Get Zombie: 8-Book Set

by Raymund Hensley

  It’s an autograph session…for someone named Diamond Head.

  Hmph, I say under my breath. Must be a local porn star.

  Because I don’t have my glasses on, I have to squint to get a good look at her “features”. I’d walk to the front of the line, but I’m afraid of angering all these women – Yessm, that’s right, women. It’s been said that women purchase more pornography than men. They all seem anxious, and I don’t want them mad because I don’t want my piss blown in. One of the women looks over her shoulder and tells the lady behind her that she just creamed her undies, she’s so excited.

  I turn so I can find my pal and tell him the news, when suddenly there’s a ruckus. A woman with a heavy pigeon (local) accent raves.

  “I no understand why you gotta come to my island and try dominate. Why you no can stay in Maui? I get kids, too, you know! I gotta support my family! And feed my kids foods!”

  Her friend backs away, fearful. “No, Tasty, no. Not like this.”

  The other women circle Diamond Head, as if to protect her from any sudden movements made by dear Tasty. The porn star stays in her seat, hands folded neatly on the table. I can see that some of the women already have fists for hands. Diamond Head SLAMS HER HAND ON THE TABLE – all jump back in awe.

  “DON’T CHALLENGE ME!”

  For a second Tasty is shocked. She then gets herself together and jabs a stick-like finger into Diamond’s chest.

  “You goat.”

  Diamond grabs her hair and the two go at it gorilla style – banging into the walls and making a mess – the other women cheer and hoot and hiss and spit. My pal stands over my shoulder, his face nothing but two wide eyes. People are screaming behind the walls of porn, “Emergency! Emergency!” The women are knocking down whole walls, hands on throats, kicking each other in the gut. Diamond had those pointy, metal heels and kicked with her eyes shut tight with rage.

  Blood guns out from under Tasty’s dress and splats on the floor. They both fall and I can see a large purple gash in Tasty’s upper thigh.

  An autographed copy of Diamond Head’s new DVD slides to my feet. Its title is “Who’s Eating Gilbert’s Ass-Grapes?” Starring Diamond Head, MangoGO, BJ Simpson, Braddah Kimo, Tuna Girl, and Cabbage Inside. A security guard rushes in laughing and separates the two.

  Tasty is furious.

  “ROAAAAAR!”

  She reaches under her skirt and flings a handful of yellow in Diamond’s face. The security guard takes the girls away, proudly.

  My pal buys what he needed (3 DVDs at $29.99 each) and we both have a good laugh in the truck. Then we speak about darts and I tell him how much I hate it now. I’m in a slump. I use to be good – not really good – but good enough. Now I can’t even throw a fit. What the F’s the matter with me? I can’t clear my mind. My brain is so polluted with filth that I’m throwing tuna. My dart games are a mess. I see better games in my stool.

  My Team: Warren, Dave, Me, Barry, and Warren’s girlfriend, Janet. They’re all getting better. Improving.

  I have access to the best advice from all the grand masters on the island. One of the grand masters, at Scores, tried to help me. He changed my throw and everything – “Throw faster,” “Stand this way” – and it fucked me up like something weird. I’m hopeless. Not even a grand master blaster can release the pressure. Not even the Dart God can resurrect my game from the Darts Graveyard.

  “The Black Building”

  THE SUN’S PUNCHY. The street’s busy and yelling. What time is it now? 2:3o pm. Work was easy. Hopefully, I can save enough money to go skydiving. Once I do that, I can rest with the dead. Crash & Burn. Fall & Bounce. The End.

  When I die I want my funeral to be outdoors, and I want the theme song from The Exorcist playing in the background on a loop and on a large television screen shall play my favorite movie/book Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas. My friend Brandy will tell everyone to stand and do a handstand because I think handstands are funny and everyone will do it because I’m dead and they feel bad.

  I wish to be put into a coffin made of crystal and shaped like an amazing penis. It shall be lowered vertically, via crane, into the vagina-disguised grave, then raised, then lowered again, then raised again. This goes on for an hour, while everyone – still doing handstands – hops about here and there.

