Chapter Seven: The Incredible Okona and His Comic Warriors
1
The Lowlands greenery is a vast landscape shadowed in darkness. Hot fog clings to the trunks of trees. A hot summer night breeze blows. The stench of death rides the breeze; the death is always there now; like the lingering smell of a dead rat; the smell of the dead mixes with fresh flowers, oak, hickory, ash, and the sweet honey suckle. Okona dreams of better days. Days when the world wasn’t a ruinous asshole. When he woke every morning to the sounds of children. The sounds of his wife washing her hands in the bathroom. Her warm night gown taking shape over her petite body. Her blonde hair flowing down her back. The way she hooked her hips to the left as she brushed her slightly coffee stained teeth. The soft smell of her skin as she rubbed HotMoon lotion over a healthy body. Her hands bony, but strong, feminine yet assertive. Proud but always wise. Well… almost always. She had the (eventually fatal) habit of caring more for others more than for herself. The old, the young, the disabled, the mentally ill, retarded, and so on. She lived in a world of volunteerism, where self-sacrifice was the name of the game. He remembers her. Happy thoughts pity his soul and darken his nightmares. Sitting under a green canopy, he remembers her well. The day he met her. She was fourteen, him sixteen. She a dancer at Miss Prancy’s Dance Studio and him a rich, nerdy kid from the George Town. The memory isn’t as vivid as he wishes; such are things when recalling old teen memories. The feeling of seeing her for the first time. The soft texture of her skin looked surreal to him. Her dancer abs and her dancer legs, her long blonde hair, blue eyes, and bright white smile. She was proud of her body. Okona, a youthful, thin and lanky boy, who wore Abercrombie and Finch like it was going out of style. He wore the designer clothes in a awkward kind of way, like they made his skin feel strange. Like he didn’t quite belong in them. He wore them anyway, because that’s what everyone else wore and that’s what the girls liked. At least the hot preppy girls, whom he truly enjoyed seeing in their hot nighty tighties. And Aquiel was all that and bag of chips. Her family might have been Jewish, but they were pillars of the coastal community.
Okona tried to clarify the memory, not just the image, but that feeling inside his stomach. He remembers when she told him she was Jewish and how strange it seemed that a Jew could have blue and blonde hair. He’d later learn that Jews are not a race, in fact he would learn in college that race is a social concept not rooted in biology. But knowing she was a Jew gave her a certain uniqueness. She wasn’t a Christian like everyone else he knew. They were secular and so was he, in spite of his mother’s objections.
“Just keep the atheist stuff to yourself!”
“Keep believing in fairy tales Dear Mother. For me and my house hold, I follow Reason.”
She crackled loudly and drank a sip of her wine. His father sat in a massive leather arm chair reading a novel. His father looked up and said: “He gets it from the Jews. Quite secular.” His father reached over with his right arm and took a coffee mug off the table beside the arm chair. He sipped it, his bifocals maintained their position. “I blame you, Dear. Please teach the boy some Presbyterian manners.” His father had a way of laughing that sounded like an acute burp, especially after he surmised he’d told a fine and dandy joke. The old Man graduated from the Naval Academy, class of 78. He’d spent four years as a JAG officer and then left to start a private firm: Oats & Henry Law.
“Tell me about her, Okona. Everything.” His mother spoke with her normal pretend-I-truly-care tone.
“Did you hear ma?” Okona spoke with his best hilly billy accent, “Gaaaawwwd’s dead!”
His mother cackled again, this time spilling red wine onto her white blouse causing a stain that resembled blood. “Oh my!” She rose up in a slightly drunken manner. She looked at him with a sly smile, then said: “I’m asking Pastor Hendrix to talk to you.”
A few days later Pastor Hendrix rang the bell. His parents were gone and he knew the good pastor was coming. He had plans for him. Clever as they come, Okona enjoyed a good prank. He never pinpointed where this fascination with pranks came from. He simply accepted it and pranked as often as he could. And, gee golly, Pastor Hendrix and his mother gave him a real hung dinger of an opportunity. He believed this would go down in history as one of the best pranks ever. This would bring him fabled YouTube glory. Last year, he’d begged his mother to buy him a Cannon Rebel T5. She did of course and he was quite pleased. Now the camera waited for Pastor Hendrix to walk in.
