2012 Message Board Valentine Story

[Moderator]

Dedicated to John Dalglish

[Moderator]

1. Patinthehat

New Orleans was as thick, with its salty hot and sticky until sweaty slick, as two desperately entwined new lovers…

Likewise was the situation for Sam (Buckeye Lawn Pro’s cold call salesman for six years running) and Delia (unpublished frustrated writer of children’s stories, home medical biller and newly empty nester) Haverschampt of Akron, Ohio. They were hotter and sticker than the weather as they enjoyed WEYE's, “Nola’s Happy Valentine’s Day Gift Package”. Delia had won the trip by correctly answering, “Dutch Apple", to WEYE’s Big Eye on the Pie Contest while juggling between billing dialysis treatments and dreaming up more rhymes for Fluffy Belly the Grouchiest Kitty.

The local tourist brochures had printed ample instruction for locating the wee mon petite French Quarter shops hawking two-for-one juju specials on sweet love potions and revenge fueled notions, folklores and tall tales, the spells and Incantations for what ails your mind and body, but actually your spirit (or spirits as the case may be). Lucky charms, not so charming charms and the ready-to-do great battle to protect against nefarious forces of a spicy selection of evils (generous donations to the charming of evils, and always greatly appreciated). And of course, everything voodoo and hoodoo, what with the soul sucking dolls and soul-stolen zombies, along with all the soulful soul filled hospitality the south had to offer. Yet, these glossy mapped tri-folded promises of exotic and romantic genteel southern adventures, complete with valuable coupons, sorely lack in the instruction department. What would you do, if you came face to face with a genuine bona fide, kind of live in the flesh, zombie, or perhaps even more important and most concerning the immediate future of the Haverschampt’s, if a zombie finds you?

I found them hiding in a darkened cubby of The Dungeon. In the heart of the quarter and coincidently, if such frightfully fanciful things ever existed, my favorite haunt (you could say) and my gainful place of employment (For doormen and bouncers there are no equals...it’s the nose knows) and zombies, at least some of us, can always use little jingle in the pocket.

So, the positive course of action, If one was born of the manor bred with proper manners, the “what if a zombie finds you dilemma”, in my uniquely informed estimation is that you offer to buy him a refreshing frozen daiquiri post haste after I introduce myself, “I’m Charles Bartholomew Le Fleur, but most folks these days just call me Chuck, it’s certainly a great pleasure and always at your service yada yada,” ...they did, I knew right off that I liked these people.
What made this a oddly disquieting set of circumstance such an awful shame was they would likely die soon, and horribly, torn limb from bloody limb in short order in fact, by one of my own kind no less.

Which by the way, I’ll be so kind as to remind you that all natural forces whether they are understood or not must have a system to exist, and we have a system of rules and code to keep things calm. Yet, I'm starting to feel ripples with my kind that is upsetting to my kind’s natural rhythms.

Well then, let us clarify for a moment shall we, there is “my kind” then there is my “kind”, if you understand…no? Hmm, pity.

Suffices to say for the merely uniformed, but largely to fans of the Hollywood blockbuster (and not so blockbustered) there are as many kinds of we zombies, as there are our Bocors, the Sorcerers and Sorceresses, the Priests and Priestesses, those with the powers to control us.

Now our poor unfortunate lovey dovey pair, Sam and Delia, evidently had caused at least one unpleasant example of some particularly nasty practitioner, of some particularly nasty black magic, some particular major distress, of some particular kind…this wasn’t good. This occurred to yours truly, as I separated the head from the already putrefying carcass of a truly newly dead undead, a “soulless” if one prefers an industry term, before our pre-cocktail introductions were made, but only moments before our previously happy and clueless were about to be torn to shreds in the alley by my employee entrance. They were quite frantic as you can probably imagine...now you understand the pleasantries, if not the common courtesy, of being offered that wonderfully sweet and delicious daiquiri (what can I say, kept soul Zombies tend to have a bit of a sweet tooth…well bewitchment's & curses are what you make of them. Sorry, but you'll have to just deal with it).

What had these two done to enrage such power was something my queen, my love sainted Bocor, had to conjure to understand and cast spell. Not my pay grade as they say.

