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    Dude, My Boss is Evil (Also, He’s a Zombie): I Hate Zombies
    Dude, My Boss is Evil (Also, He’s a Zombie): I Hate Zombies
    Dude, My Boss is Evil (Also, He’s a Zombie): I Hate Zombies
    Ebook212 pages3 hours

    Dude, My Boss is Evil (Also, He’s a Zombie): I Hate Zombies

    By Shantnu Tiwari

    ()

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    About this ebook

    In Which Our Hero Must Stop a Dastardly Villain Who Murders People and Doesn't Pay Council Tax

     

    Blue hates zombies. And he hates Nazis.

     

    He always hoped no one would combine the two.

     

    Guess what the evil scientists did?

     

    Blue finds out his new boss is really evil. As in, he wants to destroy the world. Also, he doesn't pay overtime. Plus, he may have murdered a few employees and

    broken council zoning laws.

     

    With an evil corporation building an army of zombies of take over the world, Blue faces a dastardly choice: Should he stop for pizza on the way?

     

    A Comedy Horror that will keep you laughing and terrified at the same time.

     

    Interview with the Author:

     

    Q: What's the book about?

    A: You know how all these horror stories/movies have these brave people fighting demons? Well, I thought, what if the heroes were two stoned losers who struggled to find a job or a girlfriend? And so the idea of a horror comedy was born.

     

    Q: Where did you get the inspiration from?

    A: I read this great book, John Dies at the End by David Wong. And later I saw its movie version which I also loved. And I thought, why are there not more books like this? Since no one else was writing them, I decided to write the book.

     

    Q: Is this a traditional zombie book?

    A: Heck no! It's more Shaun of the Dead than Night of the Living Dead.

     

    (This book was previously published Achtung Nazi Zombies)

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherShantnu Tiwari
    Release dateMar 9, 2015
    ISBN9781507063385
    Dude, My Boss is Evil (Also, He’s a Zombie): I Hate Zombies

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      Book preview

      Dude, My Boss is Evil (Also, He’s a Zombie) - Shantnu Tiwari

      1

      Have I ever told you how much I hate zombies?

      No?

      I’m sure I have. You probably weren’t listening.

      If there is one thing I hate more than zombies, it’s Nazis.

      If there is one thing I hate more than Nazis, it’s Nazi zombies.

      If there is one thing I hate more than Nazi zombies, it’s… well, I hate nothing more than Nazi zombies, actually.

      Man, you’ve seen all these documentaries on World War II, right? I used to like them as a kid, till I grew bored of them. Seems all TV channels show is World War II and ancient Egypt. There are other parts of history that are as, if not more, interesting. Do we ever get to see a documentary on them?

      What about the pyramids of the Incas? What about the Easter Island stone heads?

      What about World War I, which started with soldiers fighting on horseback and ended with fighter planes and tanks bombing the hell out of everyone? You think we’d get a documentary or two about them?

      But no, it was just WWII all year around. Later on, I realised it was lazy journalism. There is already so much material on the second World War, and it is easy to recycle.

      Anyway, you must have heard how evil the Nazis were, right? Killing people left, right, and centre?

      Well, let me tell you now, bud, all those documentaries with their recycled (can I say copied?) material do not come close to describing how evil the Nazis were.

      How do I know for sure?

      For one, I met the Nazis. At least the zombie version of them.

      Second, Dr Josef Mengele himself told me. Yes, that one.

      Wait, you don’t know who he is (or was)? You damn kids. Stop watching all those reality TV shows and read some history, damnit.

      What, you’re too busy? Fine, Wikipedia him. Go on, I’ll wait. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.

      So yeah, I asked Mengele if the original Nazis were this evil, too. He assured me they weren’t. He said most of them were incompetent and got ahead mostly due to luck and the incompetency of Western governments. Actually, I think Shake said the last line.

      And if you know Shake (you don’t? Lucky you), you just know how he learnt this fact. He was trying to land this hot professor woman, a real MILF if there ever was one. He heard she was a history professor, so he read everything he could about World War II to impress her. Of course, he later found out she specialised in pottery found in the Indus Valley Civilisation. He still gets all red with anger when I make fun of him, but I’m like, dude, that is the sort of thing you should have researched.

      When I told Mengele about Shake’s theory that the Nazis were incompetent nincompoops (Shake assures me it isn’t a theory), he was really angry. He said he’d kill me to teach me a lesson.

      Hence all the tying up.

      Wait, I forgot to tell you, didn’t I? About where I am?

      Shake tells me I should always start a book with a setting. ‘Cause that’s what all the critics and professor types love. And he assures me that if I don’t, I’ll get bad reviews. He shows me reviews of the first Harry Potter, and they all say, This book has no setting. And I’m like, dude, screw the setting if it makes me a gazillion dollars.

