by Lacy Maran
With fresh meat on his mind, Jim spotted just the right putz. A hundred thousand dollar eyesore zoomed onto the lot and sped into a custom parking space. It was a gaudy bright yellow abomination. The kind of sports car dickless wonders bought to make up for the sawed off stubs between their legs.
Terry Shuckster was the classic pecker head. A nebbish nerd that reeked of exploitation and absentee parenting. The kind of blow hard that had forgone oxygen for an air of superiority. But divorce settlements and latent bimbo chasing aside, the self proclaimed mogul had his ass kissed all over the studio lot by peons and starlets alike. Success had come to Terry in the form of boobs and bombs. His motto was "If it doesn't feature half naked women and the Statue Of Liberty exploding in the background, it isn't a movie worth making."
He'd dismissed Jim's short film sight unseen. There was no room for genuine emotions in Hollywood movies, he said. Who wanted their heart tugged, their soul touched, and their life enriched when there were boobs to flap and buildings to blow up? But the rejection of Jim's talents was one thing. The rejection of Jim worth as a human being was another.
Even though geek-friendly movies made Terry millions, he'd forgotten his roots. Terry was a guy that spent his childhood being bullied, then used the same tactics to crush the souls interns and production assistants everywhere.
Some said it was because Terry's lingerie model wife was raking him across the coals in divorce court. Others said he was just born a douche. Either way, whenever Jim saw Terry, he knew an F bomb was never far away.
Except that morning. Zombie Jim didn't have asses to kiss. He didn't have a promotion to worry about. There was no showbiz career that could evaporate at any misstep. All that mattered was feeding his insatiable appetite for brains.
Producing mindless popcorn flicks kept Terry's mind pristinely unused. And Jim couldn't wait to get his teeth on that mushy cranium. Terry was easy prey too. He hadn't even gotten out of his sports car and already he was barking at someone.
Zombie Jim lurched over from the production office to the sitting duck where an eager Agent was phone pitching the mogul a game show called "Brain Surgery With The Stars." But with no boobs and no bombs, it was a no go. "Tell you what. Make it 'Bikini Mud Wrestling With The Stars' and you got a deal," Terry said into his phone.
Zombie Jim had another deal for Terry as he rapt on the drivers side window. Terry meanwhile thought Jim was just a lost extra in search of a clue.
"Hey hey. Hands off the ride. This car is worth more than your soul," Terry said dismissively before returning to his deal making. "I got it," Terry said into his phone. "Bikini Mud Wrestlers Versus Zombies."
Jim's hunger would not be denied though. While Terry dreamed about another ten million dollar payday, Jim broke though the glass and grabbed Terry by his tie. Suddenly Mogul Versus Zombie seemed more appropriate.
And as Jim lunged into the car and ate Terry's face off, it was clear who would win the battle. Terry forgot he was just a producer for a moment and tried to play an action star. In a last ditch effort to save his plastic surgery tweaked face, Terry turned on the car, and put the petal to the metal in reverse to try and shake Jim.
Instead, Zombie Jim just dug his teeth in deeper while Terry lost his sense of direction and plowed his car into the brick wall of the production office. The cars airbags may have saved Terry's life from the crash, but nothing was going to save him from a hungry Zombie.
And with Terry knocked out from the crash, Jim was free to chow down on mogul munchies. Jim savored every bite, leaving Terry looking like a victim from one of his big budget action flicks. But there would be no hero's rescue. No explosive ending. Just a Zombie eating until he reached bone, then moving on to the next douche.
Luckily, there was no shortage of pricks in Hollywood. And they started trickling into Stage 27 for their cattle call.
Zombie Jim lurched over to the Stage and clawed at the door, catching the attention of the local crew. A Security Prick opened the door, acting like God's gift to glorified bouncers.
"Hells no. ‘Zombies Eat Wall Street’ is Stage 28 dawg," the Security Guard said, menacingly.
Jim wasn't just a brain-eater from some schlocky Zombie book to movie retread though. He was the real deal. And some rent-a-cop wasn't going to come between him and pay dirt.
