"We interrupt our regularly scheduled program to bring you this breaking report. We take you now to Cliff Danielson."
"Tragedy struck today in ways that no one ever expected to actually happen. Officials believed it to be a seasonal hoax, despite the flood of calls received on the matter. Now, it is known to be true. Ladies and gentlemen, we are being attacked... by the living dead. Hordes of decomposed bodies have risen from their graves and now walk among us, attacking the living to, yes, feast on their brains. We would like to remind our viewers that his is not a joke in any way, nor is it a themed, fictional program. This is real. We advise all of our viewers at home to stay there. Do not attempt to leave to find safer grounds. Officials are dealing with the situation. We take you now to the front of the epid-di-di-dimic with-ith-th-th-..." The broadcast broke to a nearly black screen, but faint outlines of a figure could be seen in the shadows.
"Greetings, Earth people. We are the K'grotzar. As your pathetic informants have already enlightened you, your planet is under peril. This is our doing. You have already witnessed but a sample of our power, and this is only the beginning. War has been declared on your measly rock, and soon your world will be conquered by the galactic empire. Accept your deaths now to spare any suffering." The dripping monster ended its speech with a guttural growl before its signal was replaced by a "technical difficulties" screen.
Wide eyed and open mouthed, the onlooker to the television remained motionless from what he had just witnessed. His hand still hung in front of his mouth, prepared to lick the cheesy residue from his fingers left by his bag of fried snacks. The dank, cluttered surroundings created a sea of mess that blanketed the entire level with him perched on the couch like a stranded island. His name is Jethro Duncan, a twenty-something college drop-out living in his step-mother's basement in a small town in the middle of no where. He had just learned that the world was ending. All of the nothings he had accomplished in his young, wasted life rolled through his mind. He could not believe it, that this had happened.
"Oh... hells... yeah!" roared the man as his face sprouted a smile larger than he ever had or ever would again. Frantically, his eyes darted around to the sloppy piles of mastered videogames, the gory ones that his parents did not want him playing when he was young, and begged him to stop playing when he could not keep a job. They passed then to the cabinets on the walls loaded with his father's gun collection. Shotguns and rifles of all makes and calibers beamed behind the glass. Even a prized hunting knives were stashed with them. His eyes then passed to a bowl of pretzels because he was hungry, but then refocused on the belts of ammunition stored with the firearms. He sprung to his feet with crumbs and bits rolling off his bulging gut, indecisive about what he should do first. His thick hands tossed the phone between his face and shoulder as the speed dial for number one was called while he assembled supplies.
"Dude, tell me you were watching TV. ... Yeah, you're right. What else would you be doing? Work?" The two shared a laugh on the brink of the Apocalypse. "So, we're so gonna, right? Get the whole frickin' gang together, then, 'cuz we are gonna tear it up! ... Er, yeah, I meant 'save the world', of course. Heroics and all that junk... So, you got a board with some nails in it?" he squeamishly questioned. "Sweet. Okay, meet ya all at the fountain, buddy. I'll be there with presents." As he hung up, the fat, disgusting slob had been entirely transformed. He was now a fat slob decked out commando style. Jet twirled a shotgun in each hand. Two bandoleers wrapped about each shoulder as two more wrapped around what he wished was his waist, but they could not be pulled that far down. The pockets of his gray university hooded sweatshirt were packed full of shell casings, and several pistols were strapped over his worn jeans. Two rifles tipped with bayonets were stuck in the loops at his back as massive blades stuck out from his pant pockets and boots. Fitting his snug ball cap about his greasy, black hair, and he was almost set for some serious redeadening. The final touch was an old, lead pipe that had somehow migrated downstairs, used as a prop to hold up a shelf of assorted junk that did not belong elsewhere in the house.
"Ma," he hollered up stairs, "I'm gonna be goin' out. If one of us is still alive, there better be dinner ready."
"While you're out, can you pick up a milk?" she called back, unphased by the situation.
"But maaa!" he futily whined. "I'm gonna be saving the wooorld!"
"Two percent," she shouted back, ignoring the protest. "You know how your father hates skim."
