Get Zombie: 8-Book Set

by Raymund Hensley

  I kneel down to the edge of the lake.

  I see my waving reflection.

  A HAND SPLASHES OUT AND GRABS MY HAIR.

  I yell out like a girl and slap my hands over Polly’s wrist, hauling her out from the lake as she pulls out the Dolphin Master.

  We lay on the dirt, muddy and tired, our chests struggling and bothered.

  Except for the Dolphin Master.

  It rests there.

  Motionless.

  PART THREE

  “The Wonderful World of Amputees”

  (A note from the editor: “Hello. The original section of this book was found to be too disgusting. The following has been edited to please the casual reader. Mahalo.)

  WE PUT THE CORPSE in the back of the van and drive around, aimlessly, frightened. I don’t know where she’s driving. Does she even know? I work up the courage to say something, and ask her what we are going to do with this body.

  For a long time she doesn’t say anything – the street lights passing over her face. Is she ignoring me? Is she mad at me?? I think she’s mad at me.

  I lean back in my seat, always remembering that there’s a corpse right behind me, on the ground, rocking with the van.

  But what if it wasn’t on the ground?

  What if I turn around and find it standing up? Ready to eat me?

  I make to look behind me when Polly opens her mouth.

  “Mr. Snake can help us.”

  She makes the call, and from what I can gather, we are to drive over to his house, the main movie set in Aina Haina, pronto.

  He is alone in the house, topless, in his Angelina Jolie boxers, and helps us carry the body into the attic. That was a bitch, getting it up there, as you can imagine.

  Mr. Snake kicks up a few, large, dusty floorboards and stuffs the body under. Polly asks if we should take whoever it is out of the dolphin costume first. Mr. Snake says no:

  “Ziplocs the smell in better.”

  He then throws a plastic bag over the thing’s head and wraps it with wire. I want to throw up. I didn’t want to before, but now I do, so there.

  I excuse myself and hightail it across the attic, jumping down the attic ladder and speed-walking into the bathroom.

  After doing the nasty, I wash up and stand in the dim, silent hallway, leaning on a wall, gathering my thoughts.

  I think about the time I went to Pink Cadillac, during 8o’s night. I smoked my 1st Hookah that day – a large water contraption with flavored tobacco. Mmm. Peppermint Vodka. And then weeks later, mmm, sour Apple.

  Oh! And before I forget: Mmm. Liquid Cocaine. A magical, alcoholic beverage with pineapple.

  A disturbing sound wakes me from dreamland: Sounds of lovemaking and things being knocked over. Grr! That whore. Flirting with me then eating Mr. Snake’s finger food. Oh, she’s such a whore!

  Whatever. Fuck it. Let’s see if there’s any booze in the kitchen.

  Huzzah! I’m so pissed.

  Whore.

  I open the refrigerator and sure enough – a bottle of UV Blue.

  I inhale, roll all my problems into a ball, and toast with a sigh.

  “L'chiam.”

  I drink from the bottle and go numb for a bit.

  “That’s good cake.”

  I feel the stiff one-eye on me. I look to my right.

  A large, fat, Japanese man in a Hawaiian shirt stares at me through the front, sliding glass door, breathing heavily and misting up the glass, his eyes wide & insane. My heart goes Ack!

  I stare back. He writes in the fog with his beefy pinky, backwards so I can understand…

  Pain.

  Feet running up the front stairs.

  More fat Japanese men in Hawaiian shirts appear behind the first man, who snarls and spits on the glass and PULLS the sliding door open with a mighty SLAM! They all storm in. They carry black briefcases and mugs of steaming coffee. A short, fattish, muscle-bound Polynesian man pushes through the crowd and approaches me. A silver whistle half the size of his head dangles from his neck.

  This fellow asks to see Mr. Snake. He has a womanish voice, although I have no intention of laughing.

  I point and (gladly) tell them where he is. The fatty blows on the whistle in quick TOOT TOOT TOOTS and everyone runs down the hallway and up the attic ladder.

  I can hear Polly:

  “Jesus H. Christ! The Porn Mafia!”

  There’s more yelling & screaming and the sounds of glass shattering and umbrellas opening and heavy things being thrown through walls.

