Zombie Kong - Anthology (19 page)

Immortality. That was their answer.

If you have everything, you surely want to be able to keep it, right? That was how the damn zombie infection started in the first place. The rich were not happy with having it all, then dying, and having all their toys fade away. So they invented––or rather, attempted to invent––something that might help them avoid sharing forever. They wanted a taste of what it was like to be a god…

Zeek snapped his fingers. A glorious epiphany burst into his head on how he could save his ass and the show. Even Eston would be proud of this doozy.

It was crazy.

It’d take a reformatting of the show entirely, though it would remain within the confines of his pilot commercial.

Most importantly, he’d need approval from the guys over Eston’s head. From what he had heard, they might not be that difficult to convince, as long as they knew there was more money in it.

No need to wait, he told himself. No better idea would ever come.

Zeek lumbered to the call button where a PA waited somewhere on the lot. He pressed it repeatedly until a disgruntled sigh came over the speaker. Every person in showbiz wanted the same thing, so he knew just what to say to get his new best friend’s help completely.

Zeek spoke into the receiver, “I need a big favor. If you help me, I think I can make you a star.”

After a short pause, the voice asked, “Whatcha need?”

Zeek answered, “A miracle. And you’re my Jesus.”

* * *

The lowly PA had proved to be a godsend. With the promise of fame, he’d broken into the studio manager’s office and had gotten the right numbers to call. Zeek had told him exactly what to say to lure those he reached into this secret meeting. And now he stood before three of the most powerful people in television––nay, the world.

The network execs of ZTV.

They were actually dumber than he thought. None of them appeared to be on a steady regiment of the drugs that kept most of the wealthy sentient. Each had a team of servants that poured bile espressos over their lips, filed their overgrown nails while their arms dangled, clipped the inch-long nose hairs that curled along their nostrils, and vigilantly kept the maggots on their waxed faces to a pristine minimum. Hell, each had one servant who was simply devoted to keeping them propped upright.

If people were willing to wipe your ass, why did you need to worry about anything else, Zeek supposed. He kind of expected them to be this way. After all, he’d seen a lot of what they put on the air, even before the Apocalypse. It took someone being an absolute bonehead to make those kinds of decisions in the first place.

During the wait for their arrival, Zeek had constructed a makeshift set out of the old furniture left in the sound stage from old shows and movies. The food the caterers had left to hold him over the next two days, he placed out for his ingredients, using the ground up bone meal as imitation spices. He had almost everything he needed.

Zeek took a deep breath and gave them his idea.

And like clockwork, at the precise moment he’d planned from the second the PA gave his agent a ring, Mr. Hollow H. Eston burst open the sound stage doors and stomped inside.

“What the fuck is going on in here, ape––?”

Eston noticed Zeek’s company and stopped dead in his tracks, so to speak. At such levels of debauchery before him, even Eston stood in awe.

He whimpered. “Mr. Execs… a pleasure to be in your presence… ” He turned to Zeek. “Why are they here, Kong?”

“I called them,” said Zeek. “With a little help from a friend.”

Eston glared at the PA. The PA strategically scooted out of his line of view behind Zeek’s enormous foot.

“And
why
did you call them?” asked Eston.

“Because I have an idea for our show.”

“You should’ve contacted me first. Chain of command. The talent begs the agent, the agent tells the director, the director asks the producers, the producers beg the execs. That’s how it works, ape.”

“I may be an ape, but I’m not a damn, dirty ape, Mr. H. Eston.”

“Cute pun.” Eston strolled through Zeek’s crude set, examining it as if he knew a thing about design. “Well, I see you learned something from the books I gave you. Maybe you’re not as stupid as you appear, either. But it looks like all you have is condiments and no food, all side dishes and no main course. What do you plan on using for your main ingredient?”

“It just arrived.”

Eston yelped as Zeek squeezed his spine and chest between two fingers and lifted him into the air. With satisfaction, Zeek heard his agent’s ribs snap, though that didn’t stop his curses.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Eston screamed.

