clutter from the table aside, casting packs of microwave mac ‘n cheese through the air–

Suddenly the world spins as your foot slips, crashing you to the cold, wet floor.

Ring!

With a growl you flail like a seizing orangutan, slapping aside random condiments, desperately hunting for your only link to salvation. Finally, after kicking a loaf of mangled bread, you see it.

“Huzzah!”

Sliding through a wave of cereal, you roll on your back and answer it, resignedly allowing the cold milk to seep into your shirt.

“Coworker? Listen, I need–”

“What? That’s a strange way to answer the phone little bro.”

Sister.

“Hi Deb.”

“Hey,” she says. “I gotta bone to pick with you!” You can hear the baby crying in the background.

“Deb, now’s not really a good ti–”

“It’s your fault, ass!”

You sigh.

“Because of you, I got exiled from the Trailer.” she moans.

“Okay?”

“I was banished!”

“I still don’t–”

“They voted me off, jackass!” she yells.

“And this is my fault, how exactly?” you say, flopping onto your side. You use a tentative grip on the kitchen table to help get some traction as you kick yourself up to knees.

“Ratings showed that you were, like, the most boring part of the show. The producers didn’t wanna risk puttin’ you on again, ’cause you would, like, bring the whole show down and shit.”

“Of course. ‘Cause that’s the most rational–”

“So,” she coos, ”now I need a place to stay, and I figured…”

“No, hell no!” you cry, making it back to your feet. “Deb, do not come over here. Are you listening to me? Do not come over! It’s…dangerous, and, and the baby! Think of the baby!”

There’s a knock at the door.

“Shit!“

Staggering over, you expect to see your decaying sibling as your fingers twist the knob. But as it slowly creeks ajar, you find two young girls standing in her place.

The one on the right is short, her blonde hair pulled tight into two pigtails at either side; her large, pixy almond eyes matched only by a sweet, youthful smile. She is wearing a white blouse and a green skirt and vest, littered with badges.

The one on the left is taller, dressed in black jeans and a Marilyn Manson shirt. She’s also wearing a green vest, though hers only has one badge. The image on it resembles a smoking pistol. The half of her head that’s not shaved falls in red tipped spikes. Her pierced nose is flaring.

Milk is dripping down your back.

“Hey, you better not talk that kind of shit around the baby,” your sister is saying.

“Can…I help you?” you ask the girls.

“Hi!” says the little one. “Sorry it’s so late, sir, but you were the last stop on our route. We’re your local Girl Scouts, and we were reeeeaaallly hoping you could help us open up a new community center for girls ‘ health here in town! All you need to do is buy two boxes of cookies!”

“Girl scouts?” you mutter.

“Girl scouts!” your sister echoes at your ear. “Better watch out bro, I heard things about them.”

“What?”

“Yeah, they been working with Planned Parenthood and shit.”

“Who?”

“Some Communist abortion shack or somethin’. Anyway, they apparently been training little girls how to have sex and shit.”

The baby cries.

“Are you sure? That sounds stup—”

“Yeah, I hear they’re all kinds of fucked up now. Little girls raised to be lesbian sluts and shit. I bet they even carry knives.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” you laugh.

“Excuse me,” the tall one interjects. “We don’t have all day for you to be talking on your phone, man. You want some cookies or not?”

“Oh, um,” you stammer. “Sorry ’bout that.”

“Don’t do it!” Deb screams. ”If you buy those cookies, babies will die!”

“Just hold on a second Deb,” you say to the phone. Then, ”I don’t think so girls. I’m really not a big fan of cookies–”

The little girl’s smile drops. “But…but, you mean you won’t help us?”

“Fuckin’ waste of my time,” the tall girl scoffs, lighting up a cigarette.

With a sigh, you lean down to talk to the little one.

“No honey, I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

Suddenly, a smile pops on her face. “It’s okay.”

You smile back.

“Because you’re going to buy some cookies.”

“No, honey, you don’t understand, I can’t–”

“Oh you can,” comes that sweet little smiling voice. “And you will. Or I’l cut you.”

“You–what?” You step back.

Suddenly, a six inch butterfly knife flutters out in your face.

The tall one drags from her smoke and says nothing.

“That’s right asshole.” says the little girl. “You heard me. You buy these cookies, and I’ll consider not taking your testicles as a trophy.”

You blink.

Without a word, you pull out your wallet and hand her a twenty.

“Thanks so much mister!” she beams. “Oh, and vote Obama!”

With that the little girl bounds off down the road into the setting sun, her pig tails bobbing with each spring of her step, the tall girl striding behind.

“Bro? Hey, Mack?”

“Yeah.”

You stare numbly down at the boxes of cookies in your hand.

Commie Crisps, they read.

“Are they still there?”

“No, they’re gone,” you say, closing the door. You toss the boxes on the couch and drop beside them. Pulling out a cigarette, you light it up and grab an Xbox controller.

“So I’m coming over,” she says.

Night will soon be here, and then…

Blowing out the smoke, you close your eyes.

“Bring vinegar.”

© 2012 J. Chris Lawrence

The fire crackles and pops as grease drips from the sizzling meat. The beast is ran through with the broken broom from mouth to rear, turning on the makeshift spit.