  Mr. Snake dangles out from the attic door in an upside-down sit-up, his arms clawing the air, screeching, “Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why!” with his tongue swinging from his mouth.

  So many beefy hands reach down and grab his man-boobs. He squeals like a chased pig and is pulled up. Polly yells at them to be gentle. There is the whirr of an irate buzz-cutter.

  Seconds later, Mr. Snake falls from the attic, naked, and rolls down the hallway like crumpled paper. His penis is erect, his eyes are bloodshot and black and blue, his arms are bent at impossible angles, and his hair has been shaved off.

  A wind chime has been stapled to his testicles, though, amazingly, no blood is seen.

  This poor fellow uses his chin to crawl toward me with his mouth pooling. There’s a hideous clucking sound coming from his throat. He doesn’t blink. I wonder if he can even see through those thick, red eyes.

  The gigantic Hawaiian men jump down from the attic, in slow motion. They fold their arms across their chests as they coolly walk after Mr. Snake. A naked Polly falls down onto the hallway with a comical yelp, jumping to her feet and pushing through the mob. She flies her body down over Mr. Snake to protect him. A Hawaiian man picks her up by the ankle and covers his eyes so as to not see her vagina region, because he’s a gentleman.

  I eye a knife in a tall glass of water, on the table.

  The tiny man bites his nails, looking at his watch over and over. Mr. Snake and Polly are brought to his attention – held in the air by their feet, wiggling like confused fishies and whining.

  “Weeeeee! Weeeeeeeee!” they complain.

  Tiny man walks behind them and slaps their buttocks, violently, while grunting in anger.

  He stands before Mr. Snake, who’s crying in an extreme way. His drool bubbles and runs down into his nostrils and marinates his red eyes.

  The tiny man takes hold of Mr. Snake’s cheeks with one hand.

  “You owe us a movie, you leaky anus you.”

  Mr. Snake responds in a calm, friendly voice, “Are you mad at me?”

  “No, not mad…just greatly disturbed.”

  “The film will be done soon. Count on it.”

  “It’s not how long it’s taking that disturbs me.”

  “Oh?”

  “No. It’s the fact that you didn’t follow my instructions about the fair usage of amputees. What were you thinking, leaky anus? You knew I’d come down and complain.”

  “Sorry, I’m diabetic.”

  “I will be sending some appropriate actors over, seeing how you failed to provide your own. I suggest you use them. This is an untouched market. This is a virgin market. Thar be gold here! Now what’s the matter with you?”

  “Uhg. Blood rushing down into my upside-down face. Uhg!”

  The tiny man leans in close to him and says: “Now your punishment. I saw this in Spiderman.”

  He kisses Mr. Snake’s upside-down mouth. The Hawaiian men all go “Aww” and look at each other, smiling. Some of them are smoking rollem’ up cigarettes.

  The tiny man releases his lip-lock with a POP and puts his hand to his dizzy head. Mr. Snake swings back and forth in the air, and then weeps with quivering lips.

  “Oh, hot Jesus…The Kiss of Herpes!”

  “There is no cure for herpes. And there are many different kinds.”

  Mr. Snake jiggles his body in anger, the wind chime chiming.

  “I want to kiss
my children in the future! You bastard!”

  The tiny man laughs.

  Polly spits into his mouth.

  He is surprised.

  “Human saliva is not clean like a dog’s.”

  Polly spits into his mouth.

  “How dare you give him herpes?? You’ve ruined everything!”

  “You want some too, faggit?!”

  “Please, no. Forgive me on this fateful night. Now I will say good day to you, sir.”

  Fatty bows and puts on a pair of shades, although it’s nighttime.

  “Now I will leave you, Mr. Snake, so you may complete your film.”

  “Yessssssssm.”

  The tiny man tips his invisible hat.

  “Goodbye, Polly.”

  “Goodbye, kind sir.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Snake.”

  “Goodbye, Boseefus.”

  Mr. Snake and Polly are set carefully on the ground, and they sniffle as the Porn Mafia exit.

  I walk out from the kitchen and calmly lock the sliding glass door, watching as their Saturn automobiles disappear into thick night, brake lights blinking red.