Jim didn't even have time to waste on devouring the Security douche whole. He instead just made quick work of the Guard, clamoring for a more delicious bite to eat.
And Jim wasn't disappointed. Undead Jim stammered backstage on the set of the latest legal cop medical drama "Stiff Justice." The show was about a cop that uses his spare law degree to arrest and prosecute punks everywhere while his medical examiner wife is haunted by the ghosts of the autopsies she's performed.
It was overwrought, derivative, and completely unoriginal. It was also the most popular show in television spawning spin-offs like "Stiff Justice: Boise" and "Stiff Justice: Tuscaloosa."
But with such a cash crop show, the crew was left to exist on cruise control considering zany side projects.
"It's about a renegade pet psychiatrist that turns a pack of rabid beavers loose on Toronto," the Boom Operator said, explaining his spec screenplay to the Script Supervisor. "It's full of pathos. Plus, it's based on a true story."
"And here I thought Canadians were so nice," the Script Supervisor replied.
"Gotta watch out for those wacky beavers. Especially when evil shrinks are on the loose."
It was the kind of mind numbing idea that could only fly in Hollywood. But the number the mind, the tastier the treat. And with rabid beavers on the brain, the Crew was too distracted to defend themselves. Soon Jim had company in the ranks of the undead. But with such wooden actors, it was hard to tell which were alive and which were dead.
As the ranks of the undead army swelled though, one key victim was missing. Trevor King was a man of many mistresses. But it was the undiscovered poon he cared about most. Trevor's casting couch was littered with the lost innocence of aspiring actresses. And that no doubt was where he'd taken his schlong while the cast and crew gossiped about Toronto being toppled by foam-mouthed woodland creatures.
In addition to being a world class man whore, Trevor was also an ass hole of intergalactic proportions. When he was done crushing actresses hopes, he called on Jim to escort them off the lot. Jim tried to cobble together their broken dreams and tell them it was going to be ok, but wasn't sure he believed it himself.
When he wasn't dashing actresses dreams, Trevor was carving out Jim's soul and feeding it to his pet piranhas. Instead of outright beratement, Trevor opted for treating Jim like he was a ghost, invisible--nothing. The great Trevor King was not to be made eye contact with. Not to be talked to unless he talked to you first. And not to be interrupted when in the middle of working his genius.
But when Trevor returned from his casting couch rendezvous, he did not receive quite the hero's welcome he expected. Instead he was greeted by a recently turned cast and crew of flesh-hungry Zombies ready to make him audition for his life. But for the role of undead sacrifice, Trevor was perfect. The army of Zombies overwhelmed Trevor and passed around his limbs as hors d'oevres.
Jim wasn't satisfied with just a producer and director on his menu of recently mutilated however. He had a score to settle with an old douche. So while the cast and crew were satiated with Trevor's scraps, Jim went out lurching for the Best Actor of kills. And he knew just where to find it.
Zombies were too mindless to do anything but follow their base instincts. And for Undead Jim, his instincts led him to the all too familiar double decker trailer of Brent Williams. After all, Brent hadn't used his brain in years so he wouldn't even miss it. Not to mention he referred to himself in the third person.
"Don't you know who I am?" Brent barked inside his trailer as Zombie Jim lurched up to the door. "Brent Williams is built to butt fuck. So if you aren't going to bend over, I'm going to hire another hooker who will."
Neve
r mind that Brent was married to America's Sweetheart. How was the biggest movie star in the world supposed to blue ball it while his wife filmed "Memoir's Of A Lonely Lawn Gnome" in Vancouver? Besides, who was Brent to shut down the cottage escort industry he'd been supporting for years for marital monogamy?
Zombie Jim was about to put an end to the argument between Brent and his hired hussy though. Jim clawed at the trailer door, grunting as he craved Brent's brains.
The big-headed Bozo opened the trailer door expecting his breakfast delivery of blow to have arrived. After all, he couldn’t act in a money about Amish hating space aliens if he wasn't high out of his gourd. But thanks to Zombie Jim, Brent found himself the reluctant star of a new horror movie.