With the "cooperation powder" working, I saw it floating in their eyes (dash of crushed “roofies”…there’s magic, and then there’s “magic”, that will chill out most Midwestern suburbanites teetering on the edge of insanity). So, all I had to do is manage to get them to my Little Flower Queen of St. Therese herself, oh, and yes, by all means, alive, and of course, relatively intact.


I mean, you have no idea just how many Zombies actually live in the city limits alone, and not all of us have teeth for sweets. Yes, much of our disreputable reputation for carnage comes by truly honest, I’ll attempt no illusion to the contrary so I thought I would ask the boss for a few personal days.

We had miles to go and needed transportation and a driver (Zombies should never get behind the wheel of a moving vehicle if at all possible, a problematic changing depth perception condition thing I’m afraid).

[Moderator]

cont'd:

And yes, some help I’m not ashamed to admit, and I believe I know just the believer (like our Sam and Delia are our brand spanking newest believers), the quarters own “Mon Cher With The Raven Hair”, Sista Pink...she and a feather boa are like magic together I swear to you!
Just her stage name you understand, actually it’s Monique, but I call her Pinkster when she’s Monique, but only because it bothers her (well, she calls me ‘Chuckles’...a heart felt warning, don’t ever call me Chuckles), and if her biggest fans only knew she was truly a woman, they’d be apt to commit suicide I fear.

Pinkster had what the young folks called, “game“. She had proved that she would gladly die twice for my Queen Therese, as many others had.

Oh, she'll have her chance. I feel, as will I.

“So, who wants to start the telling of what kinds of rascally fun you lil’ scamps have been up to today, while we try and cross the street without you two getting gutted like Redfish on rice, now how’d that be?

[Moderator]

2. Patricia A

Sam & Delia were rapidly becoming less able to communicate, or walk for that matter. They must not only be feeling the effect of the "cooperation powder", but experiencing a bit of shock as well.
The Ohio Haverschampts were loaded for bear, and had just witnessed things that were never supposed to happen for real. That's hard on regular folks from Akron.
They were hanging on to each other and staggering around like old time drunken pals from a rat pack movie. I wanted to ask them to sing “Everybody Loves Somebody Sometimes” but I didn't. No time for foolishness right now. I need to find Monique PDQ.
As providence would have it Mon Cher Pink Monique wasn't too hard to find, she was walking on the other side of the street when she spotted us.
She waved then stopped and looked hard at me and my new pals.
She gave the bag of fresh baked French bread she just bought to a lady passing by and came across the street to us. She smelled of cinnamon and vanilla.
"What you got here Chuck?" she asked me in a soft voice.
“I got some trouble. I found this couple...” Sam started to topple over and I braced him back up while trying to keep Delia on her feet.

“What kinda messes you messin in now Chuckles, and where on de eart you bringin' dem little cabbages at sha'?” Monique inquired, her hands on her hips, looking rather sassy, as is her way."

“I'm thinking maybe we can cart these two off to Our Lady, Queen Therese. I'm sure she can figure out what to do with them. I think they got the trouble. I don't know if they brought it with them, or if they found it here, but they got the kind I can't walk away from” I answered her.

God, Pinkster sure is pretty... I think to myself, sidetracked from my dilemma by the
sight of her.

She was the color of milk chocolate, her hair black as licorice and her lips were red like cherries.Her pink ostrich feather boa looked like clouds of cotton candy against the tight black lacy catsuit she wore like a second skin.

“You wanna get married?” I asked her.
“You want me to hurt your pride Chuckles?”
“Don't call me that, Pinkster, you know it undermines my authority with the others.” Just saying that made me laugh at myself.

She was laughing now too and looking at me like I was a puzzle.
Her eyes were like these delicious, limpid, dark chocolatey pools.... I thought about licking them to see if they tasted as good as they looked then I came back to my
senses. Sometimes being a zombie has its drawbacks.

“I just can't leave them here Pinkster.”

Monique laughed again, “You are a big hearted monster, Mr. La Fleur.
Looks to me like they was set up to be et up. That happens,” she said matter of factly.

