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    Zombies and Vampires and Tooth Fairies, Oh My!
    Zombies and Vampires and Tooth Fairies, Oh My!
    Zombies and Vampires and Tooth Fairies, Oh My!
    Ebook127 pages1 hour

    Zombies and Vampires and Tooth Fairies, Oh My!

    By Bennie Grezlik

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    About this ebook

    This collection of SF, horror, and urban fantasy stories will keep you up at night long past the time you finished reading them. They cover everything from bubba zombies to evil tooth fairies, with a dollop of humor to lighten the load. Don't wait for Halloween to read these stories!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBennie Grezlik
    Release dateMay 27, 2015
    ISBN9781310148309
    Zombies and Vampires and Tooth Fairies, Oh My!
    Author

    Bennie Grezlik

    Bennie Grezlik has been writing and publishing lies since 1978. In the last few years, Stonegarden.net has released three of his novels, the latest being The Search For Earth. He has written stories for a number of anthologies, the most notable being a series of zombie tales for Yard Dog Press. He also wrote and produced for about five years the Skip Thruster, Space Detective plays that were brought to life for ApolloCon by enthusiastic actors, otherwise known as fans. Skip Thruster radio plays were first aired on KPFT, Houston.In another life back in the psychedelic sixties, Bennie was a technician at the Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston from 1966, through 1969. You read that title correctly. This was before the center was named for its mentor, Lyndon B. Johnson. And, yes, Bennie used a slide rule because it was sexy and because it was B.C. (Before Calculators).

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      Book preview

      Zombies and Vampires and Tooth Fairies, Oh My! - Bennie Grezlik

      Zombies and Vampires and Tooth Fairies, Oh My!

      More Twisted Tales from a Twisted Mind

      Bennie Grezlik

      SMASHWORDS EDITION

      * * * * *

      PUBLISHED BY:

      Bennie Grezlik on Smashwords

      More Twisted Tales from a Twisted Mind

      Copyright © 2015 by Bennie Grezlik

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Thank you for downloading this eBook. Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

      This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

      * * * * *

      Dedication

      To my readers because I am not a writer unless you are a reader. Thank you.

      Bubba Rap

      John-Boy, get down offin' that pipe rack. You an' me are wanted at the front office.

      John-Boy looked down at his paw. He didn't think of himself as John-Boy. He wanted everyone to call him Tex, but no one would do it, especially paw.

      I done hear'd ya callin', Paw, but gimme a minute, I gotta crawl.

      John-Boy inched his way down the pipe rack scaffolding. When he stepped onto the concrete apron of the ethylene production unit, he danced around a puddle. Those puddles held God-knows-what chemical brews. They would eat up a good pair of Red Wing work boots in three months if you weren't careful. John-Boy faced his father.

      Just for me, John-Boy, can you cut the rap-crap when we get to the office? I think Jim-Bob got somethin' important in mind fer ya.

      John-Boy shrugged. Now that his feet were on solid ground, he felt them move to the beat that bounced around in his head every waking moment.

      "Paw, you know I tried,

      an' I ain't lied,

      to make my lines

      without no rhymes.

      But my black soul

      makes ma tongue roll

      in measured beat

      that moves ma feet.

      You most of all

      should dig my call."

      When John-Boy's feet stopped moving, he cut a fart that complemented the last two beats of the rap.

      Paw-Boy shook his head. Shit, John-Boy, you don't have to tell me we're black. But I raised you with these white folks here at the plant. They good folks, too. They treat us fair, ya gotta admit. We likes everything they like, right down to barbequed ribs smothered in Texas Red. Yeah, an' yer barbequed beans, too, which I wish you'd eat a smidgen less before ya gas me outa our trailer. I'm not askin' ya to be somethin' yer not. Jis make me proud, okay?

      John-Boy smiled and nodded.

      "You're my Paw

      an' that's the law.

      My attention I'll pay

      to what The Man has to say."

      Another thing, said Paw-Boy. You got a shirt to put on over that little leather vest? Some of the men kind of take you showin' off your muscles the wrong way, if you get my drift.

      "Ain't got no shirt to wear,

      but I got opinions to spare

      'bout why my bicepts

      bother their precepts."

      Yeah, I guess you do. Okay, you my boy, an' I love ya the way you is, so let's go.

      They climbed into Paw-Boy's company pickup with the yellow and black Yokum Oil logo and drove the half-mile between the cracking units of Refinery number three to the front office.

      When John-Boy and Paw-Boy walked into the office, they noticed that every foreman in the plant was there, plus a bunch of men that neither of them recognized. The strangers wore hardhats with different logos and colors than the yellow and black stripes of Yokum Oil.