Light from your little floor fire dances on your face, casting sinister shadows. Your eyes are wide as they survey the feast, taking in the bouquet of Hell Beast (basted with a sweet Mango glaze). In the middle of the living room you sit, wearing its fur like a grisly, crusted skull cap; your face drizzled with caked blood like war paint.

For reasons unknown, you’re wearing nothing but a loincloth.

Suddenly, the fire alarm goes off. You jump to your feet with a screech, your injured leg throbbing, but you ignore it as you rush upon the beeping machine. Each squawk pierces your skull like a needle. You try screaming at it. It doesn’t work. With a grunt, you rush back over to the spit, rip your meal from the broom, and thrust the bloody shaft into the beeping monster. The panel falls with a clatter, leaving a sole nine volt battery hanging loose by blue and red wires.

You howl in glory!

Wandering back, you splash a small glass of water of the fire. It dies with a hiss, swirling smoke in the window’s breeze. You sit, grab the cooked remains of the Furby from hell, and dig into it.

There’s a knock at the door.

Rising slowly, you hold the broom spear at the ready. You sniff the air and grunt, then shuffle a little sideways. Everywhere you step is a blood stain, not yet dried. Your toes squish as you cautiously close in on the door.

Knock, knock-a knock knock!

You huff and grunt, bearing your teeth and banging your chest. Yet whatever rests on the other side doesn’t seem deterred. Swallowing hard, you bring the spear up, and with a raging bellow, wrench the door open.

Standing at your doorstep is Dennis the Menace. Or at least something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Either way, it’s about as little boy as they come.

You lower your spear.

“Well, well, well!” he says. “You’re not looking too good, Mack.”

You sniff a couple times and crook your head.

“Looks like ol’ fuzzy turned you savage.”

“Who…?” You  mutter.

The phone rings.

You jerk around.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” says the boy, casually stepping past you into the living room. “You should go ahead and answer that.”

Holding a wary eye on the child, you swipe the phone off the couch.

“God?” you ask.

“What? Man, that’s a strange way to answer the phone.”

Coworker.

“So, hey, didja catch the halftime show?”

“The what?” You ask, distracted. The kid is wandering around, glancing furtively at the remains of the spit.

“Madonna, man! She is so hot! And she’s like, in her fifties. Oh, I’d so tap that.”

You sigh. “No, I’ve told you before, I’m not really big into… you know what, never mind. Look, I have—”

“Oh shit! I just remembered that you had that little pest problem!”

“Yeah,” you say, staring longingly at the warm meat, still accumulating hair on the stained carpet. Your stomach growls. It really does smell good.

“OK, all you have to do is pour vinegar on them.” he says.

“You…wait, what?”

“Yeah. They totally dry up like salt on slugs man. Nasty.”

“You couldn’t have just…said that?”

“I was in a hurry man! You can’t be late for a colon cleanse. It’s just a matter of priorities.”

You rub your eyes.

“So, yeah! Halftime! They had Spartans, and dancing, and Nicki Manaj, and those laugh-my-ass-off guys up there! And that one M.I.A. chick flipped the camera off. People get so over the top sometimes, you know? Anyway, it was so awesome! It was, like, the awesomest thing ever! I think there was some kind of game going on too, but I just turned it once Madonna was done.”

You miss all of this as the phone hangs forgotten at your side. You’re focused on the strange boy. He seems fascinated with the shattered TV, not in the least concerned with all the blood.

“Jesus,” he says with a cough, waving his hands in the air. “It’s smoky in here. Don’t you have a smoke detector?”

“Never mind that, who are you?” you say, stepping in front of the hanging nine volt.

“Oh, sorry!” he says. “I should have introduced myself! Tada! It’s me!”

Good introduction.

“Me…who?”

“God of course!” he beams.

Of course.

“Why are you here?”

“Weeeeelll, after our last chat — I was absolutely sure you were going to die by the way — but anyway, after our last chat, I went ahead and checked into that whole,you didn’t die debacle. And, as it turns out, I kinda suck at paperwork, and, well, kinda sent the Hell Spawn to the wrong house.”

“Uh huh.”

“New guy at the office!” he chuckles. “That’s me.”

“Right.”

“So, yeah, that was meant for your neighbor, Tom.” he says. “Anyhoo, I was kind of feelin’ a little pooey about you gettin’ all rustled up, and figured I’d come on over and, well, you know.”

“Apologize?” you ask.

“Oh fuck no! I never do that! Apologies denote mistakes, Mack, and I’m omnipotent.”

“But you just said—”

“Nah, I just wanted to come let you know that it was tomorrow after all. So, you can expect another one of those showing up sometime tonight probably. Or maybe two. One might not be enough by the looks of it!”

He smiles.

“Thanks.”

You become distantly aware that Coworker is still emphatically ranting. He’s saying something about Dirty Harry and the Boater Pity, whatever the hell that means. Probably some movie or something.

“But hey, it ain’t all bad.” says God as he walks back to the door. “I’ll tell ya what, since I am kinda responsible for your TV being broken and all, I’ll go ahead and give you a new one. I can do that, ‘cause I’m God.”

Just like that, the TV is replaced, good as new.