“Come on Pastor! God’s great glory is calling!” Okona shouted from the second floor balcony stair case. Wildness gleamed from his face. His eyes burned with passion. This was it. His greatest moment. After this the world would bow to his feet and the women would call him the great god from above. At least that’s what Okona’s teen mind saw as the pastor turned the knob. He stood on an old Victorian stair case. Beautiful deep and dark wood shined under the glow a stately dome light. Okona waited with a string in his right hand. The string led to a metal bucket. In the bucket there was—
His parents walked up behind the pastor. He saw their dark frames through the clouded glass cut out at the top of the door, and heard them talking. “I decided its best if we talk together. Everyone.”
“More the merrier!” The pastor said.
My thoughts exactly, Preach! He steadied himself and focused his eyes (glory!) and prepared to tug the steaming pile of horse shit, pig shit, and a variety of others shits. He took them from Old Man Barnaby’s big farm. The farm was large with an assortment of foul, pigs, horses, and smelly shit. Tommy and Mary Barnaby owned the farm. They'd left for a rare vacation; Okona thinks someone said Baltimore. Although he hadn't the slightest idea of what fun existed in Baltimore. He took the shit home and lugged it into the kitchen where he added water, creating a whirling bucket of brown stank water.
The door opened and he pulled the string—
Later that afternoon, sitting in the Sheriff’s office, listening to his father screaming, telling him how lucky he was that no one going to press charges—he wondered if it was all worth it. His parents and the preacher had to go to the hospital and receive a round of shots to protect them from an assortment of diseases that may have picked up from being smothered in feces. The pastor was a forgiving man and agreed to not press charges if the Okona did one year of volunteer service for the church. His mother didn't speak to him for over a month; and had it not been for the one million and counting hits on his YouTube channel, Okona may have regretted the prank. He certainly learned never to put people's health's at such a serious risk by pouring real shit on them; but by the time his one-year service to the church was over, his mother had let the subject drop and he had over a million YouTube subscribers and a number of other prank videos made. He'd signed up for YouTube's ad revenue agreement which partnered with Google ad services; after a two years he was making nearly one hundred thousand dollars and counting.
2
With the money he took his Jewish Princess out to eat, to movies, and during their spring breaks throughout high school, he took her on cruises. In the summer, they'd drive his Mustang convertible up and down the east coast, visiting sea towns and loving life. There was never a question to rather or not they'd marry. By the time they both entered Coastal Carolina University, they were engaged. And by the time they were graduating they'd been married for over two years, had a beautiful home, and were getting ready to give birth. Life was great.
After the birth and things settled down was when Okona decided he wanted something a bit less extravagant than his (by then a million dollars a year) YouTube channel. He'd always make pranks, but he wanted something local, something and somewhere that he could mingle with good people. That's when he decided to buy a comic book store.
“Come on! You know how much I want a comic store. Even more than YouTube fame.”
“This is the first I’m hearing of it. Not much of a good idea to me. How much could you possibly making running a brick and mortar comic store?”
He loved his wife; she didn't care for gods and religions; she cared about helping people, doing her part to make a better world; but she also loved money; after all, money was the god that allowed her to be the caring humanitarian she was.
“It’s not about the money. It’s about the atmosphere. I can still do my pranks and have a really cool place to hang out.”
“I guess I don't really have a choice do I?”
He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “Thats right babe. But hey! I'll give any profit the store makes over the charity of your choice.”
Her eyes lit up, “Really? I knew I married a good guy. Even if you arn't Jewish.”
That night, after putting the baby to bed, they went to the bedroom where passionate love overtook them. Clothes tore to the floor, nails dug into backs, and moans of sweet honey pleasure filled the room. He considered every moment with her a small miracle. His pranks, his entrepreneurial spirit, both paled in comparison to the love he held for his wife.
She was smart and wise, kind and passionate. She was the also the first to tell him not to tangle with Tommy Morrow.
3
When he first met Tommy “Duras” Morrow the sun was high in the sky, burning down on the world. Duras was unloading boxes from the back of a van as Okona walked up. “You really should consider packing up and moving to another town.” Okona said. His arms were crossed and he smiled.
