A Bad Turn
Keene throttled the Harley and felt it rumble beneath him.
Watched the people on the New York City sidewalks give him a startled glance and pick up their pace. People in this city knew the difference between crazy and bat-fuck crazy. They recognized the look in his eyes.
He grinned. The bike was chrome thunder beneath him. He nodded, the sound of his iPod blasting Maiden in his ears. He didn't know shit about this bike. Couldn't tell the difference between the carburetor and the driveline. Didn't make a shit. People scattered before him and that was all that mattered. He puffed on the stub of cigar in his mouth and bared his teeth.
behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.
Keene's grin grew wider.
"Zombies? Fucking zombies? I'll give you SOME GODDAMNED ZOMBIES!" He screamed it out loud, though he barely heard it over his music.
He reached out a hand and patted the saddle bag to his left, considering the contents. A glass beaker topped with a Mason jar clasp was nestled inside. A maniacal brainstorm from his 'biggest fan"; a twenty-something mad genius who worked at a government lab. Someone who'd read every shred on the zombie apocalypse. Someone who thought it'd be fun to make it happen for real.
Keene goosed the Harley, heading to the core of the city.
It had only taken several emails to other fans to find out the schematics of New York City's water supply and review the perfect spot to dump the plague. By the time the outbreak began, Keene would be back on the highway, close to red lining the Harley's engine, driving like the apocalyptic horseman he truly was to get back to Journey's End. He'd be sipping Knob Creek and smoking Cubans when the news reports began.
"Fuck 'em all!" He growled, and raced down an alley. The side street opened up into a market place and that's where things started to go wrong. Fast.
Keene roared out into the street and squeezed the brakes but got nothing in response. He steered around a homeless lady who screamed "Shel Silverstein must die!" as he clipped her shopping cart.
A dented cab blew its horn at Keene as he drove between it and a produce delivery truck and still the Harley wouldn't slow.
He tried to avoid three blonde powersuited women sipping lattes and that's when he saw the business end of the mounted policeman riding one of the biggest horses he'd ever seen.
The front wheel of the Harley hit dead center of a fire hydrant and over the crunch of metal as the bike crashed, Keene felt himself lift off the bike and fly forward. He had a split second to see the glass beaker fly free of the saddle bag, bursting in a silver spray against the street curb, before realizing he was making a bulls eye for the ass of the horse in front of him.
He plunged head first into the horse's sphincter, a sound like a boot being pulled from wet mud, and Keene was immediately surrounded by damp mucus. His arms were clamped down at his sides. His body dangled freely in mid-air.
From outside, Keene heard the horse give a startled neigh, the cop utter an angry "What the fuck?", and the horse began to gallop. Every heavy trot sent jolts through his body, constricting his ribs and cutting off his air. He could feel himself begin to shut down.
The odor, Keene thought, slipping away, it's familiar. It smells just like... the small press.
••••
Today is Brian Keene Must Die day. Brian will be killed in dozens of horrifying ways in blogs across the blogosphere for a very good cause. If you enjoyed this humorous little vignette, please consider making a donation to the Shirley Jackson Awards.
Watched the people on the New York City sidewalks give him a startled glance and pick up their pace. People in this city knew the difference between crazy and bat-fuck crazy. They recognized the look in his eyes.
He grinned. The bike was chrome thunder beneath him. He nodded, the sound of his iPod blasting Maiden in his ears. He didn't know shit about this bike. Couldn't tell the difference between the carburetor and the driveline. Didn't make a shit. People scattered before him and that was all that mattered. He puffed on the stub of cigar in his mouth and bared his teeth.
behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.
Keene's grin grew wider.
"Zombies? Fucking zombies? I'll give you SOME GODDAMNED ZOMBIES!" He screamed it out loud, though he barely heard it over his music.
He reached out a hand and patted the saddle bag to his left, considering the contents. A glass beaker topped with a Mason jar clasp was nestled inside. A maniacal brainstorm from his 'biggest fan"; a twenty-something mad genius who worked at a government lab. Someone who'd read every shred on the zombie apocalypse. Someone who thought it'd be fun to make it happen for real.
Keene goosed the Harley, heading to the core of the city.
It had only taken several emails to other fans to find out the schematics of New York City's water supply and review the perfect spot to dump the plague. By the time the outbreak began, Keene would be back on the highway, close to red lining the Harley's engine, driving like the apocalyptic horseman he truly was to get back to Journey's End. He'd be sipping Knob Creek and smoking Cubans when the news reports began.
"Fuck 'em all!" He growled, and raced down an alley. The side street opened up into a market place and that's where things started to go wrong. Fast.
Keene roared out into the street and squeezed the brakes but got nothing in response. He steered around a homeless lady who screamed "Shel Silverstein must die!" as he clipped her shopping cart.
A dented cab blew its horn at Keene as he drove between it and a produce delivery truck and still the Harley wouldn't slow.
He tried to avoid three blonde powersuited women sipping lattes and that's when he saw the business end of the mounted policeman riding one of the biggest horses he'd ever seen.
The front wheel of the Harley hit dead center of a fire hydrant and over the crunch of metal as the bike crashed, Keene felt himself lift off the bike and fly forward. He had a split second to see the glass beaker fly free of the saddle bag, bursting in a silver spray against the street curb, before realizing he was making a bulls eye for the ass of the horse in front of him.
He plunged head first into the horse's sphincter, a sound like a boot being pulled from wet mud, and Keene was immediately surrounded by damp mucus. His arms were clamped down at his sides. His body dangled freely in mid-air.
From outside, Keene heard the horse give a startled neigh, the cop utter an angry "What the fuck?", and the horse began to gallop. Every heavy trot sent jolts through his body, constricting his ribs and cutting off his air. He could feel himself begin to shut down.
The odor, Keene thought, slipping away, it's familiar. It smells just like... the small press.
••••
Today is Brian Keene Must Die day. Brian will be killed in dozens of horrifying ways in blogs across the blogosphere for a very good cause. If you enjoyed this humorous little vignette, please consider making a donation to the Shirley Jackson Awards.
posted by Bob at 11/02/2009
3 Comments:
Great story!!! I am still laughing. Thanks Bob, ya big hippie!
hahaha! Thanks m'friend! Glad I could give you a laugh today. This one was way too much fun to avoid participating in. =)
The information here is great. I will invite my friends here.
Thanks
Post a Comment
<< Home