“You make an excellent deus ex machina,” you mutter.

“Yep.” he nods. ”Anyway, you don’t mind taking care of the blood though, right? I don’t really do carpets.”

You stare at him.

“Well, gotta get going. See you tomorrow!”

With that he wanders off down the road, whistling a catchy tune.

You close the door behind him.

Suddenly you hear screaming from the phone. Your heart jumps in your throat as you pull it up. “Coworker? What is it? What happened?”

“It’s the Giants, Mack! They won! Twenty one to seventeen, bitches! I have no idea what that means, but praise his holy name, they won the Super Bowl! Wooo—”

You hang the phone up and drop it on the table.

You figure you have a few more hours before two or more infernal rodents viciously rip your limbs asunder, so you better spend your last moments well.

Exhausted, you flop hard on the couch. Scratching at the bandage on your leg, you reach down and grab the hunk of meat and the Xbox controller. Brushing some hair from it, you shove the “Hell Scrat” in your mouth and load up the game.

In minutes, a zombie is detonated by a shotgun that shoots explosive rounds.

A familiar smile crosses your greasy lips.

© 2012 J. Chris Lawrence

The phone rings.

Standing in the middle of your living room, you hold the broken broom high over head; the splintered end where the bristles once rested, stained red from the single graze you managed to get on the creature. Surveying the disheveled room, you feel the warmth of your blood dripping down your cheek, but don’t dare wipe it. It’s watching, hungry, waiting for an opening…

Ring.

Your eyes dart in several places at once, searching for the forgotten link to the outside world. You have no idea where it is. Turning toward the broken TV, you’re expecting those large eyes and that gaping maw to appear at any moment, ready to finish the job. You make a single, shuffled step. No sudden movements. You don’t dare drop your guard as you wait for the —

Ring.

With a glance and by sheer twist of fate, you see the black bottom of the phone protruding from under the couch. Your gut turns at the thought of trying for it, but you know it’s worth the risk. It’s Coworker, has to be, and he knows how to handle this thing.

Ring.

Cautious, you slowly slink down, reaching out with your left hand. You clutch the phone hard, and with a jerk, pull it up to your head.

“Coworker?”

“Er, no.” says the voice on the other line. He sounds like a twenty-something, used care salesman. “Not quite. But, hey, is this Mack?”

“Yeah. Listen, whoever you are, I need help! I—”

“I know, I know,” he says with a chuckle, “you’re being stalked by a ravenous hell-beast most assuredly spawned from the hirsute nethers of Satan himself. But that’s not important right now.”

Something growling scurries by and you jump. “Fuck! Shit!” you cry, swinging the wooden shaft around. Gasping, you say to the phone, “Okay… lucky guess… Look… I don’t have any money… and I’m pretty sure I lost a pint of blood… so whatever you’re selling—”

“Oh, most certainly! Those little buggers really got a bite on ‘em, don’t they?” he says. “But hey, I’m not selling anything. Just wanna chat.”

You pause. “You…you know what this is?”

“Well of course I do,” he says. “I sent it.”

“You sent this?! So, you can help me, right? You can call it off!”

The man chuckles. “No, you’re fucked as far as that’s concerned. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“What the hell?” You scream. Somewhere the thing releases a strange, gurgling giggle.

“Brace yourself Mack, and listen carefully now, for I have something very important to tell you…” says the voice.

Not at all listening now, you scream again as the thing huffs past, its snarls wet and eager as it takes a small piece of your leg with it.

“I’m God,” says the voice.

You hobble a few steps closer to the kitchen, away from the closed space of the living room, weighing now whether you should make for the door or stand your ground. On one hand, you can be free of this malicious demon spawn. On the other, you’ll be outside.

With people.

Both options seem equally horrific.

“Did you hear me?”

No, nor do you hear that. You don’t have time to think about it or give half a twiddly shit. You’re certain now that you just saw light gleam off some large, milky white eyes behind the couch, and they are aimed at you with murderous precision.

“I’m God!” yells the voice.

You blink. ”You’re what?”

“I’m God, Mack. You know, Alpha, Omega, I am that I am and all that jazz.”

“…O…K…?”

“You understand what that means of course.”

“Um… yes?” you say, about ready to hang up.

“I don’t think you do, Mack.”

“Alrighty then! Hey, look, it’s been wonderful talkng to you—”

“I’m God Mack.”

“…OK.” It’s all you can think to say.

Great, you lost sight of the damn thing again! 

“OK? You’re on the phone with God all-fucking-mighty, and all you can think to say is… OK?”

“I dunno. What should I say?”

“How the hell should I know?” he says. “There’s only one God, Mack. And that’s me, so I don’t rightly have the opportunity to talk to God, now do I? I mean, not unless I talk to myself. And I don’t do that, Mack. It’s too much like masturbation, and we all know how I feel about that.”

You close your eyes, wondering now if simply walking into the mouth of death would be the best decision.

“About that,” says God, reading your mind. “I…uh…I’m also Death.”

“‘Cause that makes sense.” you mutter.

“Yeah, finances have been pretty tight this year,” he says, “so I had to make some cut backs. I’ve been doing a little more leg work myself. So now I pretty much have all the ‘God’ work, and the ‘Death’ work. It’s exhausting to say the least.”

