[... in case you need to catch up: Part VII: Night of the Living Phantasmagoria]
The orbs hit my face with a greasy splat, before they split
open, spilling chicken sandwiches all over the floor. The little hooded midgets
immediately start pushing each other fighting for the pieces on the floor.
Those who were quick enough to grab a piece, noisily slopped it into their
greedy mouths.
“Eat mor chikin!” screamed the crazy delusional completely
out of touch old kook of a man.
“Dan Cathy, I wouldn’t eat your piece of Shit-Fil-A sandwich
if it were the last thing on this planet,” I said with disgust as I wiped a
pickle off my cheek. This pisses off the little hooded midgets and they begin
to claw and scratch at my legs. I kick two of them down and as they hit the
ground their hoods fall off, revealing the overly pageanted faces of Sarah
Palin. “Freaky ass clones that you can control with your shitty food?! It all makes
perfect sense now! But aren’t their robes the wrong color? Were you all outta
bleach?”
“Families! Families! Each mor chikin!” he screamed again,
this time at the freaky Palin clones. At which point I had just about enough,
so I strode over and punched the idiot square in the face. Now, being a lady,
I’m not one for violence, but when you get chicken grease on a bitches face,
you had best bet there are going to be repercussions, and besides, the guy is
just a dick. After I cold cocked him, I turned and was out the door before he hit
the floor.
I thought about going back to Joseph’s place, but by that
point in the evening, I was just knackered. So I went home to my downtown
apartment, figuring that I would just give him a call in the morning and apologize with some story about how I couldn't find cigarettes and that I need to go home to get my nicotine patches. Then of course I would
have to get some damned nicotine patches, the lengths I go to keep my story
straight.
After a long shower, I crawled into bed with a nice warm
bowl of split pea soup and a copy of Morrissey’s latest zine, “You just haven’t
Zined it yet, Baby.” It’s really funny stuff, especially when he goes off on
the Queen or China, but mostly he just draws silly pictures of Johnny Marr
pooping in public places. Anywho, so I was reading when there was a tap tap tapping at my window. So I got up and see that fucking Carl followed me home like a total
fuckin’ creeper. Oh, and I live on the fifth floor, and he was the undead.
“Beat it, Carl,” I say through the glass.
“Let me in,” he says meekly.
“You ain’t the right one!” I say as I close the blinds. I
turn to go back to bed when he crashes through the window. “What the hell?! You
can’t do that, I didn’t invite you in!” I yell.
“I’m not a vampire, dummy! Get your damned plot points
straight,” he growls.
“Get out, the power of Christ compels you!” I scream,
throwing the bowl of split pea soup in his face.
“I’m melting!” he begins to wail as he falls to the floor.
“I’m allergic to gluten!”
“There’s gluten in split pea soup?” I wonder out loud.
“Bitch, there's gluten in everything…” he trails off as he
melts into a blob on the floor that sorta resembled Kevin Dillon. I would have
totally laughed at the irony of it all if it weren’t so disgusting. I grabbed
the mop and bucket from the hall and started to up the mess when the phone on
the nightstand rang.
“… ha ha bitch, you still have a landline... !” the Carl-Blob said
sarcastically.
“Shut it,” I say, pouring that last little bits of split pea
soup into the middle of Carl-Blob, who let out, what I could only hope was, a
death rattle. “Yello?” I say, picking up the phone.
Then a chill runs down my spine when the caller whispers, “Seven
Days…”
I scanned the cover of the October issue of Morrissey's Zine, for those of you who are looking for it. I think there is a link if you wanted to find the whole issue.
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