Photo by Brad Hudson
Please Note:
The picture above has nothing to do with the story below,
except that it shows the author fleeing from marine life gone bad.
Please Note:
This humorous fiction / horror parody
may not be appropriate for children under 13.
Halloween Fun:
Breakfast of the Living Dead
(From my book: Seasons Without Reason)
Can a man wearing Spider-Man pajamas,
bunny slippers, and a stained terrycloth robe
stolen from a Motel Six
be mankind’s only chance at survival?
Nothing smells better than the aroma of sizzling bacon. Unless that aroma’s combined with the stench of death. But that’s true of any scent. The way Ritz claims anything tastes great on their crackers, anything reeks when combined with the Stench of Death. That’s a sad fact of life. Or death. Especially the Living Dead. Those guys romp around all night, never bothering to wash their hands, shower, or even use a moist towelette. No wonder they stink. That and the oozing, gaping holes in their rotting flesh. Nasty! Spritz on a little Febreze. Gargle with Listerine. Something!
As my wife fried a slab of bacon, the sizzles and scent-sations attracted a moaning mob of the infected ones, the unfortunates who contracted the Z-Virus, a.k.a. the Zombie Flu. Get a clue, Z-Freaks! If your stench causes people to retch, don’t moan. It’s either or. You can’t be both stinky and noisy. That’s not right.
A snarling infected truck driver burst through the kitchen window and lunged at my wife. Blam! A quick shot to the forehead from my snub-nosed revolver transferred him to the ranks of the Dead Dead. That’s the fifth one this morning; and I still haven’t gotten my eggs and bacon.
Two more Zoms smashed through the living room window and reached for me. Blam! One down, one to go. Blam it! I forgot to reload. The sizzling of the bacon lured me into la-la land. I dodged and ducked, bobbed and weaved. Wove? She proved strong, but I moved fast. Yes, she. I knew I couldn’t die at the hands of a lady zombie, not when I served as the Second Deputy of the Zombie Defense Force in Chapter Seven of Sector 4-A, Region 5. I’d never live that down.
Crash! I smashed a vase over her head. Slowed her down a second or so. Long enough for me to grab my jacket, yell to my wife, “Thanks anyway, I’m gonna eat out!” and dart away.
Bad move. Zombies love bacon. They may be brain dead. But they’re not stupid. Plus, with all the prowling they do; they don’t need to worry about cholesterol. Besides, the medical community hyped most of that beyond reason anyway. Probably backed by the tofu industry. As if anything could ever convince us to try Tofacon. A.k.a. bacun.
Too many too count. I could only dash and dart so long on an empty stomach. I needed a better plan than a hellacious game of Hide-and-Seek. Like a deadly game of dodge ball. Terror tag. Snarling, savage, mindless beasts. Was this really the future of mankind?
Oops! That one almost caught me. Living Dead or not, a kick to the groin still dropped ‘em to their knees. Yuck! The goober leaned forward and snapped his bony biters at my goodies! Too close for comfort. Certainly not without a movie and dinner first. And I’d definitely have to like the movie. And the dinner. Perhaps a light comedy. And filet mignon. Or anything wrapped in bacon! But you’d better not smell rancid. At the very least, buy a magazine and rub the perfume sampler on your face.
Danger abounded around me. I wish I had worn Depends. I couldn’t keep running. But life couldn’t end like this! Not humanity. Not me! But if this were the end, might as well go out with a smile. I doubled back and headed home. I found a couple trash can lids and used those to keep gruesome teeth and groping hands at bay.
An intriguing thought stormed into my throbbing skull. I was humanity’s last hope! Could that be? Can a man wearing Spider-Man pajamas, bunny slippers, and a stained terrycloth robe stolen from a Motel Six be mankind’s only chance at survival? Not without his breakfast he can’t.
Blam! Blam! Blam! Bullets whizzed past me. One of which knocked the trash can lid out of my left hand.
“Stop shooting, honey! It’s me!”
“I know!” My bitter half crouched and aimed. “That’s why I’m shooting at your winkie and not your skull.”
I gulped and held the last trash can lid over my happy place. Urine oozed out of the target in her sights. I knew renewing our vows hadn’t solved anything.
She slowly squeezed the trigger.
Good thing for me a couple zombies jumped her and deflected her shot. Saved my goodies. And saved me the cost of a divorce attorney. That was, if we ever regained civilization.
“Thanks, guys.”
The two zombies snarled in response. I think they tried to say “You’re welcome.” Or maybe they prayed for their food since they proceeded to devour my wife. She thought I didn’t know about her affair with the out-of-work welder across the street. But I knew they made sparks. Ladies, learn this lesson well: If you cheat on your man, he’ll be less likely to save you when zombies attack.
I dashed into the kitchen and savored the bacon. Mm-hmm. Delectable delight! Why do they even call it bacon, when it’s fried? Why not call it fryin’?
Zombies surrounded the house. I gazed out the broken kitchen window while chomping my last bite of bacon. Glad I grabbed the gun from my wife when the zombies had her for breakfast. I held the barrel to my temple. Today was a good day to die. I had bacon.
I slowly squeezed the trigger. But then I stopped. I found another piece of bacon left on my wife’s plate. Ate that. Bite by bite. Said goodbye to life again. Ready to die. Figured I was either brave. Or a coward. Maybe both. I’m not afraid to die. I’m just not keen on being torn asunder by savage zombies and becoming a newly sponsored member in the Club of the Living Dead. Club Dread. A half-zombie hurled herself through the window. I quickly put the gun to my head and fired.
Click.
You kidding me? My wife wasted all our ammo trying to kill me?!
I ducked. Turned out the half-zombie was my wife. I recognized the scowl. I noticed too, that she’d done something to her hair. Green highlights?
The infected turned fast. College experiment gone awry. Pinchuck University tried to find a way to eradicate cancer. Instead they created the Z-Virus. I darted out the backdoor and scurried into the street. Yanked open a sewer cover and ducked inside. Phew! What an odor! Thanks, P. U.
At the end of the Tunnel of Sludge, I hotwired an abandoned SUV. Ford Explorer. Torch red with a camel interior. Drove to a nearby naval base. The last bastion of humanity. I didn’t even know that. But I heard they made great bacon. Everyone in town’s heard of Chief Commissary Steward “Stingray” Stinson’s bacon breakfasts. Worth dying for. Which was my plan.
After being hosed down and doused with Febreze’ Meadows & Rain, I told Colonel Robert “Bobcat” Hopkins we should fry a massive amount of bacon to lure the zombies into a trap, blast them with firebombs, and destroy the virus.
Crazy thing was, that plan worked. I didn’t think it would. I just wanted ‘em to fry more bacon. Turns out I was humanity’s last hope after all.
Thanks, Oscar Mayer.
P. S. Seasons Without Reason is available at Amazon.com in print for only $6.95 and on Kindle for only $0.99! Even if you don’t own a Kindle, you can read still read the Kindle edition of Seasons Without Reason and my other Kindle books by using a Free Kindle Reading App by clicking this link or the banner below:
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