Duras, with his dark brunette hair pulled back into a pony tail turned around, his thick arms muscling a large box with ease. His head bent slightly as he spoke. “Do I know you?”
“I’m the guy that just bought the place across the street. You know. The place you almost put under.”
Duras barked a loud lough and then set the box on the parking lot's asphalt and put his hands on his hips. “And I guess you think you are gonna turn the tide against me, uh?”
“My funds are almost endless these days. This is purely a hobby for me. But I take my hobbies very seriously and I never lose. Never.”
“Why set up shop here? Why not take it somewhere you don't have competition?”
“Cause I like a challenge. I've hired on the old owners. With my cash and determination, you really don't stand a chance, Tom.”
“Jesus! Whats with the adversarial tone, asshole? And the name's Tommy. No boy calls Tom. Friends call me Duras, but you're no friend.”
“Just my way, old man. Just the way I am. You'll see that soon enough. Now enjoy your day.”
Okona had walked off without saying another word. He'd done what he came to do. He stoked the embers that would now turn into a wild hot fire. A fire that would catch the attention of the entire township. He loved a good attention getter, and he decided running Duras out of business and promoting his wife's favorite charity a good plan. A damn good plan.
4
Okona sat alone, high in the trees with a windy breeze flapping against his red cheeks. He rubbed his hand over his bald head. His back rested against the old bark of a tall oak. The green above was thick and lush, but in the night wind, the leaves and branches moved with a windy echo like an invisible wave of power, a hypnotic spell, while he stared, feeling the agony of a man that lost more than his mind wanted to bear, but chooses to march forward, undeterred by the death that surrounds him.
He spoke affirmations, “I am the stealth that moves with the wind. I am the unconquerable, the impenetrable, the redoubtable, the resilient…” Okona spoke with a whirl wind of soft and harsh passion. His words spoke out into the darkness, a whispered prayer to the black night; not far away, hunkered in the darkness, sat two men and one woman just as determined as Okona.
Okona led them and loved them. He fought beside them. He was ready to die for them, and they for him. A bond brought by the pain of a shared lose; the world they once knew eaten alive by black hearts that never beat, the zombie scourge that never wanted a break, and would always roam, seeking, in a never ending hunger, a feast that feeds the white hot burning in their soulless eyes. Eyes that will not stop, save for a bullet, knife, any blunt force available. But let them bite you. Let them cut you and your life will cease to exist. You will rise a hungry heathen of the night and a pasty and hot piece of deathly flesh.
During the day the sun cooks zombie flesh and the stink of the body’s erosion is easy to catch on the wind. A gift form nature.
They've guarded their lives inside these trees ever since the beginning.
Okona sat, staring at a windy wall of darkness, and spoke, “Into this world I plunge, disciplined, motivated, and unstoppable. I am the reckoning for those that stand against decency. I will take this world back! I am the rational, the powerful, the unending fury of stamina and action. I am the Mighty, Incredible Okona.”
Beside him, a stack of comics rested beside a candle with dark smoke rising from the recently lit wick. He smelled the night air, breathing in, letting the air fill his lungs, and then blowing out slowly. He breathed in again, this time in short and fast jerks of air, Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…” Then exhaling, “whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh”
A week had passed since he’d helped Jack Teach escape the bowels of by Duras’s hell. He'd gotten out of there and headed back to the trees for safety; he'd hoped he see Jack and his family again; hoped they were OK, fighting the good fight.
Above him, Leaves and branches shivered. He stared at the timeless bark and let his mind ponder. How long had this tree been here? How longer would they be here? How many good men had walked by this tree? How many bad men? Did such concepts have any real meaning? Good? Bad? Just social constructs. That’s all.
“What do you think? Is all morality nothing more than a social construct?” He asked.
Chris sat not far from him, lying flat on his back. “Sure. May be. What happens when society dies? Who makes the rules? Or their any rules? You’ll go mad thinking about it, that’s for sure. Just survive and try and cling to what’s left of our humanity.”
“What we define as humanity is still only a social construct.” Okona said.
