I realise a lot of people have been subscribing to this blog. Yes! This same one! And I must say, It’s a very pleasant surprise, I can’t imagine there are actual people out there who want to read my stuff as soon as it’s out. It fucking freaks me out.
Anyway, I thought and thought, twirling ideas in my mind, on how I could reward my followers (both old and new), since, I must confess, I’m very selfish with my post-Farafina stories. Haven’t posted any here. Anyway, I decided to post a longer excerpt of my Zombie story. It’s still untitled, unfinished, and unedited (It’s post-Farafina). I plead with you to overlook any grammatical error you encounter (which you’re sure to), and just enjoy the story. Thank you for subscribing to my blog. I hope I never let you down.
Being a zombie in a third world region is very difficult. To be honest, being anything in a third world region is difficult. But, a zombie, the scum of the earth, is even worse on the discrimination scale than being a woman or a homosexual.
I used to work as a carder at one of the few banks that obeyed the world government directive to hire zombies. Of course, the world government did not refer to us as zombies in the memo; the memo said Slowlings, the politically correct term to refer to us as. But it’s a third world region – it wouldn’t be if it were politically correct.
I got fired from my job when some customer threw a tantrum after I bit him. Now don’t get yourself all worked up; it was no fault of mine, really. I was seated, trying my best to attend to him. He had his currency card maxed out–how does anyone empty their currency card really–and I was typing as fast as I could on the laptop to confirm his identity, and fill his currency card with data. He began hissing, and even though I heard him clearly–he did it like four times–I totally ignored him, and continued typing. Then he asked if I could go a bit faster, and when I asked if he would have said the same if it were my colleague with down syndrome attending to him, he just hissed at me. I mean, this fucking ugly dude with discoloured eyes was being rude for no reason at all. I just ignored him and continued on my way. My calmness is the sea. That was until he leapt to his feet, saying something about me hunting and pecking the keyboard, and grazed his hands against the stone walls. Now, there are a lot of ways to provoke a zombie–I’m permitted to use that word for the same reason a black man is allowed to say nigga–but exposed blood will certainly get us agitated. You can hiss and I’ll compose myself. You can scream at me and I’ll continue typing (don’t try it with the others though). You can even spit at me – lol. I’m joking. I’ll eat you. Anyway, so this guy injures himself, and instead of just sprinting away, he stands there, casting furtive glances at me. He holds up his arm, stands on that same spot, and begins darting his eyes between me and his bloodied arm with his mouth wide open.
I smell the blood before I see it. I am still typing on my computer when I smell the sweet smell of blood iron. In distress, my nose is a shark. I cast my eyes toward him and see his mouth agape. I see his bleeding arm and inhale deeply. I stand and he says no. Well, now I know he says no but at that moment I just see his lips move. My hunger is a charging bear. I climb over my table and over the iron bar separating me from him, and he still stands there, gaping at me. He obviously wants this as much as I do. He must be one of those zombie groupies I only hear about but have never encountered. I am grabbing his arm and he doesn’t resist. He just stares and murmur inaudibly. The graze is located just beneath his elbow. I lick my lips, my blue tongue dumping a wad of spittle on his black arm. I stare at the crimson blood – oh, so beautiful. Been a while, I whisper. I lick, then bite. He screams, the sound loud enough to pierce walls. I hear people rush in. I’m on the ground with several pairs–black, white, red–of feet kicking at me. What have I done, I think as I lay in a fetal position and wrap my overalls against myself.
So I got summoned to my supervisor’s office. He tells me to sit and bursts into some speech about how I’ve been a good enough employee, but what I have done is acceptable. He says they aren’t firing me because I’m a Slowling, but because I bit a customer. I wanted to tell him I bit the customer because I am a Slowling. I wanted to say the customer was being a bitch and I composed myself as much as I could, even after he disrespected me by hissing. I wanted to tell him I could not possibly be expected to let go of my natural reflexes because I’m working at some bank and getting paid the minimum wage. But I just stare at him, long locks of hair hanging from the back of his head and none at the front, and wonder what it would feel like to bite off those chubby lips I had so often heard churn out the words “fucking zombie” anytime he thought any of us was out of earshot. I bottle my hate. Then he goes on to tell me he wouldn’t be writing me a recommendation based on the grounds on which I have been let go. The bottle’s cap escapes away; my rage is a force. I lose it. I start to scream–well, growl is more like it–about how he’s refusing to write me a recommendation note because he’s a zombie hater, a fucking molluscophobe. He begs me to quiet down, and says something about me still getting my severance pay, but at this point i just snort. I don’t need their fucking severance pay, I didn’t even need this job, I was only here because idleness makes me really hungry. And I tell him. Of course, I tell him. I’m not one who’s fine with being perceived as a bitch. So I say “I don’t need your fucking pay,” spittle drooling down my chin like it so often does when I get agitated. He sees this and cowers underneath his desk, pleading for me to calm down. The sight makes me want to laugh, and I do. Suppressing my actions have been a lot more difficult since this zombie thing. I ask him for my severance pay and he peeps out from beneath the desk where he is writhing, and asks for my currency card. I retrieve it from my overall pocket and hand it over to him. He stands to input my pin number unto his system so he can transfer some data points. 7000, he says. I try to hiss, but my lips make a smacking noise instead. I decide to push my luck and tell him to better write me that recommendation note, and he types randomly into his system. He turns it for me to see, and I’m too on the edge to see anything but blue letterings on a black screen; I know he’s going to withdraw it as soon as I’m gone. I growl that it’s fine, snatch my currency card that he’s been stretching towards me, and saunter out his office. When I get to his long, heavy door, I turn right back, look into his blue and green eyes, and say “Fuck you bitches,” – just for effect.
I am walking to my shelter from work, and I come across the news vendor. I tap my data card unto the news tab, and I see him slobbering, a patch in his light blue shirt gone navy from the fluids. I growl, letting him know I’m a fellow zombie. Can’t have a fool with a terrible sense of smell leave bite marks on me. I enlarge my data card, and I’m confronted with the headlines: Taxes on pets to fall in Texabama Region; Brothers and father run a sheep brothel in Wales Region; Communications Ministry to begin enforcing noise laws in Sub Saharan Africa. I maximise the second and I’m reading about two brothers, not zombies, and their father, also not a zombie, who were caught running a sheep brothel out of their home in Wales. A fucking sheep brothel? I say to myself. I even chuckle a little. The news says people would log into their website (yes. Yes! Yes, they have a fucking website) which is on the deep web (so much stress to fuck a fucking sheep!) and would browse through hundreds of sheep, looking for one they find the most attractive. They’d pick a sheep, book maybe an hour or two with the sheep, then drive all the way to the brothel and stick their tiny (these are white people, afterall) peckers into the sheep of their choice. I guess my biggest problem is: How the fuck do you choose between a hundred sheep? I imagine they just hand one over to you, you stick your penis in, pump for 50 seconds–three thrusts maybe–and you’re out. Are there different breeds that different people find attractive? I mean, come the fuck on! It’s sheep! I then see that a dwarfed goat of some sort was in the brothel. And they say third world countries are primitive, is this fucking 2014? I wonder if the sheep gets to retire, you know, once they’re old. Perhaps they get sold as premium meat, or sausages. Haha. Premium meat! In the news I read this, the faces of the sheeps are censored, you know, to protect their identity. My laughter is a waterfall, bursting out of me with no regard. My data card falls to the floor, and in my attempt to rescue it, I fall to the floor with it, one tooth falling off and with me. I’m laughing so hard, I don’t notice. I just roll.