Post by OT on May 17, 2007 5:58:30 GMT -4
This is a little piece I wrote in another forum as a story that many people were contributing to (first and only time I've actually done anything like that, so don't expect Shakespeare). It's rough around the edges, clumsily formulated at times and generally not that good, but maybe someone will like something in it. The story is that the world is in a apocalypse state where the forces of darkness fight the humans etc.
*erhmmm*
The sun sneaked around the drapes of Apartment 200345 as if its only existance was to welcome Hittiest to another morning in New New New York. He opened his eyes still lying in bed and listened to the comforting sounds of gunfire for a minute. Then he turned to his left and chewed romantically a bit on his wife's ear. Then he bit it off and swallowed it. It was sadly enough the only thing left of the body after last nights TV dinner. Being a zombie ain't really that different from his old life he thought.
The ear had only suceeded in making his stomach growl louder so he felt that breakfast was past due. Now to clear up a little misconception, zombies don't only eat the brains of humans. Sure, we all agree on that it's the most tasty bit, but flesh of any kind could suffice if the stomach is demanding. Hittiest turned to the right and turned on his portable Movie/Music/Game/Virtual Reality/Popcorn Maker XSUD-Player to enjoy some soothing jazz-industrial opera by Miles Davis TX-35.
10 silent seconds went by in alarming irony.
Hittiest suddenly realized that he hadn't really pressed the button on the player, only bashed at an random area of the machine with his fist. He focused his brain to press his finger on the play button again, but instead his fist slammed down on it nearly destroying it. Zombie life does come with its complications he thought. He rose from the bed and made his way into the kitchen, lumbering like an amnesia-struck elephant on its way back to the waterhole. He opened the refridgerator and moved his head slowly from shelf to shelf and made an list for himself.
Milk............... eggs............ maple syrup.......... human brain.
He picked up the milk and the human brain and then realized why he had saved it for today. He was celebrating his 30th-day anniversary of being a zombie, and the brain was one formely belonging to his boss of his former Cubicle Farm. He looked at the lower levels of the refridgerator but realized to his shock that he was out of tabasco sauce. He went out in the hallway and knocked on the door of his zombie neighbour Larry and struck up an conversation.
"Ta.. basco"
"Ehhh?"
"Tabasco"
"Unghhh"
"Tabasco"
"Arr"
"Give... Tabasco"
An light bulb struck up above Larry's head and he made his way over to his refridgerator, crushing every object in his way, including a Largescreen-ectoplasma TV worth 30 000 Neo-Dollars. He opened the refridgerator door with a clumpsy grip on the handle and then tried to move the hand to the inside to help locate the tabasco sauce. When this seemed impossible, he looked to his hand and saw that it was still tightened around the now-removed refridgerator door. He dropped it on the ground and started an active search of the inhabitants of the fridge. 10 minutes went by and then he was back in the hallway with an glass bottle of Sergeant Bull's Wild Tabasco Sauce, with an proud look in his eyes, like a dog who has retrieved a frisbee. Now the hardest part was ahead of the zombies. Hittiest tried to coordinate his hands to stay under the latitude of Larry's hands, while he reached out his hand slowly with the precious object in a so tight grip so that it nearly imploded. A few seconds went by, and he decided to take the shot. He opened his palm. The glass bottle fell down, barely touched Hittiest's pinky finger, and then met its demise on the glass floor of the hallway.
Hittiest walked down the endless stairs of the Freeman Skyscraper and with every thunderous footstep became more and more irritating. He would have spared himself the excruciating walk if it wasnt for the fact his zombie fist couldn't operate such a simple thing as a elevator. But most of all he was pissed off that he was out of Tabasco sauce.
*erhmmm*
The sun sneaked around the drapes of Apartment 200345 as if its only existance was to welcome Hittiest to another morning in New New New York. He opened his eyes still lying in bed and listened to the comforting sounds of gunfire for a minute. Then he turned to his left and chewed romantically a bit on his wife's ear. Then he bit it off and swallowed it. It was sadly enough the only thing left of the body after last nights TV dinner. Being a zombie ain't really that different from his old life he thought.
The ear had only suceeded in making his stomach growl louder so he felt that breakfast was past due. Now to clear up a little misconception, zombies don't only eat the brains of humans. Sure, we all agree on that it's the most tasty bit, but flesh of any kind could suffice if the stomach is demanding. Hittiest turned to the right and turned on his portable Movie/Music/Game/Virtual Reality/Popcorn Maker XSUD-Player to enjoy some soothing jazz-industrial opera by Miles Davis TX-35.
10 silent seconds went by in alarming irony.
Hittiest suddenly realized that he hadn't really pressed the button on the player, only bashed at an random area of the machine with his fist. He focused his brain to press his finger on the play button again, but instead his fist slammed down on it nearly destroying it. Zombie life does come with its complications he thought. He rose from the bed and made his way into the kitchen, lumbering like an amnesia-struck elephant on its way back to the waterhole. He opened the refridgerator and moved his head slowly from shelf to shelf and made an list for himself.
Milk............... eggs............ maple syrup.......... human brain.
He picked up the milk and the human brain and then realized why he had saved it for today. He was celebrating his 30th-day anniversary of being a zombie, and the brain was one formely belonging to his boss of his former Cubicle Farm. He looked at the lower levels of the refridgerator but realized to his shock that he was out of tabasco sauce. He went out in the hallway and knocked on the door of his zombie neighbour Larry and struck up an conversation.
"Ta.. basco"
"Ehhh?"
"Tabasco"
"Unghhh"
"Tabasco"
"Arr"
"Give... Tabasco"
An light bulb struck up above Larry's head and he made his way over to his refridgerator, crushing every object in his way, including a Largescreen-ectoplasma TV worth 30 000 Neo-Dollars. He opened the refridgerator door with a clumpsy grip on the handle and then tried to move the hand to the inside to help locate the tabasco sauce. When this seemed impossible, he looked to his hand and saw that it was still tightened around the now-removed refridgerator door. He dropped it on the ground and started an active search of the inhabitants of the fridge. 10 minutes went by and then he was back in the hallway with an glass bottle of Sergeant Bull's Wild Tabasco Sauce, with an proud look in his eyes, like a dog who has retrieved a frisbee. Now the hardest part was ahead of the zombies. Hittiest tried to coordinate his hands to stay under the latitude of Larry's hands, while he reached out his hand slowly with the precious object in a so tight grip so that it nearly imploded. A few seconds went by, and he decided to take the shot. He opened his palm. The glass bottle fell down, barely touched Hittiest's pinky finger, and then met its demise on the glass floor of the hallway.
Hittiest walked down the endless stairs of the Freeman Skyscraper and with every thunderous footstep became more and more irritating. He would have spared himself the excruciating walk if it wasnt for the fact his zombie fist couldn't operate such a simple thing as a elevator. But most of all he was pissed off that he was out of Tabasco sauce.