Fifty Shades Of Sparkling Vampires With Dragon Tattoos That Play Starvation Games (13 page)

But with such a cash crop show, the
crew was left to exist on cruise control considering zany side
projects.

"It's about a renegade pet psychiatrist
that turns a pack of rabid beavers loose on Toronto," the Boom
Operator said, explaining his spec screenplay to the Script
Supervisor. "It's full of pathos. Plus, it's based on a true
story."

"And here I thought Canadians were so
nice," the Script Supervisor replied.

"Gotta watch out for those wacky
beavers. Especially when evil shrinks are on the loose."

It was the kind of mind numbing idea
that could only fly in Hollywood. But the number the mind, the
tastier the treat. And with rabid beavers on the brain, the Crew
was too distracted to defend themselves. Soon Jim had company in
the ranks of the undead. But with such wooden actors, it was hard
to tell which were alive and which were dead.

As the ranks of the undead army swelled
though, one key victim was missing. Trevor King was a man of many
mistresses. But it was the undiscovered poon he cared about most.
Trevor's casting couch was littered with the lost innocence of
aspiring actresses. And that no doubt was where he'd taken his
schlong while the cast and crew gossiped about Toronto being
toppled by foam-mouthed woodland creatures.

In addition to being a world class man
whore, Trevor was also an ass hole of intergalactic proportions.
When he was done crushing actresses hopes, he called on Jim to
escort them off the lot. Jim tried to cobble together their broken
dreams and tell them it was going to be ok, but wasn't sure he
believed it himself.

When he wasn't dashing actresses
dreams, Trevor was carving out Jim's soul and feeding it to his pet
piranhas. Instead of outright beratement, Trevor opted for treating
Jim like he was a ghost, invisible--nothing. The great Trevor King
was not to be made eye contact with. Not to be talked to unless he
talked to you first. And not to be interrupted when in the middle
of working his genius.

But when Trevor returned from his
casting couch rendezvous, he did not receive quite the hero's
welcome he expected. Instead he was greeted by a recently turned
cast and crew of flesh-hungry Zombies ready to make him audition
for his life. But for the role of undead sacrifice, Trevor was
perfect. The army of Zombies overwhelmed Trevor and passed around
his limbs as hors d'oevres.

Jim wasn't satisfied with just a
producer and director on his menu of recently mutilated however. He
had a score to settle with an old douche. So while the cast and
crew were satiated with Trevor's scraps, Jim went out lurching for
the Best Actor of kills. And he knew just where to find
it.

Zombies were too mindless to do
anything but follow their base instincts. And for Undead Jim, his
instincts led him to the all too familiar double decker trailer of
Brent Williams. After all, Brent hadn't used his brain in years so
he wouldn't even miss it. Not to mention he referred to himself in
the third person.

"Don't you know who I am?" Brent barked
inside his trailer as Zombie Jim lurched up to the door. "Brent
Williams is built to butt fuck. So if you aren't going to bend
over, I'm going to hire another hooker who will."

Never mind that Brent was married to
America's Sweetheart. How was the biggest movie star in the world
supposed to blue ball it while his wife filmed "Memoir's Of A
Lonely Lawn Gnome" in Vancouver? Besides, who was Brent to shut
down the cottage escort industry he'd been supporting for years for
marital monogamy?

Zombie Jim was about to put an end to
the argument between Brent and his hired hussy though. Jim clawed
at the trailer door, grunting as he craved Brent's
brains.

The big-headed Bozo opened the trailer
door expecting his breakfast delivery of blow to have arrived.
After all, he couldn’t act in a money about Amish hating space
aliens if he wasn't high out of his gourd. But thanks to Zombie
Jim, Brent found himself the reluctant star of a new horror
movie.

Jim lunged at the foul-mouthed action
star. But without a stunt man and multiple takes, the action star
proved to be all ego and no hero. Jim's teeth ripped into Brent's
neck, digging in for a tasty revenge as Brent fell to the
ground.