"Fine! I hope I do die! Then who will get your milk?" childishly yelled the human armament as he ascended the direct exit outside. "Zombie me, that's who!" No sooner than the door swung open, a rotted man greeted him with a starving groan. A Colt was swiftly unholstered and plugged into its mouth, making a new hole out the top of its skull. As the fiend slid, lifeless once more, from the barrel, Jethro examined the gore splattered weapon with a disturbing pride.
"Hells yeah.
Jon Altos regained conscousness to the sound of car alarms and the occasional breaking of glass outside his double-wide trailer, obtrusively parked (permanantly, on cinder blocks) in an empty lot in the middle of what had formerly been a nice neighborhood. The TV was off. The neighbors must have turned off the power, or found his extension cable again. No matter though, from the sound of things, last night's block party was still going strong. Still riding a rather heavy buzz, Jon dragged himself up and shuffled his way to the front door, deciding once and for all that he wouldn't be slipping into work until at least 1:00. He was already outside when he realized he was still in his robe and slippers, putting him in a tricky situation. On the one hand, he'd gone to great lengths to present himself as a guy who did not wear robes, and to be caught in one now would require him to perform a lot of keg stands to regain his image, and he'd probably have to buy 'em himself. But on the other hand, he was already outside. He stood on his front porch (two old, rusted pickup beds) considering his options for several minutes, before deciding he really didn't want to waste time changing. He decided instead to see if there was any more beer; his buzz was starting to wear off, and it was beginning to appear as though it had left a doozy of a headache behind. A couple half-chilled cans of Busch laying in the dewy grass of the lawn across the street looked promising for a moment, but his headache wasn't that bad yet. He surveyed the half-dozen stragglers hanging around somewhat listlessly in the street, but they all seemed to need to drown a hangover worse than he did. Discouragement, and nausea, were starting to sink in, when he recognized a familiar face down the road.
"Se-heth Richards! I could have sworn you'd died from alcohol poisoning last night, man, you were out COLD!" Seth just stared blankly back at him, head lolling slightly. "Heh, still feelin' it, eh buddy? No worries, I'll talk to ya later, when you can talk back." Jon slapped his friend firmly on the shoulder, completely oblivious to the latter's nose falling off from the impact, and turned around in search of more lively conversation.
"Luke Collins, still at it!"
"Jamie Roach, haven't seen you since that time in the hospital. Whatchya been up to?"
"Hey... dude, I don't remember your name but you were shooting acid behind the Henderson's last night. Keep it real!"
Ahh, the all-nighters, he grinned to himself, somewhat upset with himself for not making it through the night himself. But despite the fondness he had for these champions of losers, they weren't much in the way of conversation, and he decided to head back home to try and do something about the awful cotten mouth he was suddenly so vividly aware of. He was just about to turn onto his property when the overwhelming stench of stale potato chips and rotten flesh reached his brain. Simultaneously with this much-delayed sensory processing, a hand fell limply on his shoulder. "What the-?"
He whirled around (actually it was more of a turning stumble) and found himself face to face with a pale, skeletal, unfocused kid, slumped and staggering, emitting a low moan, and generally looking like death, with a smell to match. "Oh, hey Jason," Jon greeted his best friend and sometimes-roommate.
"Guh," Jason replied, promptly biting into Jon's neck.
...
"Hey, what the hells wrong with you, man!?" Jon yelled a moment later, the new pain in his neck effectively distracting him from the otherwise steadily gaining freight train in his head.
"UuuuuhhhhhggggrrrrrBlargh."
Feeling this was hardly an acceptable response for biting someone in the neck, Jon promptly punched his friend in the face.
"I SAID" Jason reiterated, still heavily slurred, but far more coherantly, nonetheless, "you know damn well what that was about."
"Like hell I do!"
"You were totally mackin' on Tammi last night!"
"So? You guys broke up."
"Yeah, like a week ago. Not that it matters. You weren't even drunk yet!"
"Yeah, but she was." Jon was grinning like an idiot now, although he really wished he wasn't.