You smack the phone against your head.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door.

“Of course!” You say, throwing your hands up in exasperation. Fuck it. Apathetic now of beast and phone alike, you nonchalantly step over the still-moist remains of Pony Boy’s juices and open the damn thing.

Standing on your doorstep is a well made-up, young woman. She has a couple zombies behind her, both holding now-familiar TV equipment; one is carrying a large camera, and a the other a long steel microphone rod with a fuzzy tip. Apparently, that’s all you need for television.

“Hello sir! We’re from Channel One Action News. We are going house to house doing a story on the local opinion on the Superbowl half time events! What are your feelings about the upcoming Madonna show this year?

“Hello?” says God from the phone, hanging limp now at your side.

“You’re not going to kill anyone on my carpet, are you?” you ask.

“What?”

“Nothing.” you say. “Look, I’m not really into spor—”

Suddenly you stop as you hear familiar scrambling and something hot and fuzzy rushes past your bleeding leg. Your stomach drops. It’s standing in your yard now, staring at you; the fur about its muzzle clumped and sticky with blood.

Your blood.

“Oh my God! It’s a Groundhog!” cries the reporter. “This is the biggest thing on the news right now! Tom, are you getting this?”

“Uuuuhhhhh…” moans the camera man.

“Hello!?” comes God’s muted screams.

The reporter jumps out in front of the camera, the creature behind her.

“This is Rebecca White reporting for channel one Action News, where at a local residence, we have found a real live groundhog!”

It snarls and gnashes the air as she turns, smiling at it.

“And as you can clearly see, it is hardly afraid of its shadow! That’s right, it’s staying out! And you heard it here first folks! Summer will be coming early this y—”

In a blur, it dives forward, rending her head clean from her shoulders. Her spraying body collapses like a squeezed bag of potato soup.

It turns to you.

Wink.

You slam the door shut and lock it.

“Mack?”

Leaning against the door, you sigh. Eyes closed, you bring the phone back to your ear.

“Yeah?”

“There you are! So, it didn’t kill you, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Huh. Wow. I was really sure you were going to die today. Oh well, there’s always tomorrow.”

“Was there a reason why you called?” You ask. You wonder if there are any beers left in the fridge.

“What? Oh, no, not really. Just…uh…you know. Passin’ the time, waiting for you to, you know… And hey! Would you look at that? The time has passed. Well, one way or the other, I’ll be seeing you soon!”

With that, he hangs up.

Walking over to the fridge, your heart warms to find there are in fact four beers in there. Popping one, you wander back to the couch.

The TV is shattered, the black center a gaping mouth of brittle glass teeth. But kicking back, you don’t really mind. The beer is cold, the breeze drifting through the window brings a comforting clarity, and even the moans of the roaming zombie hoards cast a strangely calming ambiance. You can finally rest now knowing that nasty thing is outside, hopefully destroying the neighborhood, where it rightly belongs.

And the door is locked.

And there’s no way in.

Another breeze touches your face.

Your eyes suddenly shoot open. You turn to the open window.

A broad, crimson grin meets your gaze.

© 2012 J. Chris Lawrence

Huddled like a caveman, you crouch by the fridge, broom in hand. It’s resting just a few feet from you, on the floor mat by the sink. You consider poking it, but each time you move, it does too, and you kind of like it just staying still.

You found it on your way out of the bathroom. One minute, everything’s normal — you’re evacuating your bowels in the most peaceful room of the house in blissful silence — the next, this creepy little critter is holding your kitchen hostage by no less than the threat of your complete, agonizing demise.

The phone rings.

You eagerly reach out, slapping a scouting hand around the table for it, not daring to take your eyes from the strange thing watching you. It takes a couple rings before you manage to get it to your cheek.

“Hello?”

“Howdy sport, whatchu up to?” says Coworker.

You swallow hard. ”Er…not much, just sitting here.”

It’s watching you. Its large, polished eyes judging you, piercing you.

“So, you hear about the guy that got arrested for running some pirating website? What was it called? Superdownload? Megabuttload?”

“I don’t really watch the news anym—” you start.

“Megaupload! That’s it! Yeah, they say he might be gettin’ fifty years in prison for that. Tell you what man, if I ever decide to be a criminal, I’ll be sure to rape and murder someone. You get off way easier than helping people downlo—”

“Hey,” you say, interrupting him. “Have you, uh… have you ever seen any weird, fuzzy creatures?”

Silence. Then, “Like a Marmoset?”

“What? No, not like a… OK, just listen. I have this… thing, in my kitchen. I don’t know what it is. It’s… it’s kind of scaring me.”

Holy Christ, did that thing just wink at you?!

“Ooookay, describe it to me. Does it have big eyes?”

“Yes.”

“And is it really fuzzy?” he asks.

“Yeah, like Ron Jeremy fuzzy.”

“Got it. And is it essentially one huge mouth full of jagged, razor sharp teeth?”

“I haven’t really seen—” It suddenly smiles at you. “Fuck! Shit! Yes, damn, where does it hide those things?”

More silence. Then: “Uuum. Yeeeah, we had one of those in our house last year. Nasty little buggers. Very dangerous!”

