Post by JKL on May 15, 2007 18:54:17 GMT -5
So I'm posting a thread to showcase some of the stuff I've written. This first one is a story I wrote during the semester. I have no idea where it came from. The main character proved to be overwhelmingly popular among my peers.
What God Wants
JKL
The swamp has always been a misunderstood place. Most people think of swamps as a place of death. Ya get stuck in the muck, and then ya get eaten by somethin'. Most people don't think of it as a place of life. That muck is filled with tiny crawlies that feed on whatever falls in. Take a whiff. Go on. Smell that? That's life yer breathin' in. And all around, there's all kinds of stuff growin', and all sorts o' bugs buzzin' around. A swamp is life.
I bet yer askin' what I'm doin' sittin' here in the middle of a swamp. Well, it's kinda fittin' that this is where I ended up, since that's where the whole thing began. But I guess I should introduce myself, shouldn't I? My name is Robert Lee Francis, but most folks call me Zombie Bob.
It all started on that one day when I was studyin' fish populations on my boat. I was gettin' chewed up by some of the life here pretty bad. Damn mosquitos. They may be livin' things, but they're still damn annoyin'. A few days after that, I started turnin' green, smelling bad, and stopped feelin' much. A couple other people started turnin' into zombies, too. Pretty soon there was full blown nationwide zombie panic.
Damn government still hasn't told us what exactly it is that turns people into zombies. They just keep sayin' they're studyin' it. I bet it's some sorta experiment gone wrong or somethin', and they're just hopin' it goes away with no one findin' out how badly they screwed things up. I looked at what was left of my blood under the microscope. Nothin' outta the ordinary. I guess we may never know. Still, can't be too hard on them. After the Game and Fisheries Commission fired my ass for bein' "livin' impaired", the Federal Government gave me a job with the other zombies cleanin' up the interstate. It ain't a great job, eatin' roadkill and all, but it's an efficient cleanin' system and a paycheck's a paycheck.
Unfortunately, like always, the Government isn't always on my side. Zombies aren't allowed to get a driver's license, because they think we're slow-brained. I ain't slow! I've got my Master's. I read a lot. And we aren't allowed to buy guns. I guess they don't want us goin' after people and eatin' brains or somethin' stupid like that. I haven't met a zombie yet who deliberately attacked someone for the sole purpose of eatin' brains. That's just weird.
The whole "No guns for Zombies" is actually why I'm in the swamp. A bunch of Bible Beatin' Bastards got the idea in their head that this zombie plague is the work of Satan or somethin', and that those who become zombies need to be punished. I don't know what I did to piss God off, but bein' a zombie is punishment plenty. Food don't taste much, I smell like crap, and I can't remember the last date I got. But, Reverend Thorne don't agree with me.
So yesterday, I was takin' a nap, and mindin' my own business, when I hear all sorts of ruckus comin' from outside my house. Now, there's a crapload of old people down here, so it ain't often that things get loud. I got up, put on my hat to cover my exposed brains, grabbed the revolver I'm not supposed to have, put on my coat, and went to the door. I didn't even have to open the damn thing to hear Reverend Thorne preachin' his hate.
"Brothers and sisters!" he shouted to the people he takes money from. "In this house is an abomination against God's will!" There was a roar of agreement from outside.
Crap. So much for a peaceful weekend, I thought as I readied my revolver. I took a look out my window to see what I was dealin' with. There was Reverend Thorne, bein' his fat self, wearin' some sorta stylized robe I ain't seen any real Christian wear, bedecked with jewels and other shinies. The people of the crowd would put the NRA to shame. They had torches, pitchforks, glocks, assault rifles, shot guns, slingshots, and big, freakin' rocks for throwin'. My revolver wasn't gonna do it. So I tried sneakin' out the back. Almost worked too, cept the neighbor's damn dog decided to start chewin' on my leg. Now, he did this before I turned into a zombie, but by this time, I figured, To Hell with it. I'm goin' out with style. I shot the damn thing. It was a nuisance anyway. What sorta name for a dog is a "Shit-Shoe" anyway, right?
As I prepped my revolver for a second shot, I heard Reverend Thorne shout, "The forsaken one is escaping! After him! Destroy the Defiler of the Holy Kingdom!" What a load o' bull. What sorta holy kingdom would be defiled by a dude who's green and smells bad? Ya'd think God would make his Holy Kingdom tougher than that. But I guess people will believe anythin' ya tell 'em if ya wear fancy clothes and say ya talk to God. Still, I always learned growin' up that God was a God of Love.
But since these people weren't bein' all that lovin', I emptied my revolver into the crowd. Bodies hit the ground, along with weapons. I grabbed a Glock someone had dropped, and then I ran for the swamp. The mob followed. Reverend Thorne did not. I guess he didn't want to get his fancy ass robes dirty. Wuss.
Bullets whizzed past me as I ran into the swamp. A couple hit. I didn't really need those organs anyway, and they'd grow back later. Eventually, a bullet hit, and I tripped over a rock at the same time, and fell into the muck. I guess they figured that they took me down with that last shot, cause after that, they stopped chasin' after me. I waited a while to make sure they were gone, and then I got back up. Ruined my favorite hat and coat. Damn.
So, what am I gonna do now? Well, I'm considerin' grabbin' Bud and Paco and goin' to Mexico. Bet they won't have any trouble with zombies down there. Then again, Bud did always have this crazy idea about blowin' up the Government. Never really took the idea seriously, but if the Government is lookin' out for these bastards who take out their frustration on the green man, well, they have it comin'. Besides, it sounds like it could be fun...
