Zombie Wastelands: Second Strain

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I have found myself in some increasingly perilous situations before whilst on my travels but, as far as fixes go, things could actually be a helluva lot worse than the plight I find myself in currently. Granted, hundreds upon hundreds of ravenous walkers frantically clawing away at the wooden fortifications is not the warm welcome I had in mind when I set out on my current expedition but is counter-balanced by the oily vixens sliding up and down numerous greased-up poles before my eyes so I’m more than willing to take the rough with the smooth on this occasion. I guess I do have something in common with these redneck hicks after all although I’m guessing (and praying) any similarities end there.

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Okay so I’ve spotted Bubba amidst all the cigar smoke and man-sweat. He is currently perched glazed-eyed within sniffing distance of one particularly hot honey with panties round her knees and her back rack gyrating in his face. His tongue is fully unraveled and dangling from his mouth like a neck tie. I don’t really hold out much hope for the poor fucktard as his entire almanac of sexual enlightenment consists of a night of passion with a billy-goat and a rolled up issue of National Geographic he discovered in his brother Clint’s truck. At least he is contented, although I fear for his right hand which still hasn’t materialized from the front of his pants. Now let’s not get this twisted, I’m fully aware of the joys of fondling one’s testicles once in a while, but there’s a time and a place for everything and ordinarily that time and place is somewhere quiet when nobody else is privy. Not Bubba, he clearly takes great pride in giving his globes a good scratching and, if he’s happy, then I guess I’m happy too. Mildly nauseous but happy nonetheless. I have the whiskey to thank for that.

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Clint, on the other hand, is faring somewhat better in the back bar having a private lap dance whilst still clutching his boomstick excitedly. Prepared like the proverbial boy scout for the eventuality that the barracks become breached, it’s evident this dude can handle any shitstorm brewing outside even if he hasn’t sussed out the art of wiping front to back yet. Indeed, he’s in good company, as folk at the bar seem ony too glad to make mention of the main man, Mad Brad Potts, and seem unperturbed by the undead horde steadily breaking through the defenses board by board. This dude knows how to handle such outbreaks and pisses nitric acid and shits plutonium, if rumor has it correctly. This should be a cakewalk. You see, I’d like to think myself not too shabby either in a fracas, and know how to swing a few knuckles when push comes to shove. Whether they actually make contact is irrelevant as, what matters most, is that I’ll look like I mean business and we’re hardly talking about the smartest of opponents are we?

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Were you aware that females can kick ass too? Indeed they can and this is attested by Ebony and Ivory; two pole-dancing sex kittens, unsurprisingly one black, one white, and both hot as fuck, perhaps more so. The darker vixen is apparently a crack shot with ranged blades, which she keeps stashed down the side of each cowboy boot, (her only attire I might add), while her pale-faced associate brandishes an elongated hand-scythe which is stored behind the bar I hear. Judging by the speed in which all blood is currently draining from my upper torso, I believe I may have just passed through heaven’s gates as there are few things than please me more than a two-for-one deal. Alas, I am informed that I’m barking up the wrong tree with Ebony and Ivory, not that the heaving erection digging in my ribs seems to mind. Perhaps I’ll leave it until later to break it to the little guy as I’d hate to play party pooper.

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You see, neither have as much as a whiff of interest in males no matter how alpha the packaging and instead they get all their kicks and licks from each other. Both can reach climax by gaining a scalp, multiple via their awesome finishing move which entails Ebony pinning said victim with her serrated blades while Ivory completes the combo by lopping off the top box. The punters seem to think it something of a joy to behold, especially when the pair conclude with a bloody embrace and dozens of knees commence trembling in unison. Otis runs the bar and has done since his mama succumbed to a zombie bite a decade ago. Would you believe she’s still around; locked away in the cellar where she is chained to the back wall. I hear she’s starting to look a tad weathered now as she was 72 when she got infected, and has decomposed considerably over the past few years. Always the momma’s boy, Otis takes a tray of entrails to his dear mother daily. Evidently, his staff dread changing the barrels!

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Anyhoots, outside of a few inconsequential locals who pretty much have the word DINNER tattooed across their foreheads, that’s the entire personnel of The Monkey Spanker accounted for I do believe. I have to say I’m a little perturbed by the absence of Mad Brad Potts as I still haven’t seen hide nor hair of our burly hero and that’s a bone of mild contention as I’m chomping at the bit to chew some gristle with the man himself. I mean, it’s not as if he’s difficult to misplace. Brad is built like an ox and with corresponding might, and cuts an imposing figure on any a barren landscape no doubt. After the long journey I have embarked on from the United Kingdom just to break bread with him, perhaps he’s just planning a grand entrance for little old me. I do love me one of those and all will be forgiven once he graces me with his immeasurable presence.

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Suddenly there is a blood-curdling scream from the only place not yet traversed by the Keeper – the games room. The dark heart within me beckons me forward with the promise of potential splatter on the platter, something I never could pass up. Never one to shy away from such a delectable invitation, I stride briskly forward, armed with my own intimate weapon of choice – the Crimson Quill. As I turn the corner to survey, I’m greeted by the aroma of liquor and a dense cloud of fine Cuban cigar smoke. Once the hanging mist begins to dissipate, my dark heart gets exactly what it has been hankering after. One of the locals is against the breached window, restrained by a multitude of grabbing feelers and something tells me this is about to get decidedly messy. Goody gum drops.

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It would appear that I couldn’t have timed my arrival better as a set of gnashing teeth sink into the poor unfortunate’s cranium, sending a sickening spray of deep red jettisoning forth and all over the felt of a nearby pool table. This hapless fucker is way beyond assistance and, as the incisors clench down on his thought-box, they force his scalp free along with fragments of splintered skull from above his eye-socket. I do believe that makes it game over man. However, the undead aggressor gets barely enough time to savour that first bloody bite when a pool cue is sent hurtling across the room, finding a soft abode in his right eye-socket, pushing the orb back into his brain with a sickening squelch as it bursts in a spew of retinal fluids. Following the cue’s trajectory backwards, I am finally presented the main dish I came here for – Mad Brad Potts.

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“Ya fucked up mah shot!!”

That appears all she wrote for now as he has nonchalantly returned to his game, sinking the eight ball off three cushions to be precise. Ignoring the crescendo of crimson curd emanating from the dead man’s face, I calmly make my way over and, shadow casting over his line of sight, he looks slowly up to greet my appreciative gaze. I could dance a jig right now if it weren’t for the fact that I’m far too cool to do so. Actually, the jig isn’t my specialty, but I assure you I’m doing one on the inside. I do hope Brad doesn’t have X-ray vision.

Click here to read Third Strain

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Truly, Clearly, Really, Sincerely,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

#BrutalWordWrangler #CrimsonHoneyDripper #CruelWordSculptor
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014

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