Post by brewster bonaventure gallagher on Apr 4, 2010 18:59:27 GMT -5
BREWSTER BONAVENTURE GALLAGHER.
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LIFE in the Inferi compound is alright, he’s decided. the fare is ... fair, the rations dece,
and the people pleasantly strange. here he’s met hippies and zombielovers and self-righteous sergeants that bark like there’s no tomorrow. (one of which he owes for saving his life.) if not for said barking sergeant he’d still be
t i p t o e i n g
out in the great unknown, with that growing trepidation gnawing at his heels.
and likely would have fallen prey to something out there.
GOD knows if a zombie had retained enough vocal capacity to tell him as he wandered,
SIT STILL WHILST I EAT JOOO,[/i]
his thoughtful, immediate obedience would have been their reward.[/font]
THINGS haven’t changed since then. sure, the setting’s different; now people buzz around him with a purpose and help to keep that dreaded loneliness at bay. their hubbub is welcome and nostalgic and when he concentrates on it long enough he can almost envision himself in the warmest corner of Expresso Yourself, before this unfortunate zombie business put an end to his coffee franchise. instead of hazelnut perfume, these days he breathes smog; each stale breath recycled a hundred times before him. instead of café clamor, these days it’s the barking of Inferi leaders. but even if the walls of the Inferi’s corporate base are what stretch above him now, like the limbs of giants, his heart remains the same. it is willing to surrender itself to the first person that asks; ready to perform any deed in return for a little affection or maybe just an ear to hear his trivia:
A HIPPOPOTAMUS’S SWEAT IS PINK.
THE clusterfuck of skin and bone known as brewster arms himself; depending on a simple pistol
(zombie survival guide violation #5241.93)
because he doesn’t really want to kill anything; today, if ever.
THE gun is the closest thing he has to a friend, and it’s a bitter piece of metal. it’s with a sense of camaraderie that he reloads her; that he straps her securely in his holster. she communicates in a series of clicks and grunts and he supposes that’s good enough for now. he won’t allow himself to think how much he preferred the company of his cash register back at Expresso Yourself. that never ends well; always makes his pistol (he calls her Marie!) jealous.
FULLY loaded (by his standards, at least), he pulls on his gasmask and pulls out of the interior of Zinc Inc., on orders to police the city.
AND you know that he just wants to please.
HE crawls through streets where the flighty lighting gives him the complexion of a breadcrumb; walks through the maze that surrounds Zinc Inc., and then, like his mind, his legs really start to wander. his jacket clings tightly to him like a second skin, or worse; like a jogger’s spandex jumpsuit. it mewls in protest at every movement (just like he wants to) and whimpers at the frigid air (just like he wants to!) , but his feet tread forward, in defiance he’ll never know he has.
t r u d g e , t r u d g e ,
the sound of his footsteps on urban terrain.
little does he know where his scamps have lead him:
into the town square; zombie central.
LOOTERS appear to have gotten here before the undead have. not a windowpane here remains completely intact. the square is an abstract masterpiece painted in shrapnel and glass; a rebel mosaic, courtesy the first thieves of Fritch. in the center of this wreckage, they gather.
THEIR moans are enough to drive a man crazy. decay brews in their veins like fatal moonshine and their eyes hang from the sockets of their faces. their movements are slow, unrefined and spastic, and there are horrible cavities in their faces where he just knows skin should be, had rot or frost not gotten there first. it’s so sad to see something cling to life like this. in the back of the incomplete Encyclopedia Britannica he calls a brain, he realizes that they’re ‘newborns’, by zombie standards.
AND he knows they were human once
and that the Inferi instruct against shooting them at all costs
and that he’s absolutely quaking in these boots.
he’s as scared to make eye contact with a member of the undead as he is to make eye contract with the living.
SURVEY SAYS IT’S TIME TO PANIC.
so he flings himself into a bush nearby and hopes to wait them out.
HIS breathing is ragged; will give him away if he doesn’t calm down fast enough.
HE tries to calm himself with trivia.
IT TAKES NINE POUNDS OF PRESSURE
TO BREAK A HUMAN NOSE.
MAYBE if he stays here until nightfall they’ll have gone away?[/size]
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MIRROR MIRROR ON THE WALL,
SHOW ME WHERE THE BOMBS WILL FALL.
☕ 700. ☕ complete. ☕ tommy!
i’m a chemical kid, you’re a mechanical bride![/i][/font]
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