Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Zombies on the Night Run

I was forever marked as "the prick who squished the greatest pizza of all time," because of that night. A bulky nickname, I know, but it stuck. There was never any mention of the other incredible feats I fantastically completed, no, it all came back to the pizza. As to how that pizza's fame exceeds mine I'll never know.
Still, though, it probably was a pretty fine pizza.

Anyway, the pizza is the least important thing, what really mattered was the zombies. Hundreds of 'em, lined up to open my head like a bag of Ritz so they could crunch their way through my salty brains. Luckily, I'm 19 years old, and quicker than most of the "walking filth" as I like to call them.
They've been out there for years, but I hadn't seen one until the night I was supposed to deliver that magnificent pizza. It was only my third night as a delivery boy, and my extremely Italian boss must have been out of his mind to put me on such an important assignment. I've never been much to handle responsibility, and I assumed I would avoid the entire concept through delivering those fresh, tasty pies. I couldn't have been more wrong.
The box for that damn thing was huge, and it looked cartoony perched on the back of my motorbike. I realized there was no possible way I could deliver this cheesy abomination without screwing it up some how.

As you probably expected, the oversized pizza tilted the bike while I was speeding down an empty road. Only a slight move caused the wreck. The bike flipped over several times, but I was gingerly lain on the ground as the seat slid off. I couldn't have been more comfortable. All I could do was watch the bike tangle with the force of gravity until it finally lost with one big delicious "squish". It made me slightly hungry, hearing the king of all pizzas die that way. The crown was officially up for grabs. If only I was a pizza rather than a clumsy delivery boy I would have jumped at the opportunity.

My head hurt like hell. The throbbing pain finally made me realize how screwed I really was. That hairy Italian bastard was going to have my head for this, but someone else wanted it first. I sat on the pavement, trying to be blissfully unaware of my horrible predicament, when I heard some animalistic growling behind me. I shot my head around to find a tall, thin, rotting man looking down at my head, hungrily. His stomach had a gruesome hole in it where his guts leaked out like a creamy pasta. His eyes were fogged over and bloodshot but they were looking right at my head, hoping to see through the inconvenient barrier to get to the goods underneath. I screamed, but not out of fear; I assumed hearing my yelp would somehow appease this creep.
"Halloween's not for another 26 days, buddy," I informed him.
He cocked his head curiously, and lurched forward with arms extended, reaching for my neck. I scrambled back awkwardly. "What the hell, man? I'm sorry about the pizza, okay?" I ran over toward the smashed remains of my bike, as if I thought it could somehow save me. I anxiously checked over my shoulder to see if the weirdo was following me. He was, but this time, with about twenty of his friends. To my horror, they were sprinting my way screaming at the top of their decrepit lungs.

This was when I pulled out the whip. It kissed the air with a loud crack as I yanked it from the holster under the seat. I had been waiting for this, for too long in fact. I can still remember the day I picked this thing off of a dead lion tamer lying in the woods. I had a terrible childhood.

The first Z was coming up. He was screaming so loud I could barely concentrate on the task at hand. The whip whirled around his next and squeezed it so tight his eyes popped like bloody white balloons. When he fell to the ground I stomped his head in to ensure that he wouldn't get up for another slice of human pizza.

My heart was racing in anticipation of offing the next 19 Zeds. They weren't lumbering toward me, no, not in the least. Contrary to popular belief, zombies run rather than stumble. It's truly a terrifying sight.

"Bring it, you smelly bags of piss!"

I swung the whip directly at the closest zombie, a young woman from the looks of it. She was missing an arm that seemed to have been bitten off by another undead mongrel but she advanced undeterred. Wait, was it a woman? Either that or a really pretty Vietnam vet. Eh, it didn't matter for long. I eagerly ripped the other arm off with frustrated ease. This was getting really fun.

The other 18 went down in no time, and I was having such a great time I didn't even notice the full moon. Warm light filled the streets as the last zombo fell to its demise. I tried to appear victorious to any anonymous viewer, but the stench was simply too overwhelming. Heroics are better left to the professionals.

The only real loss I felt was for that pizza. Such a shame for a heavenly body to come to this end. The zombies didn't even get to guess the flavor! But I knew what I had to do. A garbage can was overturned in the madness, spilling rubbish everywhere. I hoisted the bin above my head and carried it pizza-ward. It seemed fitting to take the carcass of this pizza home for a proper burial.

I shoved the wooden doors open and the obnoxious noise solidified my impressive entry. Gripped tightly in my hands was a silver, makeshift pizza coffin; crudely crafted out of a trashcan.
"Did you deliver it?" my bossed asked, already knowing my response.
"Uh, somewhat. I had a fun time, if its any consolation," I replied, forcing a grin.
"Not good enough bambino, simply not good enough," he shook his head.
"Well, I'll be in the john if anybody needs me. I gotta take a massive stinky," I said with an optimistic clap.
"Well, when you get out I'll whip you up a pepperoni pizza. You deserve something for at least trying."
"No thanks," I turned and said, "I actually hate pizza."

There was a lot of poop.

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