A Hot Zombie Mess

A HOT ZOMBIE MESS

Michelle Salts

A Hot Zombie Mess

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Michelle Salts

This book is available in print at most online retailers

To Greg, for laughing with my book and not at it.

To Henry Rollins, for introducing me to the term pussy whip (for the lactose intolerant or otherwise).

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

About the Author

Chapter 1

I’d like to measure our success by more than how much food assholes throw at us.

The lights were dim and a smoky haze hung over the bar. Five dark figures stood on the tiny stage. The singer caressed the microphone with his long fingers, the nails painted onyx. He ran a hand through his long black hair as he crooned the lyrics to the song.

The bassist stood stiffly along one side of the stage, rendered virtually immobile by the tangle of wires that mimicked vines and roots on a jungle floor. The guitar player—the lone female—had also long since abandoned the notion of giving an animated performance, and so she stood on the opposite side of the stage looking dejected and defeated. The keyboardist and drummer faded into the background.

The singer let out a howl, a poet’s cry of pain and sorrow.

Shut up! We’re trying to hear the game! a young man in a purple and gold jersey hollered. His friends laughed and high-fived him.

The singer’s eyes narrowed and he again howled the chorus.

Hey, faggot, we told you to shut up! someone called out.

Yeah, get off the stage, freaks!

The band finished the song. Luckily it was the final song of their short set.

Thank you. You’ve been a great crowd, the singer said sarcastically.

Only one individual in the audience clapped—a balding, middle-aged man named Larry who showed up to most of the band’s gigs and was the only thing they had resembling an actual fan.

Freeeeeaks! a boy in a polo shirt, khakis, and a baseball cap yelled out as the band exited the stage.

Fucking hell, Rob, the guitarist said once safely backstage. When you booked us, did you know there was going to be a game tonight?

No, I didn’t think to check.

Well, next time, could you please do that? Only an idiot would book us for a game night this close to campus, Raven said.

First off, until we leave the bar, it’s Mori. And secondly, sorry I’m not the genius you are. I make dumb mistakes sometimes, okay?

"You’re always making dumb mistakes and fucking things up … Rob. That’s your problem. That’s the band’s problem too. We’d probably be playing in New Orleans by now if I was in charge. Playing at clubs where they actually appreciate us instead of playing frat boy sports bars in this dump of a town. You know it’s true, Mori. Or is it Moron? I don’t know. They sound so close to each other."

"You think you can do a better job? Fine. Then by all means, be my guest, Tiffany."

I told you never to fucking call me that! I hate that name. What kind of a name is Tiffany for a dark soul such as mine?

Mori rolled his eyes. A dark soul that obsessively videotaped Hercules and Xena every week, he thought.

You know, I didn’t think tonight was so bad. I mean, we’ve seen a lot worse. Most of the people were too busy watching the game to pay attention to us. Nobody even bothered throwing any food at us tonight, so that’s a win, right? the drummer, Count Necronymous, said.

I’d like to measure our success by more than how much food assholes throw at us, Mori said.

You wanna know what I think? I want to play a show where I’m not called a fag. Just once. You think I don’t already get called that enough at school? the keyboardist, Demento, said. With full stage makeup he could pass for his real age, but otherwise he didn’t look a day over fourteen.

But I thought you were a fag, mate. You don’t seem to fancy any girls, so that means you’re a butt plug, right? said the bassist, Lucifus.

Hamish, I swear one day I’m going to kick your ass all the way back down to Australia if you don’t shut the fuck up.

I’m from New Zealand, you little tampon. How many times do I have to explain that to you? Lucifus asked.

Australia, New Zealand, whatever. Nobody cares about your crappy little country anyways.

You talk shit about my homeland one more time and I’ll take you down there myself and let those poor, lonely sheep farmers have their way with your cute little ass, Lucifus said, pinching Demento’s butt cheeks through his shiny, black vinyl pants.

Mori rubbed his temples. Can you guys please cut it out? I’m tired, I’m frustrated, I just want to pack up the gear and go home ‘cause unlike some of you, I’ve got to get up early in the morning and go to work, okay? I’m tired. I just want to go home and get some sleep.

Oh, great Mori, let me play you the world’s tiniest violin, Lucifus joked, holding his arms out and playing the invisible miniature instrument.

I always heard Kiwis were nice people. Like Canadians. But you’re a real dick sometimes, Mori said.

Yeah, people tell me that. Common misperception about us Kiwis. I’m trying to do my part to break that cultural stereotype.