      Jim-Bob, a big man with wide shoulders, rose from where he'd been sitting on the corner of the manager's desk.

      We been waitin' fer ya, Paw-Boy and John-Boy. We got foremen here representin' every refinery up and down the Houston ship channel. These boys agreed that I would represent their interests because Yokum number three is the biggest refinery on the channel.

      Everybody waited while Jim-Bob paused to stuff his cheek with a fresh pinch of Beechnut.

      Everybody knows things ain't been the same ever since that Yuppy 25 virus hit a few months ago. None of us seem to have been affected much, except that limp-wristed manager we had. I had to shoot him myself when he went for my throat, the little prick. Yes sir, we been doin' about normal refinery business, if you don't count havin' to patrol the fence for those yuppie zombies.

      They make good target practice, Jim-Bob, said one of the foremen from another plant. Everyone laughed, including John-Boy. He got to shoot one himself a few nights ago.

      That they do, said Jim-Bob. But here's the problem. We're goin' to be runnin' outa feed stock for the crackin' units pretty soon cause the world is screwed up with the virus. That means no more gasoline distribution, which is tough shit for the rest of America, but good news for us. We're goin' to have plenty of gas in those storage tanks for a lotta years to run our pickups and generators for Houston's East side.

      So what's the problem? asked one of his foremen.

      The problem is that Yokum Oil headquarters downtown says the gasoline is theirs and we shouldn't touch it.

      Someone snorted a laugh and the dam broke. Everyone in the room guffawed until Jim-Bob had to quiet them down.

      I know that sounds a little funny, those white-collar, headquarter yuppies tryin' to tell a bunch of gun-totin', cigar puffin', Beechnut chewin', all-American good ol' boys what to do. Hell, the way the world is shapin' up, we got as much right to the gas as anybody.

      They waited.

      The real problem is they got what's left of the Houston Police Department on their side.

      You mean they got the yuppie sissy cops from the West side, said Sam, the foreman who'd spoke up before. Hell, them pretty boy cops whine more than my dear granma.

      They do that, said Jim-Bob. But they quit cryin' long enough to shoot pretty good, I hear.

      Paw-Boy stepped forward. If'n it comes to war, I guess we'd do ya proud, Jim-Bob.

      I don't doubt it. But what I think about is they got grenade launchers from the National Guard Armory. These tanks would go up like the Fourth of July.

      Two can play that game, said Sam. If we booby trap the tanks, just in case, mind you, then they cain't win no war. We could blow 'em if they looked like they was a winnin'.

      The men murmured approval as Jim-Bob held up his hand. "That's a good idea. Kim-Boy, git over here.

      Kim-Boy, a Korean who had immigrated to the U.S. as a young man, was Jim-Bob's oldest and smallest foremen. He stepped forward looking like his head was lost within the yellow Yokum hardhat.

      What you want me to do, boss?

      Get some o' yer men an' rig up the tanks so we can explode 'em if'n we have to. Can ya do that?

      You betcha, boss. What color explosions you want?

      Ha, ha. That's what I like about you, Kim-Boy. Ya gimme choices. No special colors, just rig 'em to blow. The other plants can do the same thing.

      The multi-colored hardhats from the other refineries nodded assent.

      Still, I don't want no war where no one gets the gas.

      Then what can we do? Paw-Boy asked.

      We can explain the situation to them, how splittin' up the gas is the best way to go, an' maybe they'll listen to reason. I've already agreed that I'd send a delegation downtown to talk about this.

      You gonna talk to them personally? asked Sam.

      Nope. They're tricky yuppies after all, an' I know who they'd pick to do their talkin'. My old girlfriend, Ashley. She's their Marketin' Manager. She used to be a good ol' red-neck girl when we was both pups, but she grew up to be upwardly mobile while I grew up to live in a mobile home. I think it was that name that ruined her. I still get a little misty when I'm around her, so I can't do it.

      So who's gonna talk for us? asked Paw-Boy.

      Jim-Bob looked at him then shifted his glance to John-Boy. I reckon I want your son to do our talkin'.

      Three of Jim-Bob's foremen jumped up at once. What? said Husky, the youngest foreman and even bigger than Jim-Bob. Look at the boy. He's... he's...

      Black? supplied Paw-Boy.

      John-Boy's feet began to slip and slide.

      "Yep, boys, black I yam,

      but ya shoudn't give a damn.

      I can shoot an' I can barbeque,

      an I knows how to hold a pool cue.

      But lookee here, Jim-Bob,

      I ain't the

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