Zeek smiled. “Adding the final ingredient.”

* * *

Zeek was a star. Or rather, his alter ego, Kong, became a star. He had to give the late Mr. Eston some credit. The name did go better with
kooking
.

Before the scheduled shoot was to begin, the stage crew went through the last few minutes of preparation, checking the lighting to make sure his rot patches didn’t attract too much attention, fixing his blush so his black cheeks looked rosy flush, re-taping his lazy glass eye to keep it staring directly into the camera. Everything had to be perfect. They shot the show live now. If something got screwed, they wouldn’t have a second chance to make it work, mainly because of Zeek’s holy idea, the one that propelled him and his show to the number one slot across the board.

“Do you need anything?” asked his new agent, Mr. Chris Whittaker, the former PA that had helped him so dearly. “Water? Soda? A brain sandwich with fried bananas dipped in peanut butter? I can cut the crusts off for you, the way you like.”

“No, Koko.” It was Zeek’s affectionate name for him. “I’m fine.”

“Positive? I can always get you a banana.”

“I’m fine.”

“Whatever tugs your tuba, big guy. I’m here for you.”

Chris, a.k.a. Koko, gave him a wink and two big thumbs up before making himself invisible. The perfect agent.

They had to shoot the show outside; no place was big enough to accommodate him comfortably. Besides, he wanted to be near his devoted fans. They finally loved him for more than his physical assets, for more than the spectacle of his size and species. They cared about what he represented. What he uniquely had to offer.

Over the heads of everyone, he could see the fences that kept his zombie admirers from flooding into the set and devouring them all. There were thousands, the city emptying, the outlying countryside drained, too. They pressed against the initial barrier fence that surrounded the more lethal electric wall like a fat lady’s thighs in fishnets. He was pretty sure the ones at the front had been crushed to death––giving their all for a glimpse of him and his magic.

Why did they love his mojo? Because he shared it with them. He gave them what they wanted. And for those who already garnered a taste, he gave them the final thing they lacked.

Immortality
.

He had a guest celebrity for every show currently scheduled and every show the execs could possibly give him, to infinity, if his body held together that long. Jimmy Zepp, Zalle Cherry, Tim Cruz, Janzifer Haniston, Lad Zit, Rob Zombie––all the A-listers down the row begged for a earlier slot. They all wanted their fame to last forever. And they were willing to make the ultimate sacrifice to attain it.

Today’s guest was Roger DiZero. Zeek planned to make his entrance into the kingdom of the eternal a tasty one, too. He’d make the perfect lasagna––handmade pasta, freshly ground meats and cheeses, and a double helping of Mr. DiZero, in the role of the special sauce.

When he told DiZero about his recipe, the man practically wept, as much as the undead can ever do. Roger looked a little rubbery from all the plastic installed in his features, but once they ground him up into powder, Zeek was sure he’d make an excellence spice.

Then the man became a legend. Then his fame would never die, never be taken from him. He’d live on forever,
inside
all his fans.

And his fans would get a
taste
of what it was like to be a star.

The set cleared. The lights dimmed, ready for his introduction. The prompter counted down from ten to six, then raised a hand to silently count down with his fingers.

Five.

Zeek straightened his spine and ran his tongue along the back of his teeth. He tasted Eston. After all this time, he couldn’t get that nasty flavor out of his mouth. It appeared evil never did truly die. It just spoiled.

Four.

In the silence, he heard the zombie masses grunt in unison. Either they grunted, or that was their stomachs, in anticipation of the feast to come. Like Oprah, he liked to give out gifts to the audience. Namely the diced up celebrities.

––
(the prompter was missing his index finger so the nub instead had to count for three)

The gorilla-turned-god beat his fists into his chest and his ‘Kiss the Kook’ apron before giving the audience his new millionaire smile with the world’s biggest Chiclets.

Two.

The lights erupted bright. The cameras rolled.