Mori ground his teeth together to keep from starting another argument. Come on, let’s please just get our equipment and get the hell out of here.

The crowd in the bar cheered as their team put another three points on the scoreboard.

Chapter 2

I gotta get outta here. It’s one of those mornings.

It wasn’t even 10:30 in the morning, but the day felt like it should have been over ages ago. This feeling was becoming a regular part of his workday, which Mori was getting used to, but today he needed caffeine. Now.

He took off his headset and walked to the breakroom to pour himself a cup of black coffee into a small Styrofoam cup. He didn’t like the cheap, diluted liquid that passed for coffee around there, but it was free and readily available and he was going to lose his mind if he didn’t drink some of it.

He took a sip of the bitter stuff as he looked out the small window in the breakroom to watch a ship crawl along the muddy waters of the Mississippi. He looked down into the coffee cup, then back out onto the river. Give it a few more years and the Mississippi wouldn’t look so different from his coffee. After pondering issues of pollution and environmental sustainability, Mori returned to his cubicle in the windowless room, set his coffee down on his desk, and pulled his headset back on.

Tech Support, this is Rob speaking, how can I help you? he said in the warmest and friendliest voice he could muster.

Hello? an elderly woman croaked.

Yes, this is Tech Support. How can I help you?

Yes, dear. Oh, I’m having problems with the new computer my daughter and son-in-law just bought for me.

Okay, ma’am, what seems to be the problem?

The screen … it’s all black. I can’t see anything on it.

Okay, ma’am, have you checked to make sure the computer is turned on?

Well, I assume so. I don’t think I’ve touched anything that I shouldn’t.

There’s probably a button on the front of your computer that you can push and it turns the computer on and off. If that button is lit up green, the computer is on.

Oh, dear, my eyesight’s so poor I couldn’t tell if it’s on or not.

Mori sighed and curled his lips into a deep frown. Not another one of these today. While he waited for the octogenarian to check that her computer was indeed plugged in and turned on, he doodled the band’s logo on a neon pink Post-It.

He realized two things. First, the band’s logo didn’t look nearly so morbid against hot pink, and second, he needed to visit the supply closet to do some shopping. Lucifus’s dedicated practice to making origami animals completely wiped out the last pack of sticky notes Mori had smuggled home. It was bad enough Lucifus kept wasting the company-subsidized Post-Its on iridescent miniature giraffes and things, but always the jokester, Mori found those little paper animals in his underwear drawer, in his closet, glued to his microphone stand, creepily awaiting him in the shower, guarding the last of the milk in the refrigerator, and other such nonsense.

Finally the old woman located her surge protector, flipped the switch, and the green light came on. The old lady whooped and hollered in excitement. My little Bootsie must have stepped on it. He’s always getting into places he shouldn’t be. Just last week I found him up at the top of my closet and I couldn’t reach up and get him down because of my rheumatism …

Mori angrily scratched out the logo on the Post-It, leaned forward, and hit his desk face first. He banged his forehead several times on the cool, faux wood finish as the old woman continued to tell stories about her cat, her rheumatism, and the two ungrateful grandchildren who never called her. When Mori finally hung up it was 11:00.

Jesus … fucking … Christ, he muttered, his head buried in his arms.

Charlene popped up from her cubicle and searched around, gopher-like, for signs of life in Mori’s cramped workspace.

Hey, Rob?

Mori lifted his head up and met her eyes.

What was that all about? she asked.

Goddamn cat.

A cat? she asked.

Goddamn cat stepped on the surge protector and turned it off. And then the senile old bat wouldn’t get off the phone.

Ha! Charlene laughed. Aren’t old people the worst? Everyone over the age of, like, fifty shouldn’t be allowed to use a computer. They just end up calling us with stupid shit and wasting our time.

Preaching to the choir, Mori said. Can you do me a favor? If Gary comes by, tell him I’ve gone to lunch. I gotta get outta here. It’s one of those mornings.

Mori drove his old, battered (and not very gothic) Nissan Sentra through potholed streets to the house he’d been renting for the past several years. It was comfortable enough on the inside, but from the outside it looked like a crack house falling further into ruin due to age, heat, humidity, and the occasional hurricane.

Mori unlocked the burglar bar door first and then the aged, termite infested wooden door. The sight of Lucifus and Count Necronymous, both sitting in the living room in their underwear and staring at the TV, greeted him.

"Hey, man,