Undead Jim fell on top of him and used
the star as a buffet as Brent screamed like a little girl. But
Brent wasn't alone in his terror. Candy Good thought adding Brent
Williams to her client list would be a boon for her career. Little
did she know bending over would be the least of her
worries.

So Candy left the bastard and the
Zombie to themselves and made an escape through the trailers
bathroom window. Jim meanwhile continued feasting on his former
tormentor, turning the biggest movie star in the world into an
apocalyptic appetizer. But after the psychological torment Jim had
been through, there would be no mercy. And no appendage was
spared.

Zombie Jim ripped Brent chiseled limb
from limb. It was a bloodbath. And just the undignified end the
numb nuts deserved. But Jim wasn't satisfied with a few idle
organs.

The apocalypse made mulch of many men.
And Brent Williams was no exception. Jim left the hunk looking like
a carcass picked over by vultures. But when you were a Zombie, you
were never too full to look for your next meal. And in Hollywood,
there was no shortage of mindless morons on the menu.

The End.

Zombies Eat Politicians

Ted Thomas was going to die with his
dick in his hand and his camera phone ready to capture the action.
But even being caught with his pants down, Ted was no worse than
your average scumbag politician. Sure he was a professional
bullshit artist that hadn't told the truth in ten years. That was
just the Washington way. What room was there for principles anyway
when a cushy seat in the do nothing Congress was up for
grabs?

It was an election year. Which meant if
you weren't lying, you weren't trying. But Zombies didn't care
about campaign promises that were never going to be kept. They
didn't care about the will of the people taking a backseat to the
deep pockets of special interest groups. And they sure as hell
didn't care about candidates that pretended to relate to the common
folk before luxury jetting back to their fully staffed mansions.
All the Undead cared about was fresh meat. Which meant the
mudslinging was about to take a backseat to blood
slinging.

And Molly Francis was more than happy
to oblige. Ted thought the pawing at his cracked dressing room door
was his new busty intern eager to get his stimulus package. But
instead it was Ted's worst nightmare. The apocalypse had come just
as Ted was leading in the polls. Hell, even moderates liked the
schmuck. But all the pretending to care about the poor was for
nothing.

The end of the world had brought the
worst kind of nightmare. Someone that scared Ted most. An undead
investigative reporter. Molly Francis had made Ted sweat all across
the state with her probing questions. But Zombie Molly wanted more
than the truth. She wanted his brain.

Most voters would argue elected
officials were already numbskulls. But Zombie Molly wanted to be
able to eat the evidence for herself. Slimy politico's didn't go
down easy though. Years of mudslinging had turned Ted into a shark
in a suit. But it was Zombie Molly that smelled blood in the
water.

Molly bared her teeth as she stared Ted
down, ready to chomp at his bits. But for Ted, it was not the best
time to be caught with his pants down. Molly lunged at the douche
bag, ready to rip his spleen out. She'd have to settle on a flesh
wound to start though. Molly's nails tore into Ted's skin as she
tried to wrestle her off him. It felt so unnatural to have a
beautiful woman pawing at him that had no interest in the Commander
in Chief between his legs.

With the dressing room door open, a
number of Staffers walked by. But the sight of candidate mounted by
someone half his age just seemed like politics as usual. So the
Staffers just carried on with their debate strategies, paying no
attention to Zombie Molly taking a bite out of Ted's
chest.

Even a slimy weasel like Ted was no
match for the Undead though. Zombie Molly's tenacious teeth tore
into his neck, making the politician squeal. It was like a
Republican wet dream. Not just because The Democratic front runner
was having his bowels ripped out, but because it confirmed all
their mudslinging. The Democrat was literally a bleeding liberal.
Weak on defense. The victim of his own staunch handgun regulations.
So open-minded that his brain was about to fall out.

But Molly was a bi-partisan blood
sucker. She was not however, one to turn down a good meal. And Ted
offered an especially mushy brain. One that had stretched the
limits of moral and ethical depravity.