One.

Zeek took a deep breath.

Action!

MAX VILE

Bits & Pieces

Moody heard a loud bang from somewhere inside the museum. It startled him. His roach slipped from between his nails, landed square in his lap, and burned the holy fire out of his crotch.

He hopped off the sarcophagus replica and swatted the loose embers from his slacks.

Goddamn it
. The roach had eaten a hole the size of a dime through the inseam, all the way to his Hanes. Eddie would be sure to take it from his pay once he discovered another pair of ruined workpants. That made two this week already.

He could always complain to the museum manager, saying Eddie was treating him unfairly, but what good would that do? Everyone knew he was a loser, even himself. His cog was so tiny they would remove him from the gears and replace him. Simple as that.

Another banging noise, followed by several softer creaks, erupted from the main hall.

Moody snuffed the roach with his heel and kicked it under the plastic tomb.

“They’re playing my music, Tut,” he said to the fake mummy lying in the sarcophagus. He took his security guard hat off of Tut’s head. “Time to give reason to my life.”

Moody clicked on his flashlight and slipped through the Egyptian exhibit toward the source of the noise. He doubted there was an intruder. It had been less than a year since he started working the new job, and a month since he’d been demoted to the third shift, but in that time, nothing gave him the impression that noises equaled thieves.

During his first week on nights, he had heard a racket, which turned out to be a flock of pigeons that entered through a window. He had left the damn thing open to air smoke from a joint, and the little pricks flew into the rafters and pooped all over the ancient-man manikins. Eventually, he fed the birds crumbs with rat poison. He hated killing them, but it was either that or hand Eddie another reason to downgrade his already pitiful standing. He spent that night scraping bird shit from cavemen’s foreheads.

Eddie never missed an opportunity to run his big mouth, but he never told stories about intruders in the museum, so there must not have been a robbery in his time. The man, now in his sixties, said he had started around Moody’s age. Long time to be nobody. Moody guessed his life was right on track to follow in the old man’s footsteps.

Moody considered the last few hours, wondering if he’d left the window open again. The thought of bird shit made him cringe. But no, he’d only smoked with his pharaoh pals in the makeshift pyramid.

It was prehistoric beast month and wooly mammoth bones dominated the front of the building. Curved tusks were angled toward all those who entered. The creaking noises might have been coming from the rigging that suspended the elephant skeleton in the lobby. If the wires snapped, there would be a mess, and probably a bone or two shattered on the floor.

Of course, the bones weren’t real. They were facsimiles of the true pieces the owners had locked in their vaults. Still, if any of them fell––with his record––they’d surely blame him.

“What’d you do this time, Mood?” he said to himself, in imitation of Eddie. He hated when Eddie called him ‘Mood’. “You take some acid or shrooms or something? Think the mammoth was your cousin and hump it? Huh-huh, huh-huh. You’re fired!”

As he rounded the hallway leading into the main lobby, he tilted his flashlight toward the floor, looking for bones.

The air smelled foul, like rotten meat and sewage.

Please don’t let it be the toilets
, he prayed. He’d rather deal with pigeon shit than people shit. Ever since the taco place set up shop in the food court, the bathrooms were disaster zones.

Something smacked his face. It happened again, and again––followed by a buzz. He stopped walking and swatted away––

Flies.
Lots of flies. His flashlight beam showed a thick cloud of them.

“Fucking toilets.” He took off his hat and used it to shield his eyes. Whichever janitor Eddie hired for night-call would soon be pissed, because
he
sure as hell wasn’t cleaning this one.

He kept his head down and hurried into the lobby, which was a huge, vaulted-ceiling cavity, unlike the maze of the museum. As he entered the room, he could feel a cold wind, and the stench became worse. The flies thinned enough for him to uncover his face.

Saber-toothed tiger bones gleamed as he scanned his flashlight over the display, the bathroom doors, and the floor. He couldn’t see an overflow of water; he’d have to look inside.