She went on as if I didn't already know that.
“Those phoney contests lure dem down here like crows to da crumbs. Someone gonna be mad at you when they find out you got their rubes.”
“Do tell,” I began to agree.
Just then Delia began to recite... “Fluffy bellies, full of jellies. Eating tarts with the Queen of Hearts”.... she smiled then nodded and stood swaying with her hair hanging in her face. She tried to rake it away but she couldn't find her head.
"Fluffy What!!?" Pinkster howls in laughter.
“She writes kids books”, I said.
“How you gonna let some lady who writes kids books get eat up... or worse?”
“What's he do?” she asked, pointing at Sam who remained upright despite himself.
“He buys daiquiris.”
“Good enough.” she says.
“I got My Little Pony parked jus' up dat alley way.”
We carry-walked the star crossed tourists to the “Pony”.

Monique pulled the silver key chain she wore as a pendant from her cleavage and from around her neck. She keyed the lock and snicked opened the passenger side door. Pushed the front seat forward then looked up and down the street and alley.
“Let's lay these guys down back here in the back seat." I was situating the drooling Delia down in the seat. “Let's try to cover them up.” Monique instructed. “Don't want them to be seen.”

I was wondering what I was going to “cover them up” with when Sam piped up.
“Hey was that man trying to eat my face?” Sam was swimming in air as he struggled lamely against the beautiful chocolate dancer/chauffeur/ monster-lover who was pressing him into their get away car.
Sam stopped struggling and looked at the car and he grinned a way too wide grin that seemed to be slowly wrapping around to his ears

“Thissss” he paused and squinted hard to focus, “is a 1968 SHELBY GT350 Mustang ... it's phukkkin' candyapple raad.” He started to swoon but caught himself just managing to stay earthbound. "Hey, is this real life?"Sam pondered out loud sounding almost philosophical if not totally stoned out of his ever loving brains.
Monique pushed Sam gently down and cooed, almost singing to him that he was a "bon ami mon cheri," and he settled back down into the black leather back seat and snuggled and nestled next to his wife who reciprocated the affectionate closeness of her one love, Fluffy Belly Sam.

[Moderator]

3. Angela

Monique twisted the dial on the radio station, then frowned when smooth blankness continued to come from the speakers.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

She sighed and lit a cigarette, blowing a plume of smoke out the window. “So, mon cheri, what’s the deal with these two?”

I shrugged, or tried to. Sometimes the body doesn’t quite work the way it used to. The way I’d like for it to. “I dunno. Something bad’s coming, may already be here. I think they know about it.”

I could almost hear the sound of her eyes rolling in her head as she looked over at me. “Oh, come on, Chuck. Somethin’ bad’s always acomin’ when it comes to you.”

I shook my head. “Not like this. I can feel this, can feel it coming from the others.”

“Others? You mean like you?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what it is, but I think these two have got something to do with it.”

“Well . . .”

A feedback whine pierced the air from the speakers and I slammed my hands over my ears. Just as suddenly as it had started, it was gone. I let my hands drop, ready to put them back, but the sound coming through the speakers wasn’t a whine. It was the sound of breathing. Harsh, ragged breathing as though someone had just run a marathon. The sound of a hand brushing across the microphone filled our ears, followed by a whispering voice.

“Hello? If anyone is listening to this, get out of the Big Easy. I repeat, get the hell out of New Orleans. Bourbon Street’s been cleared out. Mardi Gras’s been suspended and I think it’s gonna be one of a permanent nature, folks. There are zombies running the streets and I don’t mean the ones from yo’ grand'mere’s vodoun, neither. You’re used to them zombies. These are the mean ones, the ‘I-ain’t-got-no-brains-so-I’m-agonna-eat-yours’ type. They seem to have overtaken the city and we’ve even been overran by them here at the station. I’m hopin’ this message will get to y’all, if’n ya ain’t dead yet. Don’t know what’s going down, but get out of the Big Easy. Get . . .”

The man’s voice suddenly cut off, replaced by a high-pitched scream. If it had been possible, my heart would have trip-hammered in my chest. As it was, I could feel the tendons creaking in my neck more then usual as I looked at Monique. Her eyes filled her face, her mouth hanging open as she looked at me. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Christ almighty. They’re eatin’ him, ain’t they?”