“Then I suppose the strongest group will dominate the construction process.” Andre added. He sat Indian style reading a comic with a small pin light.
“What about the biters?” Okona asked. “Where do they fit into the new social construct?”
“The new Norm. That’s for sure.” Tasha said. She sat, leaning against a tree. Her eyes were closed, breathing in the peace of night.
Silence took over and they stopped talking. The breeze blew again, this time harder than before.
“Do you smell that?” Okona was on his feet now, staring into the night smelling for any scent of death. “I smell a hoard.”
Tasha's boots softly clunked against the log floor. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a tight pony tail. The darkness hid the redness glowing in her cheeks. Her green eyes, elf like pointy ears, slender and firm arms moved over to stand by Okona. “Let em come. I’m ready.” She said.
After a while the smell drifted in another direction. They relaxed, high in the safety of the trees. So far, they'd never met a zombie that could climb a tree.
5
Large nails were driven into the tree’s thick body. Okona’s UTG 547 Law Enforcement Tactical Vest hung, beside it a pair of black FREETOO Men’s Full Finger Tactical Gloves. Perfect Point throwing knives were strapped to his leg. A Smith and Wesson .45 rested on his right hip. And, of course, a sharp and deadly short sword in a black sheath laid waiting to be strapped to his back.
He laid back and stared at the invisible wind blowing the tree tops above and listened to the conversation happening behind him.
“What do you miss more than anything?” It was Andre speaking in his rough smoker's voice (though he'd given it up after the Fever, go figure).
His brother Chris responded, “Easy. Krispy Crème donuts.” Chris's broad shoulders rested against an oak log. His long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His hands connected behind his head and created a cradle for his neck
.
“Still a fatty.” Andre said. Andre was Chris's older brother. He was a short man with a stalk build. His eyes were sharp and his face was lean; his skin the color of blackened ash.
“A one of a kind fat ass.” Chris agreed. “But look at me now. Pure muscle.” He flexed his biceps. They weren’t as much muscle as they were lean pieces of blackened beef with long stretch marks and loose skin, like pieces of black flesh jerky.
“That’s what the end of times will do to a man.” Okona said; still staring into the swell of black night, his eyes locked onto something deep in the night.
“Always with the philosophical gibberish. Can’t you spare us one night?” Tasha said. She had sat down beside Okona.
“Not on your life.” Okona said.
“Indeed!” started Tasha said. The moon light lit her demon green eyes as she spoke, “Okona is born a philosopher. He will die a philosopher.” Her eyes glowed like a mystic’s magic ball. She wore a tight BodyArmor green long sleeve shirt. A scar ran down the right side of her face. In her back pocket, an issue of The Walking Dead graphic novel coiled, snug against her ass. Before the shit hit the fans, Tasha was Tasha Lonely, a sad girl that sketched dark fantasy characters while in her final year of high school; though she was pretty enough to make any high school boy want her.
Tasha focused was on the dark rattling night. Staring out into the windy darkness, she saw her step father’s drunken face laughing while watching a 52 inch Samsung. He sat in a black recliner, shoving Bojangles fried chicken down his throat. He’d never touched her, but the way he looked at her sometime really gave her the fucking creeps. The guy was a career military man working as a recruiter at the local mall. What in god’s name her mom ever saw in him, will always be beyond her comprehension. The man was slender everywhere except his beer gut, that protruded out like a small baby bump. In the darkness, she saw his face laughing like a eerie ghost lost in timeless madness.
Somewhere in the distance a pack of wild dogs howled. The trees shivered with a fresh gust. For nearly five minutes they all sat without saying a word…
Tonya moved closer to Okona and took his hand, “Probably sees a pack of dead heads. I don’t smell anything.”
“Me either.”
Behind them, “Yep. Krispy Crème. What a great place.” Chris said.
Chris wasn’t really thinking about Krispy Crème donuts. The thought of a sweet and warm donut oozing white crème with chocolate on top did nothing to shake the memories of his daughters. His beautiful and wonderfully smart and sweet girls. Seven-year-old twins. They loved Beyoncé and Taylor Swift. Chris loved his girls like they still breathed.