"Dude, she's not even that hot. And she's been with, like, a million other guys. That's pretty much why I dumped her!"
"Yeah right, she dumped you because you wouldn't close the deal."
"Yeah, cause she's been with, like a million other- wait, that isn't the point. The point is... The point is... are you wearing a robe?"
"Shut up! No. Weren't we fighting?"
"Oh yeah. The point is, you hooked up with her last night. And that's totally against the code."
"Okay, maybe so, but that's no reason to BITE a guy!"
"It was either that or punch you... Dammit, I shoulda just punched you. What the hell was I..." He trailed off, going all cross-eyed as he attempted to focus on something out in the street. "Is that Jamie?"
"Yeah, I think so. Why?"
"Don't you remember? He died from that car accident like two months ago. The funeral was last night."
"I knew I was forgetting something!"
"What the hell is going on here?"
Jon was squinting at Jamie, trying to remember if it he'd been the one they were visiting in the hospital. When he turned around, someone was chewing on Jason's ear which, along with the rest of his friend's head, had been silently ripped from the torso. Horror formed on slacker's face, followed slowly by a look of dawning realization, a new sensation that Jon was quite confident he would have liked under much different circumstances. "Mother F...!
“The two adventurers plod into the foggy graveyard, when suddenly they are ambushed by zombies!”
“Ah, no,” Ebert adjusted his helmet, to better see the GM. “My initiative is WAY higher than a zombie’s, even a horde.”
“No way man, your initiative is level 8 suckage.”
“I have Abu’s gauntlets of peeking, I-”
“Aw, com Ebert, they have homefield-”
“Silence, Buford.”
“I hate that name! Go by my character sheet!”
“I’m not calling you ‘Le Beau, because I’m of superior level and don’t have to listen to you. Also, I challenge the numbers.”
Buford groaned as the GM retrieved their character sheets and opened a red notebook. “Let’s see… the zombies have: Dead of Night, Familiar Ground, and Presence of the Lich Lord-“
“Wait, a Lich Lord? That’ll crush Buford and” the other two at the table rolled their eyes “and I, uh, can’t take on the horde and the lord solo, ya know?”
“Ebert, you’re the whitest guy at the table, don’t rhyme.” Remarked Le Beau as he turned in a direction that was not facing his pary member.
“Pft,” scoffed Eber, “My rhymes are so dope, they’d make you drop the soap.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”
“-and in your immediate field of vision, which isn’t much because of the ground fog, there are 34 gravestones, each wih a zombie you could wake.”
“What about my Hermes’ heels of haste?” pestered Ebert. Le Beau snickered. “What? They’re great equips and my feet are small!” Still staring at the street, Le Beau covered his mouth to stifle a laugh.
Buford’s humor threshold broke as he watched a man fall over the waist level fence around the house. “Hey, Ebert, check-“
“My weapon from the last dungeon, it has loads of enchantments!”
The GM held up a finger as he skimmed his notes. “Yes, including Essence of Cowbell. That means the entire horde knows of your presence.”
“Uh, guys.”
“What? You can’t be serious. We retreat.”
“Guys…“
“Sensing your fear, the-“
“Guys-“
“Woah, it’s not fear, it’s a tactical withdrawal! Can’t you-“
Midsentence, Buford smacked Ebert upside the head. “Strange men. Backyard. Coming towards us.”
Suddenly aware of the crowd advancing behind his chair, Ebert reached down, first to his bag of cookies, then correctly to his broadsword. “Le Beau! To arms and pass me a celerity potion!” he barked as he stood up.
“Woah-woah-woah! First off this is real life. Which means me shooting at real people with a nerf longbow. Second, what do you mean about celery soda or whatever you just said?”
“I need a can of Blue Stallion! Stat!” Ebert accentuated his urgency with chocolate chip crumbs flying from his mouth. Once the energy drink was in his possession, he proceeded to one-handedly open the can and down it’s contents. “Now, to deal with these invaders.”
Le Beau stared at his clan mate, fearing him slightly more than the shambling men. “Dude, we don’t even know what they want, have you swallowed your brains?”