“Well, what should I do?” You cry.

“Oh, you have to be very careful with them,” he says. “One wrong move and it’s over. And they’ll vanish like Rick Moranis if you don’t keep an eye on ‘em.”

“Ok! Ok! Watch it, got it. So how do I get rid of it?”

“It’s very simple,” he says. “All you have to do is… Oh crap, hey I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

“Wait, what? No, you have to—”

Click.

“Shit!” You drop the phone back on the table. “Now what?”

Suddenly the door bursts open. You jump back as a tall, thin man rushes over to you and cracks you in the head with what looks for a brief moment like a purple, jelly baguette.

Everything goes dark.

When you wake, you find yourself sitting on the couch. He’s next to you, playing your Xbox. Your head is throbbing.

“Who the fuck…?” you mutter.

He turns to you. You realize that he can’t be less than forty years old. He’s a heavy acne sufferer, which doesn’t go well with the pink, My Little Pony shirt he’s wearing. He follows your gaze and smiles.

“Friendship is magic,” he says. “Bronies for the win!”

You have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Look, I didn’t mean to bust in here like I did, I just had to find a place to hide. You know, for a bit.”

Discounting the zombie hordes littering the world beyond your door that could have easily rent his flesh from meat like a rotisserie chicken, you ask: “Hide? From what?”

“From the Popo, man!” he says. This apparently strikes him as hilarious, because he bursts into a hiccupy kind of snort laugh. “…Parasprites.”

“Uh-huh” Wincing at the dull pain in your skull, you ask, “What the hell did you hit me with?”

“Umm…” he suddenly shuffles, tucking what looks like a large neon penis out of sight beside him. “Nothing, just a… you know. It was all I had at the time.”

Attempting a smile, you start to inch away, when suddenly, you hear the distant thwup, thwup, thwup of a helicopter somewhere nearby. Then sirens. He starts to sweat, his gaming hand slowly lowering, the zombies onscreen now forgotten as the sounds grow louder.

“They found me!” He whines, grabbing the dildo and rushing to a window.

“They? They who?”

But before he can answer, you hear a voice over a megaphone: “We know you’re in there! Come out with your hands up! What? No, that’s what we say. No this is not my first time! Shut up Tom! OK, fine, we’ll talk about this later.” A throat clears. Then: “Right, we know you’re in there, come out with your hands up!”

“What the hell?” You stand up.

“It’s the Feds. They’re hunting me! Hunting me like a dog!” says the man with the dildo.

“What? Why?”

Turning his back to you, his head drops, his fist clenched. “I…I did something. Something horrible.”

Slowly, you peer around the room for anything that might pass as a weapon, but find nothing. Damn modern cordless controllers! So much for choking him.

“Look, whatever you did, I’m sure—” you sputter.

“No, don’t try to placate me!” He hollers. “You don’t know my shame. There’s no hope for me. I… I can’t turn back! Not now!”

With that, he throws the door open, flailing the dildo, screaming “Hey popo! Love and tolerate this!” He barely finishes the words as bullets rip into him with a volley of thunderous cracks. His body rocks and jerks as chunks vanish, his blood misting your now-swiss-cheesy wall.

The following silence is deafening.

You fall to your couch, hardly aware of the federal agents as they file in. It’s all a blur as they make their rounds, securing the house.

“Clear!” one says, followed by another, and just like that they throw the body on a cot and wander out. You find yourself alone with an impossible tomato soup spill and an important looking man wearing thick sunglasses.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that sir. He was a hardened criminal.” The man says, tapping you comfortingly on the shoulder.

“What…what did he…do?”

“A horrendous crime. He downloaded episodes of My Little Pony through some website last year. We just managed to shut the site down, but these monsters… well, they’re still out there, preying on the entertainment industry’s profits. The bastards. Hey, could you sign this statement and liability waiver?”

He shoves a piece of paper in your face. You stare at it, paralyzed by shock.

“Or I can just forge your name later. That works too.” he tucks it into his jacket. “Well sir, I’m sure you’ll sleep much sounder tonight knowing that scumbag is off the streets.”

With that, he leaves.

You sit alone, shaking.

After a long while, you stand up and wander over to the place where the Pony guy once stood.

Great, you think as you close the door. Just as I was starting to get the stains from the last one out of the carpet.

Then you see the broom, and a deep dread pulses through your chest. You quickly turn to the kitchen only to find it empty.

The thing is gone.

Sweating, you peer under the table. Nothing. Slowly, you peek down the hall. Nada. The room is still as you stand breathing. With a sigh, you wander back over to the couch. Sitting for a moment, you reach down and pick up the abandoned controller.

You start playing.

Something fuzzy tickles your neck.

© 2012 J. Chris Lawrence

It’s like food redundancy.

With a sigh you leave the bathroom, clutching your gut and spraying a wake of Febreze on your way to the kitchen. You stop at the fridge, contemplating in what country it’s five o’ clock. You don’t listen to Country music, but if you did, you’re sure you’d play that Alan Jackson song on permanent repeat.

The phone rings.

Slowly, you peer over the fridge door. Like a savage studying a strange, dangerous creature, you stare wildly at the small black machine as it calls out to you. A tremor travels down your spine with each ring. Finally it stops. Just like that.