He didn't know it, but his girls were roaming 17 feasting on guts. Chris didn’t see that though. All he saw, while the moon glistened like a shiny round donut across his charcoal black face, was taking them for ice cream at the local Frosty Freeze. Tara enjoyed a hot fudge Sunday while Daria slurped on a vanilla shake. Their youthful eyes radiating confidence and pride.
"The new Star Wars is coming soon, girls."
They enjoyed their desert while tapping messages to girls like Tammy Snidely, who had already grown breasts and was considered hot stuff by the boys at Socastee Middle High. They took the time to stare at their father, giving him a pitied look, one of the identical twins said, "mom says grown men that watch Star Wars are losers."
The other twin chimed, "you DO NOT want people to see you as a loser, dad. I'm just saying..."
Chris had looked away from his girls that day and let them go back to their digital doodling. The last thing he wanted was to think about his wife. He would have never told his daughters, but he hated their mother. The kind of hate that added fifty pounds of fat, high cholesterol, and a blood pressure reading that puts a man on Metoprolol.
His wife was a sharp dressed public prosecutor raised by a father who hated "nigger lovers." Her first act of rebellion was to fall in love with a gangly thug, but after high school, and after her daddy gave her the boot, she'd met Chris in college.
She was gorgeous and blonde, a real delight. Chris studied business (and comics, of course) while she studied history and law. They’d met at a college campus kegger. Loud music had blared and a motley band played drunk on the stand. The house was an old Victorian era mansion. A real splendor to see.
“Hey there.” She’d said that day.
“The names Chris. How about this party?”
“Life could be worse. Here we are enjoying ourselves while little black boys and girls run around naked playing in the fucking sprinklers!” Her face turned red and tears puddled around her eyes.
“Calm down! Jesus Christ!”
She put her hands on her hips and stared him dead in the eye. “You're clearly are a poser.”
“A poser? Really? I’m black!”
“Black raised in a white environment. You’re a token the White Man uses to control the masses! You’re a fake!”
Somehow he'd convinced her to give him her number. And sometime later, he'd made the mistake of convincing her to marry him.
Shit days faded back to dead days…
“I’m sure most of the Krispy Crème aficionados died pretty darn fast.” Andre said. “Fat bastards.”
“I hope they died with a chocolate crème filled donut in their bellies.”
Chris and Andre had opened and operated the Comic Maze. It was their dream since childhood. The smell of fresh clean comics, old comics, and the sight of all the wonderful extras—Batman figurines, Superman posters and shirts, oh glory, did those brothers love their comics.
And so did Tasha. The Comic Maze had been her go to spot.
"Did you guys see the walking dead last night?" Tasha had asked. It was a overcast day; a perfect day for sitting around a comic store shooting the shit with other comic lovers. Not that any of them needed a rainy day to do that; it was as natural as breathing.
"Poor Lorie" Chris said.
"She'll be missed" Andre said.
"Well see her again. Those flash backs are notorious." Tasha added.
The door opened and closed as a man and two little girls walked in. The Bell jangled against the glass door.
"The guy on the bike is hot." Tasha said. She knew his name, but enjoyed pestering her two good buddies.
"He's so dirty though. And his name is Daryl"
"That makes him sexy. He's a sexy, filthy, sweet redneck." She said and smiled. She did think the man was hot. Greasy and full of sex appeal, oh yeah baby; she'd take grimy over clean shaven any day.
"What's a fat black man going to say to that?" Chris said and then crammed half a Krispy Kreme donut into his mouth. The white crème seeped out and he licked it up with his tongue.
“Have you guys read Crossed?” Andre asked.
“Whooooa. Getting a little too nasty.” Chris said.
“Comic book brutality at its best. Gore. Sex. Mayhem. You name it. Crossed has it!” Andre said.
“Not for the kiddies.” Chris said.
A man walked up to the counter with his son, “Crossed? Tell me about it. Oh! Don’t worry about him, he can handle a little gore.”
Chris looked at the man, smiled, and spoke. “OK. If you say so. Well… lets see… there’s some kind of crazy infection that turns people into sex crazed cannibals. Some scenes have women having their heads cleaved while getting raped. Babies get ripped apart.”
“What happened to the days of Super Man and Wonder Woman?” The man said.