“BRAInsz! Articulated one of the drooling drones.
“You,” Ebert pointed his blade at the talkative one, “get off my lawn.”
The throng of men began to moan as they circled the armed adolescent. The closest one reached for the child. “You wanna touch me, creep?” Shouted Ebert, “The only touch there will be is my bad touch!”
Le Beau had a comment on the tip of his tongue, but all that came out of his mouth was vomit, as he watched Ebert swing his weapon and sever the man’s forearm. The drooling man howled, mostly in confusion as to how his hand detached.
Ebert rested his broadsword on his shoulder as he started sweating bullets. “Dude I’m sorry I didn’t mean to- I mean I warned you but I didn’t want you to make me- you know what I mean?” It was at that moment that the ad-libbed amputee tripped over his own useless brick of an appendage, ironically onto Ebert, who shrieked not unlike the GMs baby sister, to whom he’d never admitted having a crush on. On an unrelated side note, he lost control of his sword and it bounced exactly one time, in the direction of the table.
At that momenet, the GM stood up and grabbed Buford by the sleeve. “We’ve gotta make a rn for the house while they are distracted.”
“Oh gawd! He’s biting my neck! You dirty pervert!”
Buford stood his ground. “No, we can’t leave him! He’s our friend, even if he’s a jerk. All the time.”
More of the macabre men lurched towards the slow forming dog pile. “You freak! You bit off my middle finger! I hope you choke on it!” There was a short gagging noise, followed by another screech. The GM was dumb enough to look back, straight into his fallen friend’s pleading face, complimented by a finger sticking through his eye. “If I don’t make it through this, tell your sister I love her!”
“Buford, I’m going inside and locking the door.”
“Noooo!” Pleaded Le Beau, “We have to save him!”
“There’s too much of him all over the lawn and not much time. You coming or not?”
Buford stood firm, half frozen in fear, half trying to think of something heroically cool.
“Why isn’t anyone stopping this?” wailed Ebert while the zombies momentarily fought over his freshly detached thigh.
“’Tears it.” This door stays closed with me on the safe side until the zombies are gone from the town. Good luck, Buford.” The GM slammed the door, the noise notifying Buford that the time to say something awesome had passed. It was now time to do something awesome. Le Beau darted towards his dying friend, snatching the sword from the ground. Quickly coming to the back of the closest zombie, Le Beau swiped the blade into one of the corpse’s rotting kidneys and out the other, causing the dead man’s top half to slip off. “Essense of Cowbell? Not today.” Sneered Buford as he swung to cleave the legs from another, which resulted in his weapon unwillingly lodging itself in the zombie’s pelvis. The next brief moments were spent with flashing steel and flailing legs clobbering the lawn’s zombie invaders. In the end, Buford was bent over panting, albeit still standing, victorious. “They’re…so…stupid…but…that…sword*wheeze*is so…dang heavy.” He noted for his own record, during this glorious moment of lack-of-movement.
“Buuufoooord…” moaned a clump on the ground.
Buford readied his weapon, then he recognized the pathetic mass. “Ebert? How are you still alive? I can see half your intestines and I can only assume the other half was already ingested.”
“You fought like Strider, William Wallace, Neo, and Norris; all packed in as one. I am proud to have witnessed your massive leveling.”
“I can, uh, only assume this blood all over the lawn is yours.”
“Continue to wield my blade, Buford, no, Le Beau. I ask only one favor: have many children with the one I loved. “
“Wait, what?”
“You must honor a dying man’s wish!”
“Errr, how about… I say you fought valiantly in her name to the end-?”
“-and that you’ll continue to fight in my stead and to avenge me.”
“Deal it is. Do you want me to stand here for a while to honor your passing?”
“That is not-“
“Good, I’m gonna go vomit somewhere.”
“Wait, you must finish me off, lest I turn into one of them!” However Buford had already ran to the other side of the house to liberate his lunch of lemonade and cookies. “Buford? Buford, get back here you coward! I’ll have your succulent hard shell of a head for this! You hear me? BRAIIIINS!