THE BEGINNING OF THE END!
What God Wants
JKL
The swamp has always been a misunderstood place. Most people think of swamps as a place of death. Ya get stuck in the muck, and then ya get eaten by somethin'. Most people don't think of it as a place of life. That muck is filled with tiny crawlies that feed on whatever falls in. Take a whiff. Go on. Smell that? That's life yer breathin' in. And all around, there's all kinds of stuff growin', and all sorts o' bugs buzzin' around. A swamp is life.
I bet yer askin' what I'm doin' sittin' here in the middle of a swamp. Well, it's kinda fittin' that this is where I ended up, since that's where the whole thing began. But I guess I should introduce myself, shouldn't I? My name is Robert Lee Francis, but most folks call me Zombie Bob.
It all started on that one day when I was studyin' fish populations on my boat. I was gettin' chewed up by some of the life here pretty bad. Damn mosquitos. They may be livin' things, but they're still damn annoyin'. A few days after that, I started turnin' green, smelling bad, and stopped feelin' much. A couple other people started turnin' into zombies, too. Pretty soon there was full blown nationwide zombie panic.
Damn government still hasn't told us what exactly it is that turns people into zombies. They just keep sayin' they're studyin' it. I bet it's some sorta experiment gone wrong or somethin', and they're just hopin' it goes away with no one findin' out how badly they screwed things up. I looked at what was left of my blood under the microscope. Nothin' outta the ordinary. I guess we may never know. Still, can't be too hard on them. After the Game and Fisheries Commission fired my ass for bein' "livin' impaired", the Federal Government gave me a job with the other zombies cleanin' up the interstate. It ain't a great job, eatin' roadkill and all, but it's an efficient cleanin' system and a paycheck's a paycheck.
Unfortunately, like always, the Government isn't always on my side. Zombies aren't allowed to get a driver's license, because they think we're slow-brained. I ain't slow! I've got my Master's. I read a lot. And we aren't allowed to buy guns. I guess they don't want us goin' after people and eatin' brains or somethin' stupid like that. I haven't met a zombie yet who deliberately attacked someone for the sole purpose of eatin' brains. That's just weird.
The whole "No guns for Zombies" is actually why I'm in the swamp. A bunch of Bible Beatin' Bastards got the idea in their head that this zombie plague is the work of Satan or somethin', and that those who become zombies need to be punished. I don't know what I did to piss God off, but bein' a zombie is punishment plenty. Food don't taste much, I smell like crap, and I can't remember the last date I got. But, Reverend Thorne don't agree with me.
So yesterday, I was takin' a nap, and mindin' my own business, when I hear all sorts of ruckus comin' from outside my house. Now, there's a crapload of old people down here, so it ain't often that things get loud. I got up, put on my hat to cover my exposed brains, grabbed the revolver I'm not supposed to have, put on my coat, and went to the door. I didn't even have to open the damn thing to hear Reverend Thorne preachin' his hate.
"Brothers and sisters!" he shouted to the people he takes money from. "In this house is an abomination against God's will!" There was a roar of agreement from outside.
Crap. So much for a peaceful weekend, I thought as I readied my revolver. I took a look out my window to see what I was dealin' with. There was Reverend Thorne, bein' his fat self, wearin' some sorta stylized robe I ain't seen any real Christian wear, bedecked with jewels and other shinies. The people of the crowd would put the NRA to shame. They had torches, pitchforks, glocks, assault rifles, shot guns, slingshots, and big, freakin' rocks for throwin'. My revolver wasn't gonna do it. So I tried sneakin' out the back. Almost worked too, cept the neighbor's damn dog decided to start chewin' on my leg. Now, he did this before I turned into a zombie, but by this time, I figured, To Hell with it. I'm goin' out with style. I shot the damn thing. It was a nuisance anyway. What sorta name for a dog is a "Shit-Shoe" anyway, right?
As I prepped my revolver for a second shot, I heard Reverend Thorne shout, "The forsaken one is escaping! After him! Destroy the Defiler of the Holy Kingdom!" What a load o' bull. What sorta holy kingdom would be defiled by a dude who's green and smells bad? Ya'd think God would make his Holy Kingdom tougher than that. But I guess people will believe anythin' ya tell 'em if ya wear fancy clothes and say ya talk to God. Still, I always learned growin' up that God was a God of Love.
But since these people weren't bein' all that lovin', I emptied my revolver into the crowd. Bodies hit the ground, along with weapons. I grabbed a Glock someone had dropped, and then I ran for the swamp. The mob followed. Reverend Thorne did not. I guess he didn't want to get his fancy ass robes dirty. Wuss.
Bullets whizzed past me as I ran into the swamp. A couple hit. I didn't really need those organs anyway, and they'd grow back later. Eventually, a bullet hit, and I tripped over a rock at the same time, and fell into the muck. I guess they figured that they took me down with that last shot, cause after that, they stopped chasin' after me. I waited a while to make sure they were gone, and then I got back up. Ruined my favorite hat and coat. Damn.
So, what am I gonna do now? Well, I'm considerin' grabbin' Bud and Paco and goin' to Mexico. Bet they won't have any trouble with zombies down there. Then again, Bud did always have this crazy idea about blowin' up the Government. Never really took the idea seriously, but if the Government is lookin' out for these bastards who take out their frustration on the green man, well, they have it comin'. Besides, it sounds like it could be fun...
THE BEGINNING OF THE END!