  I stand outside the gothic stronghold, this black building – I don’t even know what it’s called. I thought it was Nortuary. I think it’s actually Galaxy.

  Tourists walk past.

  Why must they always be walking clichés? DON’T wear kaki shorts/DON’T wear rattan hats/DON’T put on layers of coconut lotion (I hate it!) 5 inches thick. And please, oh please, put your loud ass, spoiled, CRYING, younglings on a leash! Strap on those mouth cover-ups that they put on crazy mental people, like Anthony Hopkins.

  Why do you tourists wear all that shite anyway? Is it any more comfortable than dressing good and looking attractive?

  I wipe the sweat from my brow.

  Cars: “Honk-honk!”

  Trucks: “Beep-Beep!”

  Crosswalk signal: “Click click click!”

  (You see, I don’t know how it is in other parts of the world, but in Hawaii, our signals click to inform the deaf that it’s ok to cross; actually, in Japan it’s more creative: Their crosswalks play a cute little tune!)

  I see a person dressed as Batman, sitting at a bus stop. He is wearing slippers, and he smells like a bum. We make eye contact and I look away quick as a cat because I’m shy.

  Half hidden behind a long fence that’s covered by a ratty black cloth, the black building looks so out of place – tucked away from the law offices and convenient stores and the Hawaii Convention Center and the Hard Rock Cafe. There are some trees loitering behind the little black building. Waikiki’s not so far off from here. I might walk there later at night and oogle at the pretty Japanese tourists.

  I begin planning my day: Check out Black Building. Go to Hawaiian Brian's (a video arcade/pool hall/darts place) and work on my dart game with my other dart friends (who my main dart friends hate). Sheesh! Can’t we just get along?

  Also, there’s someone there that I like, so that’s a plus. So she’s seeing someone else. Is it a crime to at least see her, I ask you? As you can see, I feel guilty for thinking this way. But that ain’t gonna stop me - Ha!

  I walk past the shitty fence. It’s weird seeing the building so empty. It looks so dead. There are some of those giant spool/tables and bundles of extension cord. No cars; no people. Nothing else but a light coconut-lotion scent hangs in the air.

  I look around and, stepping over a diaper, walk to the door.

  It’s unlocked.

  I look around again…and open it.

  The first thing that hits me is the stench of lemon – some kind of thick air freshener. You can still smell out the alcohol underneath it, though. I cough, hand over mouth.

  Lint floats in the air. I wave it all away and walk deeper. I remember their policy: You can’t bring water, but you can bring beer.

  It’s so stupid.

  Things were on the floor: Batteries, a few empty bottles of Zima, paper balls that people with weak ears put in their…ears.

  The deeper I go, the darker it gets. I swing my backpack around and zip it open, taking out my tiny, red flashlight that you can attach to a set of keys.

  This is exciting. I’ve always wanted to be an explorer. As a wee one I had dreams of being an archaeologist – unlocking the mysteries of the pyramids and digging up talking, still-rotting and still-screaming Mayan skeleton heads. Better to go to the Pyramids of Giza, though, surely.

  But we all know that Aliens built them, right? That they came down and created us out of an all-female species to make slaves that dug up their ever so precious gold – gold to save their dying planet. This is all true. Hands down. It’s in the bible – just disfigured after centuries of translations. The bible is a freak baby of a thousand fathers.

  The bible is Freddy Krueger rea
lized.

  My heart races.

  Ah! The thrill of discovery.

  Now I know how Harrison Ford feels.

  I see that I’ve come to the bathroom and gently squeak open the door.

  My tiny beam of light bounces off the white urinals. Splash. There’s a flopping sound, coming from the...

  ...bathroom stall.

  I freeze.

  Someone’s here besides me.

  Time to leave.

  Or is it?

  Might not even be a person. I mean, who makes a flopping sound, anywho?

  I bend over and look under the closed stall.

  No feet.

  Feeling a bit more secure, I walk to the stall and open the door, slowly, with my foot, the red light shaking in my wet, cold hand. The door knocks against the wall with a soft thud.

  The flopping sound ceases.

  The toilet is a mess. Whoever used it last was surely going to hell. I aim the light at it. The lid is down, of course. Using my favorite tool (my foot), I lift it open – ready for any HEAVY stench of the Devil.