I reached over and switched off the radio. The sound was making me aware of the fact that I hadn’t eaten in a while. Not a good thing when I had three snacks riding around in a car with me. “We’ve got to get to my Queen, and we need to know what these people know first.”

Monique twisted the wheel, turning onto a dirt road. “What are you doing? I just said we’ve got to get to my Queen.”

“That you did. You also said we needed to know what these two know first and I aim to find out. I can’t do that while I’m drivin’ and you cain’t drive, so I need to stop. I also need a powerful place and we’s going to the cemetery.”

“Cemetery’s back that way.”

She glanced at me, a strange smile on her lips. “Not the one I’m aimin’ to go to. Just sit tight and be quiet for a while, will ya? I gotta think.”

After several minutes, she turned onto a road that was little more than overgrown ruts. I wouldn’t have even guessed it had been a road at one time. The trees pressed in on either side, so close at times I heard their branches brushing the sides of the car. I winced, because I knew Monique was real particular about her car. It wouldn’t do for one of those branches to scratch it. Finally, we came out into a clearing. The full moon was bright and I could make out a cemetery on the right and an old shack on the left. Spanish moss hung from the trees and in the shadows of the night it looked like the tattered remains of cloaks draped over skeletal limbs.

A strange aura filled the air, pressed down on me. If I breathed like normal people do, I would probably be complaining that I couldn’t breathe. Since I don’t, I was only mildly uncomfortable.

“Monique, ma cherie. What is this place?” I couldn’t bring my voice to more than a whisper.

“A huge plantation house once stood through them trees there. This shack was one of the slave shacks and my ancestor lived here. She was a great Mambo. Some of my ancestors are buried in that cemetery. My great-grandmere lived here and now that she’s passed on to the other realm this is mine. The cemetery and shack are all that remains of the plantation.”

“Why don’t you live here?”

Her laughter rang out. Normally melodious, it seemed out of place in this stillness. Like laughing in church during prayer, or in the middle of a funeral. “Ah, mon cheri. Could you envision me living in this place? No. I like the comforts of the city too much for that. But it is my birthright and the bond of blood calls to me. Enough chatter. We must go in now and wake these two. I can dispel the effects of what you gave them and keep them calm enough to find out what happened.”

She put her hand on the door, then looked back at me. “This ground has been blessed. Since you go against the laws of nature, you'll probably feel some discomfort while you are here. You are not one of the evil ones, so you won’t be harmed, but you may not be comfortable. Let’s get them inside.”

[Moderator]

4. AnniesGrrl

‘Discomfort’ was the wrong term for the effect that place had on me. It reminded me of the way a dentist would say “you may feel a little discomfort” right before drilling down into a tooth, straight into a nerve, when, say, he had quite forgotten that there were good reasons that the gods had invented Novocain. Not that I really have to worry about that sort of thing anymore, but the memory of just such an experience was brought to mind in the most unpleasant way imaginable.

In any case, the place made me want to run screaming out into the night. But we had things to accomplish, so I sucked it up and helped Pinkster get to work on our unhappy couple. Well, perhaps they weren’t so unhappy as all that – stoned out of their collective minds, babbling incoherently and laughing at their own wit.

First, we had to revive them. I say ‘we,’ but of course I was not a lot of help. The ‘discomfort’ boring its way through my skull prevented me from being of much use, and besides, Monique was the one with all of the magical mojo. Oh, I know a thing or two about magic, but she is a walking grimoire with an intuitive artistry that puts other practitioners – even the better ones – to shame.

So I mostly just watched while she did all of the real work. After casting a circle and throwing up a few protections, she began to throw ingredients into her cauldron. No eye of newt or toe of frog for her, though – she was ever more practical than that. I don’t actually know what was in the powders that she added, but I suspect that at least one of them contained a hefty jolt of amphetamine. It sure brought the Haverschampts around in a hurry.

Once that little task had been accomplished, Monique began to question them. She had them in a bit of a hypnotic trance, so that they remained calm while responding readily to her interrogation.