“There still here! They can get brutal too” Chris said, his bright brown eyes nearly popped out of his black head. Comics. God he loves his comics. The pages, soft yet course, feed his body the soul food a man needs. He drank from the comic well early in life and never turned back.
At least till 2008. When American politicians took a back seat and let the Wall streeters take the country into a suicidal, economical nosedive. Business dropped. People stopped coming. People couldn’t afford the comics he and his brother so desperately l
oved and needed to sell. Chris's family depended on those comics flying off the shelves at break neck speed. He'd taken a huge mortgage on a massive three story brick country home with two ackers of land. Top of the line security. Easy credit, baby—the tale from the 2000s. People boozing on a never ending supply of easy smeasy buying. Desperate to get their hands on the best consumer goods and real estate. God did people go crazy for new homes.
Chris's wife, or as he as he’d say while in his comic store bubble, The Modern Bitch or the Spending Queen. Her eyes gleamed at the site of anything expensive. She especially loved black diamonds. Quite the spending frenzy took place during the epic spending years of 03 and 04. Knight’s Jewelry benefited mightily, raking in 20000 dollars in jewelry sales from The Modern Bitch. Or, better said, The Modern Bitch’s husband.
The man and his son walked away, exited the double doors, holding one open while another man came in. The man’s head was bald and shiny and he approached the front counter with a smile. “How do you do?” He spoke with the carelessness of a wealthy rearing. He spoke with confidence and absolute ease. He leaned into the counter with grace and cocky kindness. His glorious coffee stained teeth glistened in the sunlight shining through the wide and large rectangle windows. The windows surrounded the double doors, and the double glass doors were adorned with COMIC BOOK (left) and COMIC BOOK (right). From the front doors the store opened up into a rectangle running about one hundred feet. There were comic books covering every inch of the wall, the categories painted in the retro sixties Batman style. The seductive smell of new comic books perfumed the filtered air. Two large air purifiers blurred on either side of the rectangle of comic books. Two fans blew above, casting cool and clean air around those below. The front desk sat to the left of the front door way.
Chris finished licking his fingers, the Krispy glaze swirling in his belly. The bald man in front of him said, “I hear you’re selling this place?”
It was true. After the 08 crisis, he’d lost everything save for the store and the house. He barely kept the house. But it wasn’t just the Wall streeters that destroyed him. From the year 2013 till the Fever, Comic Carnival, right across the street, stole almost all of his customers. Chris said, “True. True. Oh so true. That mean yes.”
“I’ll take it!” He slapped out his hand. “The name’s Okona. I’ll not only pay you what you’re asking. I’d like to hire you as the full time managers.”
The joyous disbelief that crossed the brother's faces told the hard tale of business warfare with Tommy Morrow. The slow but steady demise of their customer base, till both pulled money from savings to keep the store open. Now this bald angel, with his bright and welcoming smile, saved them from financial ruin. Coffee and lattes? How could they compete against that? Thick leather couches and surround sound stereo? Video consoles with leather gamer chairs? Tommy had stacked the deck against the brothers and they grimaced every time he waved a huge and arrogant hand from across the street. Family life strained to near divorce, kids angry they lost tennis and dance. Just the night before, Chris had come home, feeling like he might crawl himself up to the door step. When he walked in, The Modern Bitch's glaring stood waiting. “You fat fuck! Worthless fat bastard!”
SLAP! He never raised a hand back at her and took his beating with as much dignity a grown man could muster under such domestically violent outbursts. “The girls hate you. Know that? Yeah, oh hell yeah, they sure do.” She spoke with sincere joy, her eyes savoring every painful jab. “’Why is daddy a loser?’ HA! That’s what they ask me!”
God kill me, he thought. Make it go away. He wanted to ask her why she didn't use that fancy law degree of her to make some money. But that would only make matters worse. She volunteered her time to the local NAACP chapter; if Chris would suggest she do otherwise; well, he knew better than that. After the onslaught had ended, he retreated to the kitchen. The shiny clean white with blue striped floor, pure marble, stared up at him as he shuffled tirelessly to the refrigerator. His hand slipped weakly around the black handle. He held it there for a moment, sure the worst thing possible will prove true the moment he opened it. He just held the handle and stared at the photos on the fringe. Earlier in the day, his beloved had given the girls a project. He could imagine what was said.