A smile creeps across your lips. It’s over! You…you don’t have to answer it! A warmth blooms through your chest and the roof opens up! The sun serenades you as the moaning outside engulfs you with discordant song. You can just see the hordes of undead dancing, twirling with jerky delight—

It rings again.

You grunt, grab a beer and close the fridge. Popping the cap on the edge of the table as you walk past, you never take your eyes from the phone. Still it rings, calling you, saying your name.

Answer me…

The ringing stops.

You take a drink. It must be over. You think. Now I can nurse my throbbing digestive tract in pea—

There’s a knock at the door.

It rings again.

Fuck.

You sulk over to the door and wrench it wide open with your free hand.

Standing before you is a pretty young zombie. She’s dressed like a whore. Blue and green veins span her limbs like highways on a Smurf road map; interconnecting infected bite wound cities. Her eyes are milky orbs, floating on pools of dark patches. In one hand she holds a bundle of blanket and flesh — a sleeping mound of baby. In the other there hangs a large, tan bag with little teddy bear designs all over it.

“Hey l’il brother!” she croons as she plows past you into the house.

Suddenly another zombie, dressed in a t-shirt, wearing a baseball cap and carrying a large camera slides by. At his tail comes another, this one carrying a long steel rod with a padded microphone on the end. Finally, a business man comes in. He flashes a sheet of paper at you.

“Heya! We’re the crew for the hit reality series, “Trailer of Love.” We need you to sign this.”

You open your mouth, but you can’t find a single word.

“Or I can just forge it later.” says the suit. “It essentially waves all your rights and allows us to use your image in any way deemed necessary by the studio in the show. Here’s your promotional pack of cigarettes!”

He turns to your sister. “Now, Debbie, just be yourself. Camera?”

“Rolling,” says the cameraman as he knocks over your end table, spraying ashes along the floor.

Yep, still ringing.

You take another drink and close the door.

“Trailer of Love, Episode three: Debby’s Brother is a Dick”

Debbie slides the diaper bag on the ground, and drops down on the couch. The baby stirs as she pulls a cigarette from out of nowhere.

“Damn, don’tcha know it’s like, the morning?” she says. “Ain’t it a bit early to be hitting the booze?”

The camera turns to you.

“Got a light?” she adds.

“No.” you lie. “Why are you here?”

Ring.

“Just needed a place to sit for a bit.” she says as she fishes in the bag. “You know, while Marco does his thing. He was kinda hungry, so he went next door for a bite. He was all like, ‘I want somethin’ Kosher,’ and I said to him, ‘you stupid asshole, they ain’t Buddhists over there.’”

You drink.

Ring!

“Jesus, you gunna answer that?” she asks as she finally pulls out a lighter.

“No.”

Cut to camera 5:

Debbie: ”So, I walk up and my bro’s all actin’ like a major douche, drinkin’ beer for breakfast and beep. First he invites me in, then he’s gettin’ all drunk and beep while I got the baby, askin’ me why I’m even there! And the phone just rings and he ignores it, givin’ me some dirty eye like I’m the bad guy! I was, like, this close to throwin’ down ‘cause of that shit.”

The baby stirs, coughs in complaint.

“So, Angel’s been talking all kinds of shit about me, sayin’ I’m a bad mom and shit but that bitch don’t know shit and she’s gunna get her ass kicked in if she don’t quit talking that shit, ya know? Oh, mom wants to know if you liked that liver and corn casserole.”

Your stomach turns at the reminder. You nod, your broken smile a grimace.

The ringing stops.

The baby starts crying.

You take a drink.

“And Marco’s doin’ so good! He don’t eat no more than two people a day and shit and he’s lookin’ at a raise at the shop and shit but there’s this guy—”

You feel your eyes slowly gloss over. Her words grow muted, as if she’s speaking underwater. Your stomach complains and you long for the cool privacy of your toilet…

Cut to camera 5.

Debbie: “So, I’m all tryin’ to tell him some important beep, and he just stands there, like a beep‘in zombie. And I’m all talkin’ ‘bout mom, and he just don’t give a beep.”

“—kicks his bitch ass for talkin’ shit, and Angel’s his bitch or something, and she’s all like ‘ah hell naw!’ And I was like ‘bitch’ and I told her I wasn’t takin’ no more of that shit and shit. Hey, you listenin’ to me?”

The baby cries, snapping you back.

The phone rings.

Baby.

Phone.

Wah.

Ring.

Suddenly the door bursts open. A man scrambles in, screaming. “Please! Help me! It’s coming—” but a greenish hand reaches out, clutching his face, pulling his head back like a human Pez dispenser. A muscular zombie with a large mound of hair greased up in the front reaches around, tearing the man’s throat open. They fall to the ground in a squishy thud, awash in wet munching sounds.

The camera follows the action.

“Hey baby!” Debbie cries with a smile.

“Yo babe,” says the zombie, flashing her a moist, crimson grin from atop the fresh corpse. He wipes his mouth as he stands, then holds the dripping hand out to shake. “Hey Mack. So yeah, you got this body, right? I’d clean it up myself, but I got some creepin’ to do, if ya know what I mean!”