“Y’all managed to catch the attention of someone. Someone powerful, who is not at all happy about it. Tell me, what did you do?”

“It was just a game,” said Delia. “I don’t understand, we didn’t mean anything by it!”

“Just a party game,” confirmed Sam.

“What do you mean, a game? What kind of games are you people playing? You think it’s fun to mess around with forces you do not understand?”

“It was just a game, something Elly found in an antique store. We thought it would be fun! We didn’t know the thing would really work!!!” Delia looked frightened.

“What game?” insisted Monique.

“One of those boards, the ones you use to contact spirits. We had one when I was a kid, but not like this one. This one was really old, and had some symbols around the edge that I didn’t recognize,” said Sam.

“We thought it would be fun, we didn’t really believe that it would do anything,” added Delia.

“Well, it did. It got the attention of someone whose attention you really do not want,” said Monique.

“Tell me about those symbols.”

She had to take them a little bit deeper to get the details she sought, but eventually they gave her a good description. As they spoke, Monique's face grew grim. I wasn’t sure what was behind that look, but figured she’d tell me in time.

“Ok, we’re done here. We’ve found out as much as these two are gonna know.”

She left them in a slight trance. No use in having them get all hysterical, particularly not while we still had to deal with them. We got back in the car (and what a relief it was to leave that awful place!) and drove back into the city. We left them in the care of a mutual friend, one of my kind who hangs out at the Dungeon, and who might provide some protection. Pinkster left them with a suggestion that it might be a good idea to buy him some daiquiris.

Once we were rid of them, she turned to me. “Damn. They couldn’t just mess around with any old board,” she said. They had to find that one. Nasty piece of work, it is. I can't imagine how it found its way to Ohio. But I’m very much afraid that I know whose attention they’ve drawn with it.”

Here are many practitioners of magic in our fair city, and no few of them practice the darker arts. There are a handful who stand out as being especially talented in this regard. But there is one whom even they all fear. He styles himself “The Prince of Darkness,” though his true name is Francesco. And it was he whose attention they had drawn.

This so-named Prince has a rather intimate tie to the zombie community; he is capable of exerting a frightening degree of control over many of us. It would be he who was driving this new insanity among my kind. But the question remained – why?

[Moderator]

5. Mark

As Sam and Delia were being taken inside for interrogation, Billy Ray Parker stumbled along the streets of New Orleans towards Le Rue Dominique. He remembered the restaurant well. The place he proposed to his wife Mary Ann Jones so many years ago. A sawed off shotgun dangled from his trembling hand. The shotgun, a gift from his father, thumped softly against his thigh. He drew security from the cold steel. He’d been a zombie for as long as he remembered. His wife shared the same dark gift. But this year as Mardi Gras began, he felt a shift in the sentient forces controlling his kind. A darker evil taking hold in the zombie community. He saw a growing hatred in his wife’s eyes for the normals’ that walked along the French Quarter. Knew she fought to control the hunger taking hold while whatever humanity remained slowly died. He had other things to do before dealing with her so he sent her away. To the restaurant where he proposed. The one where she accepted his offer of marriage.

“I want everything back the way they were.” Billy Ray whispered to the growing darkness. “Please don’t change Mary. Please don’t make me…” His voice trailed off.

He entered the restaurant and took a moment to focus on the patrons. A fat bartender named, “Milly” leaned over cleaning some red liquid off the counter.

“Hey, Billy Ray! Damn glad to see you!” The place loud with the joyful celebrations of dozens of locals and tourists alike. “What can I get ya’?”

“Hollister Dark,” Billy motioned to the bartender he’d be back in the restaurant area. Milly gave a mildly amusing flick of his wrist. The drink would be delivered soon. First, he needed some time with his wife.

Billy Ray noticed her immediately. Before sitting down he moved a few strands of hair from her face. Mary tried to pull them back, but Billy stopped her.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” Billy leaned in resting his lips on her ear. “You’ll always be beautiful to me.”

Mary lowered her hand. Her eyes were worn out sockets where demons hid behind the lids. Billy Ray took her fingers gently in his.

“We’ll get through this. No matter what.” His words wavered. She knew them to be false. It broke his heart to know that she knew.