“Your worthless father doesn’t deserve a place in our pictures. Does he?”
“No way!”
“Cut him out!”
And sure enough, his head was missing in all the family photos on the fridge. He still held the fringe handle. Sweat now beaded on his forehead and he breathed in fast and hard. He just knew the worst had happened. The only way this day could go fucking nuclear. He opened the door.
FUCK!!!!!
FUCK!!!!!
FUCK!!!!!
He stared down at the bottom shelf and they were gone. He fell to his knees and cried silently to himself. How could anyone be so cruel?
God hates me. It’s the only reasonable explanation. He hates me. She hates me. The girls hate me. She turned my angels against me. I could go get more. No. She’ll beat me senseless if I try to walk out the door.
The click clash of her high heels came up behind him. “Yeah, fuck wad!” She trotted up and leaned in close to his ear and whispered: “I tossed every last fat cake. All those chocolatey, cream filled donuts—GONE! HAHAHAHAHA!”
He placed his hands on the cold floor. The smell of her perfumed filled the entire room and lingered throughout the house. “Me and Simon are taking the girls to a movie. If you’re lucky. If you’re GOOD! I might bring you home another creamy treat.” A bright smile crossed her face as she swirled around, took the girls, and walked out of his life. He knew what creamy treat she was talking about and it sure the hell wasn't a donut. Simon was some asshole that she was giving her legal services to. Some street hood.
In that moment, sitting on the cold floor, tears drying against his face, he decided he needed a change; and this time he was going to go through with it; he'd leave and go live with his brother. He'd file for divorce and let the cards fall where they may. One more day of this and he'd have to kill himself.
But he never saw his wife and daughters again.
The next day the world as everyone knew it came to an end. The world of bossy, cuckold wives and spoiled daughters was replaced with zombies and paranormal mayhem.
6
Tasha's last name was Mayer and there was a time when her step mother and father tried to set her up with Tommy Ranger. He’d picked her up in an old rusty 85’ Ranger. His real name was Tommy Mathews; but he’d spit a wad of tobacco at your feet if you dared call him anything other than Tommy Ranger. It made her think of Tommy the Green Ranger from the Power Rangers (the original by god!), save the fact that Redneck Tommy (as she so fondly enjoyed saying around her POS step dad). Tommy was was as ugly as a dried plum on a hot summer’s eve roasting away on scolding concrete, stepped on by little kids, and carried off only to peel off and fall into the dark and dank sewers.
He was ugly, that’s the point.
She’d never seen him as uglier than on a hot Saturday in August; right before her senior year was starting. It was the third date and she wore a funeral black dress with shiny black shoes, blindingly polished. Dove white stockings ran up her petite, athletic legs and her hair was pulled back in a skin tightening pink hair bow. The bow glowed under the sun like a pink emerald. Moments before, actually two hours and thirty-three minutes before, she’d sat down in gaming chair and turned her attention to Left 4 Dead 2. She logged into the Steam servers. It was in those moments and those moments only, that she found peace, a sanctuary of fictionalized mayhem. Here she killed, maimed, and slayed. She found true peace and happiness while playing the role of Coach, killing her way through the rush of zombies. “Front! FRONT! Hunter! 12 OCLOCK!”
“I see em! We got it! We got it!”
“Smoker up top!”
“Oh shit! Here they come!” The ominous scream of zombies rushed into her headphones and she and her
team took formation, watching each angle. Nobody was gonna touch her teammates, her friends. Novy, RandyJackson, DETECTIVEJOHNKIMBLE, and of course: FOULSLUT. While killing as FOULSLUT nothing could stop her. They played advanced team matches. And if you know anything about the Left for Dead franchise—advanced team matches are not for weak and cowardly gamer; its a testing ground for those that wanted to prove just how premium bad ass they really were.
No cold lockers at school. No shitty rich kids. No snot nosed prissy whores to deal with.
“Bitches.” She spoke after the match, “Just dirty whores.”