      But Shake assures me that if I want to be taken seriously, I better start doing what the professor types are saying.

      And I’m like, dude, I don’t want to be taken seriously. I’d rather not be eaten by a zombie. I’d be happy to dress up as a clown and sing the Paraguayan national anthem while juggling exploding stink bombs, if it’ll help me escape all these zombies.

      Shake is shaking his head sadly. He says I lack the talent, the X factor, to be successful.

      Says the man who thinks stepping on a rubber chicken is the height of comedy. Who thinks the movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit was a documentary on labour abuse in Hollywood. Who reads comics based on My Little Pony and cried when Buttercup lost her friends. I DO NOT, YOU LYING BASTARD. STOP TYPING LIES ABOUT ME OR ELSE I’LL TELL EVERYONE ABOUT THE NOODLE INCIDENT.

      That was Shake in all caps. He likes to mess with my book when I’m sleeping, making changes as he sees fit. As someone who claims to be an expert in English (a language he failed at school), he doesn’t seem to understand that typing in ALL CAPS doesn’t make you right.

      So what was I talking about? I’ve forgotten. It’s Shake’s fault.

      Oh yeah. I was with Mengele.

      I was tied up and lying on the ground. It was night, and the ground was really cold. Gave me the shivers. Also, it smelt of dead bodies. Mainly cause it was near an open grave, one that was about to become my grave.

      The bright lights shined hard at me, forcing me to squint up at Mengele. He likes it this way. Likes us to squirm at his feet.

      We were no longer in the concentration camp. The open grave was in the forest a few meters from the camp. Evidently, the smell of dead bodies irritates the Nazis.

      Yeah, you read that right. The fucking Nazi zombies are irritated by dead people smell. Jeez, these guys have really high hygiene standards, don’t they?

      Hence they dug the open grave a bit of a distance away from the camp. But not too far away. We are still in the forest. The camp lights are so bright, they are blinding me even out here. It’s like the Nazi zombies have never heard of global warming, which they probably haven’t.

      Evil bastards.

      I ask Mengele if the Nazis were always this evil. He says coming back from the dead made them more evil.

      And now, I veel keel you, you twelve-point-fiver, he said in a horribly fake German accent.

      I knew it was fake. I once met a hot German babe trekking through our woods, and while I never scored with her, it did make me an expert on German accents. Her accent wasn’t that strong. Not to mention her English was better than half the people born in England. Better than Shake’s, at least. We should be ashamed. Even hot German babes speak better English than us.

      What’s a twelve-point-fiver, you ask? Well, I may have gotten a bit cocky in our first encounter with the Nazis. We didn’t know how strong they were at the time and thought we could take them out the same way we did with normal zombies. And we did take out a few. And that’s when I made my boast.

      I’m twelve-point-five percent Jewish, you guys, and I’m still kicking your ass! I may have boasted.

      Why twelve-point-five percent? ‘Cause one of my grandmothers was Jewish. Came over from Germany in the 1930s. Even though she was agnostic, the Nazis still saw her as Jewish.

      Shake assures me my maths is wrong. It shouldn’t be twelve-point-five percent. But he doesn’t know what the right answer is, but says we should consult a professor of mathematics. I say to him, no one cares. Except losers like him.

      So yeah, the Nazis were really pissed off about my boast. It took me to the top of their shit list.

      Hence the reason I was tied up at Mengele’s feet, lying on the cold, hard ground on a moonless night, preparing to die. Shake had vanished. I was alone.

      What were the Nazi zombies doing in the English countryside in the first place?

      Good question. But to tell you that, I need to go back a little.

      Not too far back. Don’t worry.

      This isn’t primarily my story, even though I’m the sexiest and most handsome hero of the book (Shakes says I should use protagonist instead of hero as it sounds posher, but I think it sounds douchebaggey).

      This is the story of a few more people, who gave us permission to write their story.

      I didn’t want to write this story, to be honest. But I’m doing it mainly to avenge our friends who were murdered. I hope by telling you their story, you’ll understand why we acted the way we did. I hope you’ll agree with me that the deaths of our friends wasn’t wasted. I hope you’ll even forgive us.

      So let’s take a little journey back in time…

      2

      It all started with Sergeant Pepper’s death.

      Pepper was the head of the local CocksShire police station. CocksShire isn’t the name of the place where I live. I chose this name to stop the government agents from harassing us. CocksShire because everyone here is a dick.