You just stare in numb silence.

Cut to camera 6.

Marco: “What’s up with with Debbie’s bro? First he invites me in, and then gives me this stupid face when I ask him if I can leave a little trash behind, ya know? And he won’t even shake my hand, like he’s too good for me or some beep. He’s lucky I didn’t rearrange his face.”

“Okay, see ya later bro! Love ya!” Debbie sings.

After a hard glare from Marco, they’re gone, followed by the Cameraman and sound guy.

On his way out, the suit says, “Heya! You did great. We’ll do lunch sometime. Ciao!”

A strange silence falls over the room. The familiar noise of the zombie hordes fills the air, and you breathe deep.

You realize the beer is empty and there’s a draining corpse at your open door.

You’re facing a crisis of priorities.

With a gurgle of bowels, the decision is made.

Wandering back toward the bathroom, you wonder just how much corn you could possibly have left over, while somewhere in the recesses of your mind you are dimly aware that, whatever the answer, it will surely be the high point of your day.

© 2012 J. Chris Lawrence

The skull pops like the supple flesh of a grape, and a chunky spray of blood and matter dots the screen. You don’t smile, not on the outside. No, out there your face is a stern calm — the visage of focus. Yours is the face of brutal determination, while inside your feet dance with the kill; while inside, small woodland creatures sing “Aquarius/Let the Sun Shine In” and you think, this is why I live…

The phone rings. You’re too distracted to consider what that may mean as you reach out to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hey buddy!” says your coworker.

The animals shriek as a dark cloud creeps over the field of your mind. The 5^thdimension song is suddenly replaced with Ke$ha’s “Tik Tok” and a cold lump invades your gullet.

For a moment, you realize what hell must be.

“Um. Hi.”

“What’cha doin?” he asks.

“Killing shit,” you say, but you pause the game and put the controller down. He’s ruining your ritual; his alien noise is disheveling your chi.

He laughs. “That’s great bud, that’s great. So hey, how about the Broncos? Steelers really got their asses handed to them, am I right?”

You sigh. “I don’t really —”

“But g’damn!” he gleefully continues. “316 yards? Tebow really came through for us.”

“Sports isn’t really —”

“It’s like, like his ball was carried by a volley of angels…” he sighs.

You idly wonder if he can hear the sound of you repeatedly smacking the phone against your head.

Suddenly, there’s comes a knock.

“Oh look, there’s someone at the door!” you say as you rush toward it, eager to escape the call. Pulling the phone away from your ear, you don’t give him the chance to keep going.

The front door opens with a slow, shrill creak.

There are two of them standing there, one slightly less decomposed than the other. The one in front still has a charming smile, though the infected bite mark on his cheek squirts a little each time he uses it. The one behind him is the type that looks like he could lose his jaw any minute. That one just kind of shuffles his feet, moaning a bit here and there.

They are both dressed in clean suits.

“Good afternoon!” says the lead zombie. “Have you heard the good word?”

You stare dryly at him for a moment. “If you begin singing that goddamn ‘Bird’s the word’ shit, I swear to Christ, I’ll -“

“No, no, no,” the zombie says. “That’s not what I mean. But funny joke there!”

He does the whole shooting fingers thing at you with a smirk. Squirt goes the cheek.

“My name is Vince, and this here is Jackson. We were hoping to share with you the good word and invite you out to our house of worship this Sunday.”

He hands you a small slip of paper.

You will die a horrible death at the hands of your worst nightmares in hell (Unless you come to our house of worship!) and 9 other family fun facts from our ambiguously implied religion. It reads.

You think of Ke$ha with a shudder.

“Hello? Hello?” says your coworker’s distant, muted voice from the phone in your hand, bringing you back to the moment.

“Listen, I don’t really —” you start.

“Our God loves you, and through him, you will rise again from death! Isn’t that right Jackson?”

Jackson moans. Off comes the jaw. You wince and Vince smiles. Squirt, squirt.

“Look, Religion’s not really—”

“Sure, sure. Tell you what! We’ll just leave that with you, and if you want to drop on by, you can find a house of worship at every corner of the street on every block of your neighborhood. But uh…come to our church. It’s the one right there.”

He points to the large building next door.

“It’s Godlier.” He adds.

Squirt.

A dull throb pulses in your skull. It’s growing, engulfing you.

“Hey, are you there?” says the phone.

You pull it to your ear. “Look, I gotta g —”

“So, so yeah!” continues your coworker like a movie unpaused. “God really does work miracles!”

“What?” You rub your brow, desperate to seal the growing pain behind your closed eyes.

“It’s just so wonderful to see these kinds of confirmations, you know? When great men like Tebow can really get out there and teach the youth that God is real.”

The pain intensifies and you fall to your knee. Breathing heavily, your free hand presses the Zombie’s brochure to your forehead, desperately trying to keep your cranium from shattering and spilling a mess of slop all over your steps.

“Oh! You’re Tebowing!” cries the zombie joyously. “Praise be! You have been saved!”

Glaring up in bewildered silence, something vaguely resembling a thin cord of gristle in your mind snaps.