  I look to the carpet and see that Mr. Snake and Polly have fallen fast asleep in each other’s arms.

  The room sighs.

  Goddamnit.

  In the morning, Mr. Snake wakes up screeching and mad. He instructs Polly to squeeze his hands and for me to call an ambulance.

  We get to Straub Hospital. The three female doctors tell us that our friend is crazy, and that their primary concern is for his testicles. They ask how a wind chime was stapled to them, and we tell them that he fell down some stairs. The doctors look at us suspiciously, and then walk into a room with double doors.

  Polly and I sit alone in the waiting room.

  We say nothing. I purposefully try to breathe as quietly as possible.

  Within fifteen minutes, a joyous Mr. Snake, wearing patient’s clothes, is released in a motorized wheelchair that’s controlled by his chin. His arms are in slings. A baseball cap from the 90’s with a rainbow and the words GO BOWS on it covers his bald head!

  We drive back to the house/set to get back to work. The crew is already there, and it doesn’t take long for the place to be filled with more unnecessary adult actors and actresses. I’m getting used to this. A nude mother, breastfeeding a weeping baby, sits on the carpet, legs crossed, in front of the TV, watching a documentary on The Travel Channel about the world’s most scariest places.

  What’s the world’s #1 most scariest place on my list?

  Haystack Landing, just north of San Francisco in the town of Petaluma, California.

  From now on Mr. Snake will have to direct strictly from his motorized wheelchair…and he seems fine by it, showing off his new wheels to everyone in the living room by lifting the front wheels into the air and spinning around really fast.

  He goes a little too far back and falls over. Everyone gasps and says “Sorry, sorry” for some reason, helping him as he crawls, moaning, into his wheelchair.

  Once upright & stable, the fat cat jumps on his lap. Mr. Snake touches it.

  “I love cats, because they’re quiet.”

  At one o’clock exact, a line of amputees are standing outside the sliding glass door. There appears to be a total of 10 of them: 5 women with no legs, 5 men with no arms – who have graciously carried the girls on their shoulders. They have all brought their own robes, which they are wearing, barefoot. As I let them in, I hear the roar of a large vehicle, zoom zoom zooming off into the distance.

  After a long introduction by Mr. Snake about the politics and hazards of the porn industry and how important it is to be very very careful of herpes, we all get ready for the film’s shot-out-of-order 5th love scene.

  We all set up in a cramped room with a very high roof. Pink, rubber ropes dangle. The amputees are tied to these ropes and they begin to bounce up and down immediately.

  “Hurray! Good!” they all go.

  I set up the camera, messing with the color balance. Mr. Snake comes in on his wheelchair while eating a brick of tofu in a pink bowl. He instructs everyone to hurry up toot sweet or else he’ll start raging. This seems to work, for I notice everyone picking up the pace and grumbling how much this job doesn’t pay as much as they thought it would and how much they would, and I quote, ‘love to stick that brick of tofu up Mr. Snake’s sweet sweet ass’.

  While the technicians prepare the other rubber ropes, the remaining amputees play on the carpet, entertaining all by sitting on their buttocks and sliding across the floor with their available limbs, racing one another and laughing – having a riot. The spectators bet and cheer them on as their naked flesh race for joy.

  Having finished his tofu, Mr. Snake holds his hands out and claps once, dramatically: A loud thunder crack.

  Everyone freezes.

  He says with a stern gaze:

  “Discipline!”

  Everyone jumps up and scurries around. The director claps again and they all get in position: The light techies stand behind their lights and soundboards; the rope techies tie the rubber ropes to the amputees’ hips; the actors and extras get in place, staring at the floor. The director nods and grunts, “Hmph! So extraordinary.”

  People exhale a sigh of relief.

  Someone lets loose gas.

  Shhh.

  This is important.

  Mr. Snake says Action and directs:

  “Cue bounciness!”

  The technicians lift the amputees higher and higher. They bounce up and down on the rubber ropes. Those with no legs are upside down, clapping their hands.

  “Cue sex people!”

  What I see next makes me wonder.

  An obese woman, wearing a black, shiny, plastic suit and a red gasmask, guides in a naked, black couple that I have not seen before. This strange, enchanting woman holds their hands, petting their hair. The fat woman’s suit squeaks as she strolls.

