Zombie Wastelands: Final Strain



Suggested Audio Candy


Rammstein “Feuer Frei”



Conducting an in-depth interview when famished zombies are hanging from the door frames, gnawing through ply board to get to the brains the other side, is never going to be a particularly fruitful pursuit and it appears my moment may well be passing, temporarily at least.

“Excuse me son. We may have to pick this up later on down the road”

I shall have to wait to find out why folk call him Mad Brad as more pressing matters are at hand. He pulls his hunting knife from his boot and makes his way over to Clint and Bubba who are coming a cropper due to the sheer wealth of dead heads pressing against the barricade. Presumably the aroma of fresh cerebellum for the chow down isn’t being emitted from Bubba’s microscopic throb-box as he barely has twin cells to rub together. Poor bastard, he could take a bite and throw the whole operation into chaos as we would have no conceivable way of detecting the signs.


He moves aside when he sees Brad approaching and even his brother, who is cantankerous to the core, offers the wide berth necessitated for the destroyer to pitch camp.

“Whatcha gone do madman?”


He puts his chopper to work, trimming away any flailing limbs as though they were excess trimmings on a warm apple tart. Blood sprays across all three men but it is Brad who takes the splash damage the most willingly. His nerves are like steel, nothing fazes him, and he actually appears to be relishing the gory hornet’s nest which he is single-handedly fashioning. I’m mightily impressed, overawed to be honest, and witnessing true leadership from a man who doesn’t buckle under pressure. His actions alone are giving me answers to so many burning questions like how does one look away from a pair of sexually entwined lesbian pole-dancers? The answer is Mad Brad Potts. I sure am thankful to have him around right now. Do you think he’ll mind if I give him a hug?


Speaking of the lusty ladies, they appear all-square on the chewing fat front and have finally separated from one another’s embrace, albeit momentarily. Goddamn that was a sight for weary eyes. Neither of these vixens shows any sign of inauguration, just two good old-fashioned shapely Southern hotpots with enough meat around the marrow to feed a zombie family for a month. Hell, they may even be enough left over to compile me a little take away nose-bag. I’m in two minds here as part of me has spent the last five minutes pondering over offering my services as spotter and that’s the half containing my dick and balls. The other half? Well that just ain’t that important now is it? If zombies are about to overrun our asses at any given moment then why not go out with a faint twitch in your sack right?


Notably no percentile of my being wishes to join Brad at the doorway. This isn’t cowardice and certainly isn’t a mean play on my part. He just has it covered, I’d only end up getting in his way and, besides, the only spot currently available is less than a foot away from Bubba’s armpit and that dude can’t even spell roll-on, let alone apply it. At any rate, it’s his brother who really gets my goat and the sole reason I’m not wearing his face as a mitten right now is because he offered me a lift in the first place. Nevertheless the ice he skates upon is perilously thin and I’m just waiting for the first opportunity to wipe that shit-eating grin off his smug face. On the plus side he is brandishing that sawn-off shotgun so, with a little luck, he’ll blow his own dick off at the root and bleed to death ever so slowly. Sure, we’d be another slug down but that seems like a fairly astute way to use it all things considered.


It’s all irrelevant anyways as Mad Brad Potts has the situation firmly in hand as always. As much as the walkers are desperate to find a route in, it appears he is carving an opening out. Considering these are the walking dead we are dealing with and they only require one light nibble to fuck up your piss water, it could be construed as a foolhardy approach but, if I have learned one thing in my time at the The Monkey Spanker, it is that this dude ain’t nobody’s chow down. All their best efforts will ultimately be in vain as death tastes even nicer second time round in Brad’s eyes and he’s all about the giving. It appears as though I may be surplus to requirements here as the threat that originally appeared so ominous is now little more than a distraction to the single-handed judgement this guy casts.


It’s as though no effort whatsoever is being expelled, like this is a leisurely stroll across the desert sands for him. Let’s not forget the threat that a zombie ordinarily poses. On their own they may be little more than shuffling bullseyes but in a posses they pose a pretty potent threat. If you need any convincing on that point then take a mooch about downstairs. It’s actually a darned shame as this is the kind of establishment I would gladly frequent and I feel like I’ve never gotten the chance to fully experience the true delights The Monkey Spanker has to offer. That said, what I have witnessed has shown me that Texas is gonna be just fine.


Finally the whole door frame splinters into sawdust at Brad’s feet and the expected glut of bloodthirsty zombies doesn’t materialize from the other side. He’s only gone and hacked away every last one of them and any “survivors” are in no fit state to do anything but gnaw his boot laces. I came here primarily to learn something about the enigma that is Mad Brad Potts and, although we haven’t yet been afforded time to chew the fat, I’m going away with a trailer-load of answers. Hopefully soon we will be able to finish our tête-à-tête as I’m still fascinated to find out more but maybe not in an environment so overrun with decomposing flesh. Any stragglers are dealt with in turn either with that colossal serrated blade or the heel of his boot which compacts any skulls littering the exit way.


Sensing the safe passage required to bolt with their tails between their ass cracks, Clint and Bubba are first down the stairs and on their way back to their battered Chevy pick-up, presumably to sniff one another’s digits as zombie slaying sure does make your balls sweat. As for Ebony and Ivory, well side-by-side on a piano isn’t the only place these two are effective. Heck, I didn’t even get to see them fight and am assured that would have been some sight to behold. One thing is for damned sure; if they put the same elbow grease into eviscerating the undead as they do flossing one another’s Fallopian funnels then this zombie outbreak will be nothing more than a teensy weensy flash in the pan.


These girls despise men and all that they stand for so nothing that has occurred really caused them to break sweat. Should another dick stop swinging then there’s always a trusty vibrator looking to take its place. It’s just superfluous to their requirements and it’s hard arguing with that logic when their connection is so fierce and extensive. Despite their loathing of the male sex I still notice a nod of appreciation aimed at Mad Brad as they exit the bar and prepare to climb aboard their single Harley customized with black and white trim. I have a feeling I may just run into Ebony and Ivory again further on down the trail and I’ll certainly be seeing them again on the inside of my eyelids as I thrash one out the moment I arrive home or likely sooner. Alright you’ve got me, I’m headed straight for the restroom the very second I’ve ceased my communication with you lot.


Eventually it is just Potts and I and it suddenly dawns on me that the ruckus has died down somewhat. The dead are even deader than before and the only other folk for miles of here are Otis and his mother who are busy catching up in the basement from the groans I discern. Now would actually be the ideal time to grab those few minutes alone with the big man. Actually, it would appear that Brad has precisely the same idea.

“I never did get that Bourbon with chaser”

Thankfully, he makes this remark with a warm smile. I make my way back to the bar and slide over the counter to prepare our poisons a second time. I actually very nearly come to mischief as it is coated with a deep red sheen since Otis surrendered those digits but nothing is going to spoil this proud moment dagnabbit.

“Coming up my brother, coming up”

Now how’s about one for the scrapbook?





Truly, Clearly, Really, Sincerely,


Keeper of the Crimson Quill


Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014




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