  The flopping starts up again – in a mad FRENZY. Whatever’s in there is psychotic. I look in, and see something that’s not a goldfish (which is what I thought it would be). It’s the state fish, a Humuhumunukunuku Apua'a. I look in closer. It freezes. My light brings its eyes to a glow. Poor thing. At least the water looks “clean”. Should I call the humane society, or something? Can’t just leave it here like this. What if it’s claustrophobic? What if it’s a lover from a past life? Oh, God. That’s it! Must be.

  Should I put it out of its misery and, oh I don’t know…flush??

  There is a moaning sound.

  A woman.

  Ok. Time to go – seriously!

  I run out from the bathroom on hushed tippy-toes.

  The moaning is louder. But it sounds wrong: Fake, electronic.

  Then I hear a goat “Bleep”.

  I stop in my tracks.

  Interested, I follow the sounds.

  As I turn a corner and walk down a dark hallway, the sounds of the moaning lady and goat come together and form a picture that makes me gag. Wind creeps in and my light cuts through so much floating lint. The closer I get, the more electronic the voice becomes. I turn another corner and come to a doorless room, painted black. Glowing stars are pasted everywhere. What’s lighting them? They must be battery operated. I search the room with my tiny light. There is no furniture. In the middle of the room stands a goat. It jumps back, belly jiggling. It stares at me, wild-eyed.

  I’m born in the year of the Sheep, which means that I’m pessimistic and lazy, yet imaginative and lucky. I will live forever, happily, with a Rabbit or Pig.

  We’ll see about that.

  I walk closer to the goat. It doesn’t move. Something is strapped around its body: A fat, leather belt with a tape recorder. The goat smells good, like fresh, massacred lemons.

  The voice on the tape moans and moans. I reach over and turn it off.

  But the moaning is still here.

  It’s coming from behind me. I shine the light into a gloomy corner…to find a mannequin sitting on a stool, straight-backed, hands on its lap, under a dripping pipe. My light is dying. It pops in & out on the dummy’s face.

  “Just like in the movies,” I say to myself.

  The dummy has large holes for its eyes, nose, and mouth. I walk over to it and can tell immediately that the sound is coming from inside. The moans come out shaky and wavy, like a tape that has been recorded on one too many times. The moans are in reverse I notice, each moan ending on a high note, like a whine when someone gets pinched. I shine my dimming light down its throat. There’s the strong smell of burning hair. To hell with it, I think. Why even bother? There’s nothing for me here. Time to get a Chilly Cheeseburger!

  The goat cries out.

  It moves forward a little and stops.

  There’s a rattling sound.

  Someone tied a chain around the poor beast’s leg. I go over to it and fiddle with the chain, my light in my mouth.

  “Poor beast.”

  There is no lock – whoever did this simply made a thick (and sore) knot. It takes me a minute to untie the beast, but once I do, it kicks at me and runs out the room, weeping. I run after it for some reason. I can hear it trotting through the dark and hitting the walls.

  I jump out the front entrance and into the BLAZING sun. The goat runs onto the sidewalk and scares some Russian tourists who start chasing after it. The animal makes the rookie mistake of rushing onto the street.

  A #2 bus headed for Waikiki HONKS and screeches its heavy brakes, but it’s too late. The goat is hit and amazingly explodes. I jump back and yell, “EXPLOSION!”

  Its insides are run over by cars and trucks and jeeps and bicyclists – all swerve past the three, scary, large skin bags of meat that were once the goat. I run up to the bus to get a better view of the remains (why do I do this, when I know I’ll be disgusted?).

  I look at the remains and I am sick.

  The bus driver, a young woman with tanned skin, jumps out and hurries to the front of the bus. The passengers all walk out from the bus and stand around in a group: Old Chinese and Filipino people, a doctor in blue O.R. scrubs, 5 Canadian girls just out from private school, and a British muscleman in a tight yellow shirt.

  The bus driver turns to me in a panic.

  “What happened! What happened! What happened! What happened! What happened! What happened! What happened! What happened! What happened!”

  I struggle not to stutter.