      So Pepper was a really nice guy. Even though he worked for the government, he wasn’t an asshole like the other government agents we met. Last summer, when we’d had a slight zombie infestation (haha. It wasn’t slight; they had almost killed the whole city), Pepper had actually helped us, even though official orders (from our peace-exporting government that was always so willing to help other countries solve their problems) had been to put his fingers in his ears and scream LA LA LA! I CAN’T HEAR YOU!

      Pepper had ignored the orders and actually helped us take care of the zombies, as best he could. It hadn’t helped that CocksShire had suddenly gone very violent at that time and Pepper had double duties. But he still helped us, even if it was cleaning up the dozens of dead bodies lining the streets.

      We didn’t know it then, but his disobedience, his refusal to follow our assholic (yes, spell checker, it is a word. Assholic, to behave in a manner more suitable to assholes than decent folk) government, had sealed his fate.

      They had decided to murder him to make a point.

      It had been a cold morning. Though it was July, English summers are like the brains of these topless models who appear on Page 3. You know it exists, you may even have heard about it from someone, but you have never seen it yourself.

      So yeah, we had a summer, all in inverted commas. It rained like piss every day, and it was quite cold.

      On one such cold morning, we made our way to CocksShire’s town centre. After eating a bare breakfast of bread jam—all we could afford—both of us put on our best suits, the only suits we had, made from cheap material that was rough on our skins, and walked to the town centre. We were greeted with boarded-up shops and homeless people asking for money. And that’s when we saw him.

      Sergeant Pepper was hanging from a street lamp. He had been hanged with a thick rubber wire. We’d later find out the official version was that he killed himself. Evidently, he was depressed because he suddenly found out he was a homosexual, and his tranny boyfriend dumped him. So Sergeant Pepper bought really thick industrial grade rubber wire, jumped twenty feet in the air, tied the rubber around a street lamp, and hanged himself.

      Why he couldn’t hang himself in his bathroom like any other respectable English gentleman who found out he was gay, got a tranny lover and then dumped by said tranny lover, I don’t know.

      I don’t know what was more insulting. The fact that they spread malicious rumours about Pepper after his death, or the fact they expected us to believe such a stupid story.

      And I didn’t understand them spreading rumours he was gay. I mean, what is this, the nineteen sixties? Who cares about stuff like that anymore?

      People in CocksShire, evidently. The rumours had the desired effect, and no one asked too many questions about why the local policeman decided to hang himself from a public lamp in a manner that looked more like a Third World death sentence for someone who slept with the dictator’s wife, rather than a suicide.

      I feel ashamed to say that on that day, we didn’t ask too many questions either. We did, when we later found proof Pepper had been murdered. But at that moment in time, we had our own problems.

      Both Shake and me had been basically unemployed for more than a year. We had found occasional part-time work, but nothing serious. Our savings (whatever pennies we had) had run out. The landlord spent more time camped outside our house than he did with his wife. His wife was starting to think he was sleeping with us. She was all like, You spend so much time at that Shake and Blue’s house, you should marry them.

      ‘Cause Shake and me were sharing our house now. We just couldn’t pay two rents. I moved into Shake’s flat, as it was cheaper. It had like one room that worked as bedroom, kitchen in corner, guest room, everything. There was like one sofa that became a bed, that we shared. Shake’s girlfriend thought this was really funny: Two grown men sharing a bed.

      We would just laugh with her. To be honest, we were more embarrassed about being broke. Especially since Jenny had recently become a partner in the fashion designer firm she worked for. She earned buckets of money. I knew Shake had been trying really hard to get a stable job so he could ask her to either move in with him or marry him. But both of us were school dropouts, and the job market for our type wasn’t that great in CocksShire.

      Multiple people had asked us to move to London. Including Jenny, who had offered to put us up in a spare room. I guess we were running out of excuses and planning to finally dump CocksShire.

      But fate had other plans for us. Well, not fate, but those motherfucking cocksucking Nazi zombies. But that was later.

      That day, we were broke, about to become homeless, feeling the lowest we had felt for years, and looking for the last hope we had: a job at an American company’s headquarters being built in our forest. We should have wondered why an American multinational would choose our national forest for its headquarters, but I guess not having food to eat had dampened whatever little scepticism we had.

      We passed Pepper’s body and the dozens of idiots standing there, gawping like idiots. We ignored them and kept walking to our interview at the construction site. The American company wanted to open shop in six months. Which is why they were hiring as many local people as they could to help around the place.

      At the moment, there was nothing there. Not even a skeleton of the building. All we saw was the dirt ground, a few holes in the ground, and heavy machinery standing around. I wasn’t sure how they would finish the project in six months, as they were starting from scratch.

      There were hundreds of people running about. Amongst them was that bastard Goebbels. What, you don’t know who he is? A real

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