“Right!” you say as you stand, trying to fake a smile, though you’re certain it looks more like you’re pushing at a blocked sphincter. “And, uh, and I’ll see you then! Sunday, yay!”

You back away slowly, holding the “smile” as you slam the door shut.

“Hello?”

Coworker.

Pulling the phone to your face, you mutter, “…on’t…al…gain…”

“I can’t here you,” he says. “I think you’re breaking up.”

“…o…uck…er…elf…” you reply and hang up.

For a moment, you stand in glorious silence. You look down at the paper the zombie gave you. Lighting a cigarette, you bring the flame over to it. It roars up in a small scorching ball. You swear you hear moaning as agonized faces form in the billowing smoke. You leave the rest to fade in an ashtray on the end table.

Dropping back down on the couch, you kick back and unpause the game. The blood drains down the screen as the next bad guy comes around the corner.

His head soon explodes.

The animals are singing once more.

© 2012 J. Chris Lawrence

“What the godamn?” you blurt, fighting a tangle of blankets. Struggling to silence the blaring machine, you thrash and kick before your toe finally catches the cord, ripping it from the wall with a clunk. Sighing, you roll back over. But no matter how you lay, a heavy stream of sun sneaks in through the windows, carrying on the alarm’s grisly will, assaulting your closed eyes without mercy.

You throw your feet over the edge of the bed, grumbling all the way out into the kitchen, scratching your ass as you listen to the distant moans beyond your walls.

It’s been six long months getting used to that bit, the whole walking dead thing. When it first happened, the world descended into shocked chaos while everyone prepared for the end of the world. But just like that, nothing happened. Instead of banging on boarded doors, they tried to sell vacuums and life insurance. Everyone pretty much did the same thing they’d been doing, only with a stiffer gait. Hell, the best part about a zombie infestation — you know, where you get to blow people’s heads off and not go to work — never really happened. It wasn’t long before they just became another tick on the ethnicity boxes of government forms, and the world moved on.

Soon the coffee pot is gurgling and steaming, dripping out a fresh pot. Dropping on the couch, you turn the TV on.

Moaning. Damn, incessant moaning.

Clutching the remote, you jack the volume up.

“A recent Paul attack add seeks to question Governor Mitt Romney’s pro-life stance,” says a shifty newscaster, ”targeting his recent feast on old women at Sunday’s convention. Romney’s camp is saying this is just a racial smear tactic, attempting to segregate the zombie community. Paul’s camp claims Romney is just trying to redirect the discussion.”

The screen cuts to some old zombie with a thick, graying toupee. The audio kicks on in the middle of something he’s saying: “So that’s the problem. It’s not just about a hunger for brains. Mitt Romney has to be held accountable for his liberal positions. He’s the founder of Obamacare, and he’s clearly not pro-life. Romney’s no different than Obama. We need a real conservative in office. Ron Pau–”

You click it off and wander from your seat, certain a cup of coffee and a smoke are all you need to think clearly. But breakfasting a Camel light and an Arabica does nothing to cease the noise beyond your window. They know you’re in there. They want you to come out.

“Jooiin…usssss…” says the moan.

Lighting another cigarette, you lean back in your chair, smiling. Fuck that, you think. There’s not a force in the world that’s taking you out of your house on your day off.

The phone rings.

Wandering to the end table, you scoop it up in a stream of ash and smoke.

“Hello?”

“Mack! Hey, how’s your vacation day goin’?”

It’s your co-worker. He seems to lack a healthy appreciation for workplace relationship boundaries.

You rub your eyes. “It’s not much of a vacation day if I’m talking to a cowor–”

“Sure, definitely,” he says. “So, you been watching the news?”

“Not really, I’m just–”

“So, who do you think will get it?” he asks. You can hear the drooling grin cracking his face. You can just see those eyes bulging, a web of veins pulsing at the fringe of his irises. Yeah, that’s how into this he is.

“Get what?”

“The nomination!” he pops.

“I honestly don’t ca–”

“I think it’s gunna be Santorum, he really came outta nowhere with that Iowa Caucus.” Suddenly he cackles, adding, “Hehe! Santorum, do you know what that means?”

“Yeah.” you mutter, thinking of Boston Creme Pie for some reason.

“So, who you gunna vote for?”  he presses. ”You know, for President?”

“Jooiin…usssss…” comes the moan once more.

“UUuuuuhhhhnnnnn…” says Coworker.

“I…uh…gotta go!” you say, hanging up the phone.

Walking to your window, you look out upon the marching masses. They are all on their way home from the voting booth; some with iPhones in hand, clicking on Gallup polls as they drag a limp leg behind. A neighbor smashes a sign into the yard with a flopping, bloody limb. You can barely make out the words Obama ’12 on the facade. It’s just January. Elections are November. You realize that this will last well into the year.

Assuming ancient Mayans don’t destroy everything with their asshole predictions, of course.

You flop on the couch, staring at the tv. Something digs in your ass. Grunting, you root around down in there, pulling out a black Xbox controller. A smile spreads across your face.

Kicking back, you turn on the TV. Switching over to the input, you load up “Dead Island” for the Xbox 360. As the game starts, the room swells with the sounds of zombies once more, while the phone rests beside you, forgotten…

© 2012 J. Chris Lawrence