He took a seat across from her still holding her hand. She hesitated then pulled free allowing her arm to rest on the table. Billy reached for her, but stopped. Her face froze for a moment then a terrible hunger rose beneath the calm façade. He lowered his hand onto the shotgun.

“I took care of the problem at home.” Billy’s voice broke.

If Mary knew a word he was saying, she didn’t give any indication. Her eyes were now fixed on him. A savage grin formed on the corners of her mouth.

Milly came in with his drink.

“Just know I always loved you.” Billy raised the shotgun and pulled back the hammers. He placed the gun against her face and she was gone.

“Know that I always loved both of you,” he said, laying the gun against his temple like he did for his son earlier.

The splatter of blood, bone, and brains sent the bartender running.

[Moderator]

6. bobledrew

The usual sea of people on Bourbon Street had gone from gentle waves to chaotic frothing. As crowds of tourists were running one way and another, beads and novelty drink glasses clattering to the pavement, a large man in a pair of charcoal gray slacks, a black merino-wool turtleneck, and a pair of entirely unnecessary aviator sunglasses carved his way through the mass of people like an icebreaker through the polar ice.


His progress was momentarily impeded by one young man in a backwards gimme cap, a wife-beater and droopy baggy denim shorts. In the jaundiced glow of the arc-sodium lamps, the kid’s teeth looked even more yellowed as he spat, “Watch where you’re goin’, brah!”


He suddenly found his feet kicking against air. The man in the turtleneck had reached out, grasped him by his upper arms, and lifted him off the ground. “Wha****ya--” He flew through the air until the unyielding brick of “Gitchee Mama’s” walls caught him. The obstacle crumpled to the ground, his once-set jaw now dangling loosely.


Francesco didn’t watch him hit the wall. He had already resumed his speedy and deliberate walk through Bourbon Street. There were too many things requiring his attention tonight and not enough time. He did spare himself a moment to imagine ripping the pup’s ignorant head from his shoulders and bathing his face in the jetting blood. That would have been pleasant.
__


DuPont Warehousing had been the victim of Katrina’s waters, and never recovered. Its empty spaces had moldered for six years, with the only activity in their cavernous spaces the scuttling of rats on their important (at least to them) business.


But tonight, things were different. Traffic was finally coming back, in cars, on foot, and incongruously enough, with a school bus that had been painted in the reticulated coat of a giraffe and signed “The Party Safari Bus”. But those on the bus and in the cars and on shambling feet weren’t in search of happy-hour specials on Hurricanes and glimpses of breasts just in from Omaha for a bit of exhibitionism and a collection of beaded memories.


No, the warehouses of DuPont, their padlocks shattered and windows lit by arrays of bright candles, were being populated by an army of shambling figures. They came to the warehouses as salmon to spawning places, as swallows to Capistrano. They came with the occasional word and the frequent grunt. They came with hunger that couldn’t be satiated by gumbo or dirty rice. They came, and they waited. They knew that the Prince would join them soon.

[Moderator]

7. krs72

He enters a broken church that was savagely destroyed by Katrina, once a haven for lovers of Christ, is now ground zero for the Prince of Darkness. He looks around and smiles at what little artifacts are left, they have no power now, and his very presence in this place is a mockery to all that is good and holy.


He is dressed in all black, outfitted with a gray robe lined in scarlet, his long black beard hung down to his belly, and a gray streak ran down the middle. As he walks through the battered temple, he kicks fallen bricks out of his way and heads to the alter in the back. When he reaches it, he turns around and what seems like an eternity, he stays as still as one of the statue that lined the back of the church.


With head bowed down, a symbol appears on his forehead and starts to burn, looking like a brand burning white hot, fresh from the fire. He raises his hands next opening his balled fists and revealing two more symbols. They too burn like the first, and an eerie quiet falls across New Orleans, all motion stops for Francesco is about to speak.


He recites a chant, and speaks in a tongue that hasn't been heard for centuries. All creatures of the night stop and face the direction of the church, some try to pull away but it's of no use. He speaks in a monotone voice that echoes throughout every corner of the French Quarter.