Jim lunged at the foul-mouthed action star. But without a stunt man and multiple takes, the action star proved to be all ego and no hero. Jim's teeth ripped into Brent's neck, digging in for a tasty revenge as Brent fell to the ground.
Undead Jim fell on top of him and used the star as a buffet as Brent screamed like a little girl. But Brent wasn't alone in his terror. Candy Good thought adding Brent Williams to her client list would be a boon for her career. Little did she know bending over would be the least of her worries.
So Candy left the bastard and the Zombie to themselves and made an escape through the trailers bathroom window. Jim meanwhile continued feasting on his former tormentor, turning the biggest movie star in the world into an apocalyptic appetizer. But after the psychological torment Jim had been through, there would be no mercy. And no appendage was spared.
Zombie Jim ripped Brent chiseled limb from limb. It was a bloodbath. And just the undignified end the numb nuts deserved. But Jim wasn't satisfied with a few idle organs.
The apocalypse made mulch of many men. And Brent Williams was no exception. Jim left the hunk looking like a carcass picked over by vultures. But when you were a Zombie, you were never too full to look for your next meal. And in Hollywood, there was no shortage of mindless morons on the menu.
The End.
Zombies Eat Politicians
Ted Thomas was going to die with his dick in his hand and his camera phone ready to capture the action. But even being caught with his pants down, Ted was no worse than your average scumbag politician. Sure he was a professional bullshit artist that hadn't told the truth in ten years. That was just the Washington way. What room was there for principles anyway when a cushy seat in the do nothing Congress was up for grabs?
It was an election year. Which meant if you weren't lying, you weren't trying. But Zombies didn't care about campaign promises that were never going to be kept. They didn't care about the will of the people taking a backseat to the deep pockets of special interest groups. And they sure as hell didn't care about candidates that pretended to relate to the common folk before luxury jetting back to their fully staffed mansions. All the Undead cared about was fresh meat. Which meant the mudslinging was about to take a backseat to blood slinging.
And Molly Francis was more than happy to oblige. Ted thought the pawing at his cracked dressing room door was his new busty intern eager to get his stimulus package. But instead it was Ted's worst nightmare. The apocalypse had come just as Ted was leading in the polls. Hell, even moderates liked the schmuck. But all the pretending to care about the poor was for nothing.
The end of the world had brought the worst kind of nightmare. Someone that scared Ted most. An undead investigative reporter. Molly Francis had made Ted sweat all across the state with her probing questions. But Zombie Molly wanted more than the truth. She wanted his brain.
Most voters would argue elected officials were already numbskulls. But Zombie Molly wanted to be able to eat the evidence for herself. Slimy politico's didn't go down easy though. Years of mudslinging had turned Ted into a shark in a suit. But it was Zombie Molly that smelled blood in the water.
Molly bared her teeth as she stared Ted down, ready to chomp at his bits. But for Ted, it was not the best time to be caught with his pants down. Molly lunged at the douche bag, ready to rip his spleen out. She'd have to settle on a flesh wound to start though. Molly's nails tore into Ted's skin as she tried to wrestle her off him. It felt so unnatural to have a beautiful woman pawing at him that had no interest in the Commander in Chief between his legs.
With the dressing room door open, a number of Staffers walked by. But the sight of candidate mounted by someone half his age just seemed like politics as usual. So the Staffers just carried on with their debate strategies, paying no attention to Zombie Molly taking a bite out of Ted's chest.
Even a slimy weasel like Ted was no match for the Undead though. Zombie Molly's tenacious teeth tore into his neck, making the politician squeal. It was like a Republican wet dream. Not just because The Democratic front runner was having his bowels ripped out, but because it confirmed all their mudslinging. The Democrat was literally a bleeding liberal. Weak on defense. The victim of his own staunch handgun regulations. So open-minded that his brain was about to fall out.
But Molly was a bi-partisan blood sucker. She was not however, one to turn down a good meal. And Ted offered an especially mushy brain. One that had stretched the limits of moral and ethical depravity.
