Friday, April 07, 2006

Zombie Writer by Mike Philbin

Destro
I'm not angry.

I'm not bitter.

I'm not twisted.

Even if all the other zombies in my catchment zone, my infection radius, have proper jobs like skull-cracker, limb-dislocator, eye-skewerer, dis-emboweller. Oh yeah, all the classy jobs. Me, I got lumbered with this what-you-call drunken bloodlust to whack my cold black-nailed fingertips at a laptop and tippety-tap out my undead sentence.

I have to endure them knocking on my door in the dead of night, my post-mortal mates, suffer their guttural moans of cooome plaaay wiiith uuuuuuuus, buuudy.

I can hear them squabbling about me, saying I ain't got it no more. Laugh at that when did I ever have it? When did anyone in my undead family ever have it? We're like the ultimate zombie soap opera round our house of an evening, eh?

Telly's on, my undead family of two big stupid bloated brothers and a fat lazy bloated sister, my bloated mam and dad, granddad and some tart from down the way are festering in their couches stained all sorts of grim colours from all the seepage of bodily fluids from the rot.

Even the family greyhound, all's he fuckin' does is fart and lick his undead balls, the lucky bugger.

I shout at them, I do - I shout at them in my dull slow way like my once-living mother used to shout at me as a child, Whyyyyy doooon't yoooooouuuuuuu gooooooo ooooouuuut aaaaaaand kiiiiiiill sooooooome fuuuuuuucking mooooooortaaaaals?

Well that's what I mean to say. But I've never been the big talker of the family and all my great fascist commands spill out of my moldy face like a stinking egg yolk. A tobacco slur of dribble. A morphine mispronunciation of g.a.k. I'd might as well have no voice.

So I'll retire to my keyboard to pour more of me zombie thoughts out onto discoloured velum.

I'll be famous one day. The first thinking zombie, I can see it now in rotting Siamese cat entrails strung across a ribcage of Pope Pius the Fifth. I'll be the top dog intellectual in a dying literary race. Don't laugh at me, I'm serious, there's a future in undead cerebral real estate.

Look, shamble over here wi' me for a New Orleans minute and I'll show you. Look at me there in me pictures, I were a right grand lookin' mortal. Fucking zombie disease was the worst thing that could have happened to me. All those zombie lusts and stomach aching needs all churnin' around in my guts.

Brains!

Brains aren't for eating, fer fuck's sake, they're for using.

With our rotting zombie brains we can imagine whole societies merged together not in one dull grey gunk like they are now; the street shamblers; the grave-yard ambushers; the mall marathon runners forever stalking the latest in mortal mother fuckery. We're all connected you know, at the viral level, we're all of the same source. We are the living magic. Ah, but that sorta propaganda's a waste of your time and a waste of my time. So what is it I do?

Being a zombie writer is all about the excision of criminal intent.

Okay, I know, I should slow down a bit there. Got a bit above myself. Went waaaaaaaay beyond your understanding. I know. So, call me on it. Get out your great big fucking lawyer stick and have at my skull for trying to make a difference to the eternal foot scrape. It would be a mercy killing, let me assure you.

The Excision of Criminal Intent:

Yeah, it looks much better as a subtitle in its own right. I'm not talking about zombie laws and shit. I'm not talking about a whole new societal refit. This isn't about the artist renaissance of the zombie ethos as creative epic. That sorta shite's not worth a wet fart in a paper-thin skullpan.

This is about what it means to be a zombie in the 21st century, don't you understand what it means to want that camaraderie with people you wouldn't piss on if they were on fire.

Share in that feeding frenzy when your peristaltics have failed you a loooooong time ago and all the shit you stuff your face with falls out every time you bend down to retie your piss sodden shoe lace. It's about the day-to-day business of never quite rotting to your core. But it's also about the magic, god dammit. It's about the supernatural gift.

I mean, think about it, technically speaking us zombies are eternal, that's what separates us from the mortals.

Eternal, mortal, do you see the polar opposite?

Well, there aren't many mortals left to find. Our zombie sensors know a mortal brain when one's in range. But, of late, not a single sniff. It's the same story from around our island nation. Fewer and fewer zombie news reporters have any new leads. I mean, it's not difficult, we have zombie agents in almost every town of every district. We don't move fast, admittedly, we're not marathon runners, but we got time on our side. We can move at our snail's pace until Hell freezes over.

But that's not what it's about. it's like when the kids leave home. You know, if you can remember back all that time to when you were mortal. Your kids leave home and you and your spouse haven't the foggiest idea what to do with your time. Same with us zombies, only for us the dilemma is multiplied a million-fold.

I say we need a zombie revolution. I mean I'm not Karl Marx nor nothin' but imagine a trillion of our kind marching proudly down Parliament Street demonstrating for our free will.

But that�s a joke, right?

What free will? What is Free Will, is it the urge to rip through living flesh? Is that it? There�d be no government to hear our case � no higher authority to appeal to.

In the meantime, we slowly deteriorate over the millennia, watching TV � the only thing we left ourselves, the only remaining social structure.

What�s the half-life of zombie flesh? Has anyone looked into that? There are so many unanswered questions and so many years to research them � if only we could retain, you know, keep focus, zero in on the truth. Officially, I didn�t mean the excision of criminal intent, you knew that right, that�s fuckin� meaningless, innit? I actually meant the excision of truth.

The Excision of Truth:

There you go, the only kosher way to examine the gory cross-section of our undead dissertation, yeah another fucking subtitle.

Sorry, am I repeating myself?

We undead tend to do that.

The paths in the rotting brain ossify and there�s no more memory, you live in an eternal gut ache with no salvation. Like you�re not just gonna get better, no matter how hard you pray to whichever Omniscience you believe is gonna pull you out of the fire. Zombies, get thee behind me � a.k.a. you�re in for the duration, so you�d better stop kickin� that undead donkey. You know what rocks your boat, my animated black congealments.

But what is it we need?

Well, isn�t it obvious?

Truth.

Every entity that inhabits this planet probably has the same thought, �We want the truth.� No bullshit. No propaganda. No societal deceit. No political machinations. No misdirection. No slight of hand. Just the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

But what is the zombie truth? Or what is the truth to a zombie writer like me?

We are the future of the human race.

An undead world where nothing ever changes except the weather.

That is something we have to come to terms with, something we have to teach each other on the zombie ether. We must destroy all other forms of entertainment. The old ways must be put to the sword. Only those things that remind us of our eternal emptiness must prevail. There is no truth beyond this and this is the message I must continue to broadcast to my audience.

I�ve been studying the esoteric arts, doing my research (yes, I can read - how dare you be so rude).

Tonight I start my first wave of promotion.

Let the truth spread through your rotting brainlobes, my undead friends and colleagues.

We must forget the mortal realm, that time is past and only total and unequivocal acceptance of our braindead heritage will be our succour.

It�s not my fault I�m a zombie writer � please, don�t mock me. It�s hard enough squeezing precious credence out of the reading man�s pocket as it is.

I�m a zombie writer, nothing wrong with that in my fuckin� book.

It�s what I do.

Deal with it, scumholes.



THE END.

  • MIKE PHILBIN'S WEBSITE

  • Chimericana Books
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