World’s End Update

P1000189 3- CopyIf you’re reading this, you may be aware that I haven’t posted anything for months. I want you to know it’s not my fault. Shortly after the event at the Indian casino, Shelly and I met up with a renegade Meetup group called Biker Chicks for Literacy. Upon hearing my name, their leader, Prunilla Scrotch, a pursed-lipped librarian from the nearby town of Hemet, had me shackled and taken to their headquarters in an abandoned Barnes and Noble. Seems she was privy to my blog and found my prose beneath her literary standards. In an effort to correct my shortcomings, she forced me to listen to endless hours of her reciting Emily Dickinson and Jane Austen. Oh, how I begged her to feed me to the living dead who roamed the streets outside.

Speaking of soulless creatures , don’t even ask what Shelly was doing while I was being tortured. I’m so mad at her I might not even take her with me if I get the chance to escape or if I finish my novel–whichever comes first. You see, that’s what I had to promise to make Ms. Scrotch stop her infernal reciting and let me go free, that is I promised to forget this blog business and finish my novel, mindful of proper punctuation and grammar with lots of emphasis on the protagonist’s feelings. She even demands I have a theme to the story. She’s merciless. God, if only I were more like Bruce Campbell. Then I’d really show Prunilla and her female band of erudite hellions what for.

Prunilla’s looking at me and tapping her wristwatch, meaning I need to wrap this up. She has allowed me this one short update after a month of my working on the novel. If you’re new to my blog and wish to know how I ended up in this sorry state, go to the Table of Contents and begin reading at the beginning. Perhaps you’ll learn enough to save yourself from a similar feckless fate.

Martin Grist, prisoner at the World’s End.

Drink up!

There and Hacknslash Again

English: A M1914 Colt

The good thing about motorcycles is you don’t pedal them. The bad thing about motorcycles is you don’t pedal them. The latter, of course, only applies to pedestrians like me who are forced to learn the bare essentials of motorcycle riding while attempting to keep up with a biker who’s hell-bent on testing her limits. To my credit, I almost made it to the freeway before my bike coughed its last breath. Seems I burned up the transmission. How was I supposed to know I had to shift gears? To Shelly’s credit, she didn’t abandon me and stuck me on the back of her Harley. I’m not certain which is worse, being snacked on by zombies or the humiliation of riding on the back of a chick’s bike.

Don’t laugh. It’s not funny.

In case you didn’t read my last post, Shelly and I have set off for greener pastures, or at least pastures where the laws of nature aren’t being screwed with by discourteous ETs. We decided to travel light and forage for supplies along the way, choosing to carry weapons and ammo in lieu of food. This, as you might expect, was Shelly’s idea. I would have preferred to bring food instead of weapons and thus avoid the messy scavenging bits altogether. Strange how she always seems to get her way. Then again, maybe it’s not. Better to die for someone worth dying for than to live on for no reason at all.

Who am I kidding? It’s the sex, plain and simple.

Abandoned casino at Asbury Park, NJ

Speaking of the devil, Shelly, true to her nature, led me on another of her suicide adventures not fifteen miles from home. Besides Walmart or Disneyland, what’s the last place in Southern California you’d wish to visit during a zombie apocalypse? An Indian casino, right? Do you know how many people swarmed to the casinos with their life savings when they realized the world was coming to an end? From what I’ve seen, the answer is a lot. And what does Shelly decide she just has to do? Play the slots, that’s what. God help me, my girlfriend’s got the survival instincts of a Lemming, and I keep swimming after her.

Needless to say, our gambling spree was short lived. We stormed into the casino with shotguns pumped and ready. We ventilated the skulls of those who greeted us inside and Shelly blew open the giant slot machine that welcomed gamblers to the casino. Tokens spilled out onto the floor, and Shelly jumped around like a shameless game show contestant, screaming. “I won! I won! I won!”

I won’t bore you with the details of our escape—if you want to call it that. Just take my word that we found ourselves surrounded by a gazillion zombies and fought our way to the casino roof where we managed to barricade the door.

Anyway, I hate long posts so I’ll end this one here. Stay tuned to see if Shelly and I die a horrible death.

Jackpot #neon #neonmuesum #sign #vintage

Mother Nature’s a Mother

Tropical Cyclone Bingiza

Tropical Cyclone Bingiza (Photo credit: NASA Goddard Photo and Video)

I’ve been so preoccupied with the living dead prowling outside my doors that I’d completely forgotten about good ol’ Mother Nature. She came back into focus yesterday with the storm news from the upper east coast. The internet is on overload. The pictures I’m seeing are mind boggling. It looks to me like a hurricane. Do they have hurricanes in New England?

Reports are coming in about power outages in several storm states. I fear that once power is lost, it will be lost for good. After all, who’s going to bring it back on line? For those without power, I pray it’s a mild winter.

This brings me to my own regional vulnerability. It’s been five years to the month since wildfires ravaged southern California. If not for the firefighters, I’d have lost my home. What will be the result with no one to fight the fires? You’ve certainly heard the reports that Fresno, Bakersfield, and Oxnard are burning.  I feel like I’m sitting on a time bomb. How long do I have before my home goes up in flames?

Of course, fire is also a fool proof means of purging the living dead. May this eastern storm have a similar effect.

Wildfires

Wildfires (Photo credit: agrilifetoday)