"Come to me all that is undead! I stand before you in the end times as your leader, the time has come to take all that is ours! Now feel the power of the centuries old demons as we take control of all that lives!" Thunder booms loud, and storm clouds empty buckets of rain on the undead followers. Lightning flashes, revealing hidden crime scenes of gore splashed violence. "Come to me children of the damned!" The ancient one grins as his eyes turn back in their sockets.


The dead start to move about, slowly at first, limbs cracking and snapping free of rigor mortis, move about with sickening gaits. Their purpose now set in stone, they follow the directions of their leader.


Packs of savage zombies embark on the city, four of them corner a drunk who was recently awoken from the storm. They move in and proceed to tear the man apart, he screams as all four grab a limb and pull. The bum goes into shock as blood spurts from his quartered body, and dies almost instantly. The savages bite and suck on the newly acquired limbs, seeming satisfied for the moment.


Others still attack those weaker and slower than them, the crippled and intoxicated civilians stand no chance against them. They are all hunted down like animals and slaughtered.

[Moderator]

8. GNTLGNT

Earlier…

After Little Ms. Mo (Love Pink! was MY idea, Ms. Vicky Secret…est ce que tu me comprends?) dropped the nickel on the Darth Vader she thought responsible for this current disturbance in The Force, I had her drop me by my place. “You stay away from that Vieux Carre, mon cher. The Chuckster’s mental radar is pinging bogeys big-time bad in that direction!’

“Oh Chuckles…you DO care!” She batted her eyes coquettishly. That girl would smirk and smile even if the Hounds of Hell were tryin’ to take a nip out of that sweet café-au-lait ass of hers. Hmmmmmm, and speaking of which…crap; no time. “Oh, dammit! Just take the ‘Stang and stretch that Detroit muscle RIGHT NOW! I got work to do.” And with one last whiff of fossil fuel and Fruit Stripe gum, off she rolled.

My “place” - I won’t call it “living quarters”, for obvious reasons - was in Bayou St. John, overlooking a Katrina-whacked levee. As I headed in the front door, I nearly fell over a package on the stoop. Apparently what Brown can do for me is deliver my latest Ebay acquisition: a complete set of Mcfarlane Toys, The Walking Dead action figures. Yep, we “'bies” have a finely-tuned sense of irony, the absurd and even whimsy. They’ll go nicely with my Grateful Dead posters and Zombies record collection.

Anyway, I digress, which is easy these days. Research is what was needed - forget the finger sandwiches in the fridge for now. I could have accessed what I needed from my SmartPhone, but ever since reading that King fella’s Cell…uh-uh, no way. “To the Interweb Robin,” as a dear Scottish friend of mine would have said. Bless his smilin’ blue eyes anyway. Gone too soon, but then, aren’t we all?

I already knew that the Midwestern Meat puppets from the Rubber City had gotten ahold of a game that Milton-Bradley had NEVER dreamed up. Monique had clued me in as to its eldritch power to summon souls and other darker things. I also understood that somehow during their playing around, they had allowed Francesco to rise again like a Lazarian Bocor. His name has long been whispered among our kind as either a curse or a prayer, sometimes both.

I’m no student of computer science, but I’m one hell of a hacker (zombies are excellent hackers in many ways), and as I poked about in the shadows of cyberspace and behind “secure” firewalls, the name Mason Haverschampt kept recurring in conjunction with some highly unorthodox paranormal experiments tied to The Shop. The Shop last made public headlines during the McGee fiasco of 1980, but apparently they were undead as well.

Mason Haverschampt was a self-taught/self-styled zombie killer, aptly named The Death Knight, responsible for the REAL killings of scores of my more unsavory brethren. Kind of a latter-day Van Helsing, only with a large bore handgun and no stake. Mason is our Buckeye Lawn-Pro salesman’s grand-père, and Francesco his ultimate bounty.

No amount of frozen daiquiris was going to ease the vise-like ache in my head. The static on our Living Dead sub-carrier wave was just the beginning of what might turn into the screams of an Undead jihad. I've got to lay this at the blessed feet of my Little Flower Queen, before the Big Easy becomes enfer on Earth.