The campaign had suffered it's first casualty. And Molly was going to savor every bite of him. But for Ted, it was the worst of both worlds. The man had spent the last three years focusing grouping, barn storming, stumping, and generally fucking his way up and down the state. He'd assembled a crack team of bullshit artists and sold his soul to dozens of special interests groups. Hell, he'd even gotten poor people both far and wide to actually believe a rich fuck like him actually gave a shit about them.
And with the latest polling numbers, Ted was set to become the next Senator to keep none of his campaign promises on Capitol Hill. And now it was all ruined by some stupid apocalypse. The Universe could have at least let Ted die happy of a heart attack while banging an eager campaign staffer. Or hell, maybe even have some long overdue sex with his wife. Instead Ted was on the wrong end of an all you can eat brain buffet. And Ted was so looking forward to taking fact finding trips to the Caribbean on the taxpayers dime.
As Zombie Molly gobbled Ted's cerebellum, it was clear one politician just wouldn't do. But was it worth even nibbling on the third party candidate, or should she just skip straight to the Republican main course?
Molly Francis had always dreamed of being an investigative reporter. She just didn't think she'd be investigating politicians entrails. Then again, Molly never thought she'd get eaten by a Pundit. There were few things worse than being devoured by a member of the blow hard brigade. But the apocalypse didn't have time to let people die with dignity. It had civilization to topple.
For Molly though, it was just the latest in series of sobering lessons about the drunk with power world of politics. As a gumshoe reporter, it was Molly's job to dig to the heart of a story. But they didn't tell her in journalism school just how many layers of bullshit there were to wade through. Molly was the fresh face on the scene. Too new to realize most candidates would sell their Mother's soul to the oil companies if it meant they could grab a few extra votes. After all, most of the candidates had started their careers as lawyers, so bottom feeding came naturally to them.
So did mudslinging though. "Did you know Ted Thomas hates puppies?" a Jed Jones robocall practically said. "That's why his legislation would give tax cuts to puppy mills." Not to be out smeared, Ted's camp fired back. "Jed Jones clubs baby seals for sport," a Thomas ad alleged. "Those cute little bastards make great appetizers."
It was reckless, filthy, and politics as usual. But who cared about what the candidates actually stood for when they could accuse each other of furry genocide? Then again, what the candidates stood for depended on what the latest polls had to say. God forbid you had principles in an election year.
Molly had gotten tired of the spin. Of only hearing the polished ass kissing of pandering pussy foots. Of being parroted back overly rehearsed sound bites
honed in a focus group. She'd gotten into journalism to uncover the truth. But the sad reality was that elections weren't about Democrats or Republicans. They were about which candidate sucked the least. And in a field filled with such bozo's, competence was optional.
But after months on the beat, Molly was quickly realizing it didn't matter who won the election. Either way, the American public was getting screwed. After all, there were few things as worthless as a politician. These were people that spent entire work weeks arguing and finger pointing, never passed any meaningful legislation, then rewarded themselves with lavish recesses on the tax payers dime. But of course, that was when they weren't busy running for re-election. Because when you were stunningly inadequate for four years, why not re-up for another term?
Molly would have killed for a candidate of substance. Of principles. A bi-partisan bad ass. Instead she had the Democratic Dickhead and the Republican Rodeo Clown. Oh, and that other guy. The one that had no chance of winning although he made a hell of a lot of sense. But the third party candidate couldn't get any airtime on a regular day, no less the end of days. So Zombie Molly lurched off for some red state succulence.
Her appetite did not have to wait long. The debate was set for an intimate town hall gathering. You know, to show how in touch with the common folk the candidates were. But the tight quarters made for a meat market. The talk about a bloodthirsty press was more than a reality. It didn't have to bleed to lead though. The media was making their own breaking news. And ironically, the story of a lifetime was one none of the press was alive to report on.
The level of discourse in the room had devolved into desperate screaming. Campaign staffers and interns alike became converts to the Undead party. It would rule unilaterally and turn politics into a real blood sport. But Molly wasn't about to fight with a dozen other Zombies over the leftover brain matter of a few lowly aides. Not when she could have the Tax Cowboy himself.