“Don’t let em bother ya!” DETECTIVEJOHNKIMBLE said in a thick southern accent. The all caps were on purpose. “Life’s a dance, ya learn as ya go. What do ya say we finish up with a round of Survival?”
“OK. I’ve got one more then I’m out.” She said.
“Prolly means at least two more.”
“No, I’ve an appointment with my destiny. At least my parent’s version.”
“Yo! You gotta mop that shit! Finish the floor with his face!” Said RandyJackson. Yes, that Randy Jackson; the famous consumer of that doo doo weed; though on this particular day Andrew was not over to enjoy it with him; and though Tasha new Randy lived close by, they'd never actual thought it was necessary to meet in person.
“I know.”
“GODDMAN! Fuck, yo! I hate when girls be frontin with rednecks! Uh! Uh! Uh!” He mocked the southern accent then blurted, “but yeah, you better drop that fool. You know yous my wife.”
“No way cowboy! She’s ridin back into my stable.” DECTECTIVEJOHNKIMBLE said.
“Oh Jeez le weez… boys… I’m totally not worth it.”
“Shit! You da bomb!”
“My heart jiggles every time you speak.” DECTECTIVEJOHNKIMBLE said.
“Jiggles?! WTF, YO! Retarded hillybilly!”
The only sound that came back over the speaker was harsh coughs, caused by a bong rip of some of that doo doo weed. Then, “FUCK YEAH, LETS DO IT! SURVINAL BITCHES!”
And, as always, Novy was silent and mostly ignored. Most of the time, they forgot she was even there. All that mattered was that she kicked some serious ass once the game started.
Tasha sat staring at screen as the next map slowly loaded. She took off her head phones and let them fall over the back of her neck. She reached over and took a glass of three-hour old Mountain Dew and drank it in gulps. The green liquid streamed down her gullet and filled her stomach with the sweet nectar of gamers: caffeine.
The doorbell rang. She looked at her watch. Grim agony clutched her soul. She’d forgotten all about Redneck Ranger. He was right on time. She groaned loudly and rose from her chair like a dead girl standing. Downstairs, the sound of Riker Mayer (oh, THIS is my beloved stepdaddy, I’m pretty sure he wants to fuck me!) opening the door and greeting his chosen man with a firm handshake and a stupid joke (you know what a probate is? A professional masturbator! HA! HA! HA!).
Not this time. This time the animated redneck, with spittle flying into Redneck Ranger’s face, said: “Gonna make me proud son?” He spoke with eloquent perversity. The Redneck Ranger had looked shyly at the floor for a moment, cheeks glowing red. “Oh hell boy! I’m just fuckin with ya!” Riker moved in close. “But just in case...” He strangely and erotically forced a Trojan condom into Redneck Ranger’s tight jean pocket. The younger boy forced himself to let the man shove the condone deep, with two fingers. Then felt the fingers slip out. The boy looked more than embarrassed; he was red as roses. Redneck Ranger shivered while Tonya watched. She wondered to herself: Gay. Oh yes. Which one is gayer? Step dad.
She reconsidered: may be a tie.
She walked over to the upstairs bannister and shouted in a modest and temperate tone, “I’’ll be down in just a minute Tommy.” She heard Riker crack another joke before erupting in caricature like laughter, probably overcompensating for a lack of something. She’d monitored his pornography use regularly. The old man loved, well, HER. At least if the only qualifier is a cute, petite body, aged 18. She’d thought about turning him in; but the porn wasn’t illegal; only perverted and he’d never laid a hand on her, only his glaring eyes. Like the way he’d watch her while she went for a glass of milk only in her towel. She could feel his dark and hard eyes examining her, wanting to shred of her virginity. He never touched her though.
The knowledge of a forty-five-year-old man wanking while fantasizing over her dripping wet, freshly showered body—kinda gave her the creeps. Better to monitor and feel puky, then not know what those crazy old man eyes viewed every night at ten o clock after her mother had gone to bed.
7
Gun blasts and what sounded like artillery shells snapped Tasha and the rest of the Comic Warriors out of whatever day dream slumber they were in. They immediately grabbed their weapons and armed themselves. The sounds were coming from a little way off. Somewhere in the dark trees a war had started.