The campaign had suffered it's first
casualty. And Molly was going to savor every bite of him. But for
Ted, it was the worst of both worlds. The man had spent the last
three years focusing grouping, barn storming, stumping, and
generally fucking his way up and down the state. He'd assembled a
crack team of bullshit artists and sold his soul to dozens of
special interests groups. Hell, he'd even gotten poor people both
far and wide to actually believe a rich fuck like him actually gave
a shit about them.

And with the latest polling numbers,
Ted was set to become the next Senator to keep none of his campaign
promises on Capitol Hill. And now it was all ruined by some stupid
apocalypse. The Universe could have at least let Ted die happy of a
heart attack while banging an eager campaign staffer. Or hell,
maybe even have some long overdue sex with his wife. Instead Ted
was on the wrong end of an all you can eat brain buffet. And Ted
was so looking forward to taking fact finding trips to the
Caribbean on the taxpayers dime.

As Zombie Molly gobbled Ted's
cerebellum, it was clear one politician just wouldn't do. But was
it worth even nibbling on the third party candidate, or should she
just skip straight to the Republican main course?

Molly Francis had always dreamed of
being an investigative reporter. She just didn't think she'd be
investigating politicians entrails. Then again, Molly never thought
she'd get eaten by a Pundit. There were few things worse than being
devoured by a member of the blow hard brigade. But the apocalypse
didn't have time to let people die with dignity. It had
civilization to topple.

For Molly though, it was just the
latest in series of sobering lessons about the drunk with power
world of politics. As a gumshoe reporter, it was Molly's job to dig
to the heart of a story. But they didn't tell her in journalism
school just how many layers of bullshit there were to wade through.
Molly was the fresh face on the scene. Too new to realize most
candidates would sell their Mother's soul to the oil companies if
it meant they could grab a few extra votes. After all, most of the
candidates had started their careers as lawyers, so bottom feeding
came naturally to them.

So did mudslinging though. "Did you
know Ted Thomas hates puppies?" a Jed Jones robocall practically
said. "That's why his legislation would give tax cuts to puppy
mills." Not to be out smeared, Ted's camp fired back. "Jed Jones
clubs baby seals for sport," a Thomas ad alleged. "Those cute
little bastards make great appetizers."

It was reckless, filthy, and politics
as usual. But who cared about what the candidates actually stood
for when they could accuse each other of furry genocide? Then
again, what the candidates stood for depended on what the latest
polls had to say. God forbid you had principles in an election
year.

Molly had gotten tired of the spin. Of
only hearing the polished ass kissing of pandering pussy foots. Of
being parroted back overly rehearsed sound bites honed in a focus
group. She'd gotten into journalism to uncover the truth. But the
sad reality was that elections weren't about Democrats or
Republicans. They were about which candidate sucked the least. And
in a field filled with such bozo's, competence was
optional.

But after months on the beat, Molly was
quickly realizing it didn't matter who won the election. Either
way, the American public was getting screwed. After all, there were
few things as worthless as a politician. These were people that
spent entire work weeks arguing and finger pointing, never passed
any meaningful legislation, then rewarded themselves with lavish
recesses on the tax payers dime. But of course, that was when they
weren't busy running for re-election. Because when you were
stunningly inadequate for four years, why not re-up for another
term?

Molly would have killed for a candidate
of substance. Of principles. A bi-partisan bad ass. Instead she had
the Democratic Dickhead and the Republican Rodeo Clown. Oh, and
that other guy. The one that had no chance of winning although he
made a hell of a lot of sense. But the third party candidate
couldn't get any airtime on a regular day, no less the end of days.
So Zombie Molly lurched off for some red state
succulence.

Her appetite did not have to wait long.
The debate was set for an intimate town hall gathering. You know,
to show how in touch with the common folk the candidates were. But
the tight quarters made for a meat market. The talk about a
bloodthirsty press was more than a reality. It didn't have to bleed
to lead though. The media was making their own breaking news. And
ironically, the story of a lifetime was one none of the press was
alive to report on.