  “It was a ga-ga-ga-goat!”

  “Where did it come from? Sweet Jesus! Oh Jesus, you’re so sweet! It came out from nowhere! I believe it!”

  I point to the black building.

  “From there!”

  “That place is nothing but trouble! I hate it so much right now!”

  The driver then stares at the stew of hair and blackish goop that’s painted on her bus. Cars race by angrily. I make eye contact with a passing weener dog in a pink Beatle. The bus driver walks away – takes three wobbly steps and stands still.

  She pulls at her hair in a crazy way.

  “Oh, NO! It’s so horrible! Dear God, why do you do this to me?? God, I need this job! Goddamn you!”

  I want to say something to help, but I’m afraid she’ll tell me to shut up and mind my own business. She hangs her head and cries, loudly.

  The group of passengers – one by one – walk away. All except for the British muscleman. He stands there, crying and nodding his head. He then flexes his arms to tourists as if in a competition. They go “Ohhh” and snap pictures of his muscular bits.

  The bus driver falls to her knees, puts her hands to her face.

  Without thinking, I walk over and pet her head.

  The dark mess slides from the front of the bus and plops to the ground. I get close to her. She puts her head against my shoulder, and sighs.

  Cars fly by and honk.

  We embrace.

  “I am the Boa constrictor”

  WE’RE DRIVING in her car. I’m in the passenger’s seat, sneaking quick glances at her. After the accident, the police wagon soon arrived and we both told the story about the goat. Later, the mental wagon arrived and chased after the British muscleman.

  As we sat in the ambulance, wrapped in orange blankets with oxygen masks over our mouths, she says she would like me to keep her company throughout this ordeal: She just moved from Utah and had no friends/she wanted a drinking partner/she wanted someone to watch her car as she went into the bus station and spoke with her manager.

  I agreed to help, and then we were let go.

  The bus station is noisy. As I sit in the car, waiting for her, I start to picture in my mind a little movie: Us standing before that damaged bus and mangled goat. The animal is singing to us with its bloody face, staring at us as we kiss, passionately. It winks at us in approval. Aww, cute!

  I open my eyes and exhale.

  Ants
are on the dashboard – marching down into the glove compartment. I open it and fifty used tampons SPRING out. I panic to catch them, and I have to force each one back in the glove compartment like some kind of odd puzzle. I think nothing of it, for I’ll never understand women and their barbaric rituals. On the floor, just under my seat, is the holy bible. I pick it up and notice that there’s another copy right behind it – and behind that, yet another copy.

  It begins to rain outside. The palm trees circling the station begin to sway. The cotton clouds in the blue sky snail toward the ocean. My window is rolled down just a tad: The wind whistles into the car a merry tune.

  Natalie is her name, and as she walks toward the car, I can see her breasts jiggle a bit. I bite my tongue and extinguish all perverted thoughts because I don’t want to go to hell. Humans think of sex every 15 seconds, and yet my Catholic upbringing and respect for others makes me feel guilty.

  Damn to be human.

  She opens her door and sits behind the wheel, crying. She says…

  “I have been fired!”

  …and SLAMS the door shut.

  I jump back in my seat. She gives out a quick GROAN and throws her back against the seat over and over in an insane temper tantrum. I want to say something comforting. Should I put my arm around her? What if she yells out in disgust and bites my hand? Will I vomit?

  She starts the car and we take off onto the freeway.

  She drives down at such an amazing speed, that I fear we might go back to the future. Cars blur by in loud, short bursts of air: PHIT! PHIT!

  We say nothing to each other.

  Her eyes are watery – tears leaving wet marks on her blue jeans.

  Fifteen minutes later we’re in Tantalus – a mountain decorated with white spots of rich houses. The kind of houses you find leaning on stilts. They’re frightening to look at. I fear that if there were ever an earthquake, the houses would tumble down.

  Natalie rented out one of these houses.

  Yay for me.

  We drive up to it and my heart drops: I see my own gruesome death as I fall fall fall into a giant coffin that busts into flames because of my damned luck. She says that the house belongs to a doctor friend, and that she could stay until he comes back in, oh, five months from Peru. The rent was cheap and she got free cable.