  The couple seems afraid. The woman lets them go and they hold each other. They sit on the bed and the large guide walks away, whistling a foreboding tune. I notice that her monster buttocks are spilling from her horror-suit. No one seems to care. What’s going to happen now?

  Odd. I hear chanting. Where is it coming from?

  A 16-year-old girl next to me, holding a large electrical cord that’s 12 inches thick and 3 inches long, is shaking all over. Something is stank. What is it? I need to know or else it’ll drive me sideways. Maybe it’s a gaggle of roaches. Cockroaches break wind every 15 minutes.

  Mr. Snake instructs the black couple to start kissing and to touch each other in a sexy way: They do, faces uncertain, eyes so scared – wide, staring into the camera. Mr. Snake says, “Sweet, Jesus! Don’t look into the camera! Are you professional or not? You want me to break these lights for some reason?! You and I are done, man, professionally. But let’s keep going anyway. ACTION!”

  They make love as the amputees dangle above them, spinning and flapping like bizarre birds.

  The actors lose concentration and stare up at them. Mr. Snake makes a scary face and the actors begin to cry. They look for a blanket to hide under, but find nothing but a silver shield – like something King Arthur would use.

  Golden words on the shield read: King Arthur’s.

  Mr. Snake shrieks out, “And with a blast from his mighty nostrils!” and the technicians let go of the ropes. All the amputees fall through the air, shrilling and pulling at their hair. Then the techies grab onto the ropes. The amputees stop dead-air and BOUNCY BOUNCE like rag dolls – their limps flopping here and there. They make strange drowning sounds.

  Mr. Snake gives the techies the signal (he brings his hands up and masturbates his neck) and they yank on the rubber ropes over and over. The amputees bounce in the air, some touching the bed, some twirling around & around like a merry-go-round.

  They appear to be laughing.

  Mr. Snake points to the black couple in a violent manner: With tiny jabs, his face torn, eyes huge with impatien
ce. He shoves his hands into his mouth, happy.

  The actors nod and clap.

  Mr. Snake shakes his head.

  “Sex her!”

  He throws money at them: “A total of $20,” says an idiot savant, standing next to me. “In coins.”

  Mr. Snake points at all the shiny coins.

  “That’s your motivation, fool!”

  The actors kiss each other in a sloppy way – eyes crazy and staring at the bouncing feet and arms around them. They are kicked and slapped in the head, accidentally, yet keep acting. Mr. Snake nods in approval.

  “They are professional.”

  An unidentified man behind a hanging blanket pulls on a large lever…and fantastic flowers fall all around the scene.

  I’m happy with my color balance: Everything that’s red – including the flowers – is bright and radiant.

  The same shadow-figure behind the blanket pulls down on a thick rope above his head. Glorious God music plays from some mysterious place: A large chorus full of faith and energy.

  “Lalalala! Hallelujah! Amen!”

  There are gay trumpets and deafening drums and mean saxophones.

  “Rhythm sex!” says the director to the actors.

  The shadow behind the blanket wall now picks up a microphone and clears his throat through the annoying feedback. He says, defiantly:

  “All hail Jay-zus! Allow his mighty ways to cut through your soul like the Flaming Sword of all that is Good and Holy!”

  The actors on the bed make fast love – both making fake sounds of intense pleasure & pain. There is also some fake screaming. In a Hallmark moment, the male actor holds the female in his arms and smiles and gently massages his hand into her vagina, going all the way up to his elbow. He says, “I can feel intestine.” The female repays him by widening his penis slit with pliers and pushing a long hairpin into his hard shaft.

  She says to him, “They do this in the Middle East.”

  “Oh come now, that’s so wonderful.”

  She masturbates him while the preacher preaches.

  “Ye who urinates in the house of God shall have the Satan Penis nibbled off with many rabbit and rabid bites; and the bits shall be distributed amongst the kings and queens of the world and outer planets and they must all swallow the Penis bits while crying for they must be ashamed – it is a must! For the Lord our God enjoys to watch all weep and ask for his mercy for he is not only a sadist but he is also insecure. Woe woe woe his sad sad ways. LOL. Amen…and Awomen. The end.”