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jack_babalonA damp basement with boarded up windows allowing only gray slats of dust speckled light to slice through the surrounding gloom. A wall covered in nothing but stacked up second hand television sets, each one is on but the reception is for shit down here. A cascade of sing-song voiced commercials, just-past-their-expiration-date sitcoms, ostentatious soap operas, news anchormen click-clacking facts in monotone - melting and reforming through the toothpaste green static miasma, mesmerizing, aradioactive lava-lamp. The room is flooded with the fizzing noise of the airwaves drowning out the tin can laughtracks and the brooding piano solos that accompany dramatic close-ups. There is a battered boxing bag, hanging under the lone flickering bulb, painted crudely with a slap-dash art-brut Jesus that seems to have been executed with the simple broad strokes of children, the mentally handicapped and 'geniuses'. If you strain your eyes, you'll be able to make out the rusted spades, chipped hammers, the vise grips resembling the heads of Geiger aliens, dull screwdrivers and drywall mud splattered spatulas hanging off metal hooks from a perforated wooden board.
There's the smell of bug spray, mold and wet cat food.
In the center there is a large chair made out of carefully stacked Campbells Soup cans and tins of Spam. This throne is flanked by a thoroughly dented washer and dryer on each side, they have crudely drawn monster faces drawn across their fronts in black magic marker. An AK-47 rests along one of the the right hand arm while a splayed issue of PENTHOUSE rests spine up on the left. A man sits there, looking somewhere between ponderous and bored, staring out indifferently across the void between the scene and the page. He is exactly the kind of man you see in your head when I say a word like "Slum Lord": Not so much white as pale, barrel gut held in the sling of a beer stained wife beater, tartan boxers with crotch worn out, black socks, a mane of black fur across his shoulders and the sweat on his head holding down the strands of his combover across his dome.
"Alright now lissen up! I'm not gonna say this twice! I am the last man standing! That's right... me!" he reaches over and unclips a cold one off a six pack resting by the leg of the chair. He pops the lid and gives himself a toast. "You hear that? Me. Not you! Not your wife, not your damn kids, not even your boss or his boss or her boss! ME! Got it! Not some cop or solider or scientist or any of that shit you see in the doomsday movies... ME! Not Charleton Heston! Not Vincent Fucking Price! Not whassisface...ME mother fucker ME!"
He takes himself a thoughtfull sip followed by a mindless wiping of his chin with the side of his wrist.
"As for everyone else? Simple. They're either Zombies or Vampires!"
Another sip, this one longer.
"Lemme explain. First you got your zombies, right? This is like... I dunno 90 percent of the world's Population. They walk around with no life in 'em looking for 'brains' to eat. Know why? Cause they ain't got no ideas of their own anymore, got no memories anymore... except whatever they saw on TV last night... they got no... whachacallit..." taps his temple three times quick, "... sub-conscious. No dreams. That's why they eat our brains, see? Cause the dead don't dream no more... but they still need 'em. Need 'em bad. enough to kill ya. Don't know why they do but believe me when I say that they will tear you apart to get at 'em. Just grab you, throw you down and tear all the meat off you like you were a god damn fried chicken. They won't even finish you off. Nope. 'Cause once they start eating you you start becoming one of them. You got no choice. Your body changes itself into one of them. 'Adpats' or whatever. It knows that thats the only way to survive."
He glugs the beer down, crushes it with his fist and tosses it behind him where it hits the water heater with a loud clang. Pops another one off the six pack and snaps it open. Foam hisses out and he sucks it down quick not wanting to waste a single drop. Another wipe of the chin and a tilt of the hips to let out a fart.
"The rest of 'em, pffff.... vampires, plain and simple! Now don't go thinkin' that by 'vampire' I mean any of that poffy gay ass shit you see in the movies now a days. This ain't dinner and a movie with the Count. This is blood sucking monsters that come crawling into your bed at night when your asleep!"
Throws his back and guzzles the beer. A loud belch.
"That ain't to say they ain't seductive. They have to be. See, the zombie needs brains for their dreams, but vampires... they need blood because thats where the love is. The love's in the heart and the blood soaks in it when it goes through our bodies. Vampires ain't got no love in 'em. They got lust, they got obsession, they got pride out the yin-yang but real honest to god love... no dice! That's why they fear the cross. It ain't the Jesus that spooks 'em but the Sacrifice, that whole givin' of the self thing that stings ther eyes like mace."
He drains the can and lets this rest on the arm chair.
"But just 'cause they can't love don't mean they can't make you love 'em. That's the worst part. Not being sucked dry through the neck... na-uh.... its the betrayl... but just like in the movies its the same deal wid the zombies... when you get bit by a vampire your body shuts down and becomes one of them. The love is gone now, drained, evaporated and without it the sunlight burns you like fire while the blood just boils, boils inside and you can feel it itching under your skin. The next thing y'know you're crawling through someones window in the middle of the night lookin' for it... takin' it... leavin' nothing behind but another hollow monster where a human being once was."
He hangs his head down. His eyes masked by shadows, something almost leaks out of him but he sniffles it back. Silence. No movement. A half minute crawls by. Then he snaps off another beer and takes a quick taste and then grabs the Ak.
"...'nother thing the movies got right though: A bullet through the head for zombies, a bullet in the heart for vampires. Nope you don't need a stake, good old fashioned American lead does the trick just fine! I'm ready for 'em too!"
He cycles the rifle through a series of clicks and slides and aims it out across the barrier of the page.
There is a knocking sound from the stairway above.
"What is it!" he screams swiveling the gun .
"Honey" a muffled womens voice, "It's your mother on the phone. She wants to know if you don't mind walnuts in the stuffing."
"What?"
"She wants to know if you don't mind walnuts in the stuffing" the voice repeats slowly, emphasizing the words the way you do with children.
"I don't mind" he yells back softer.
"...and she wants to know if we're still bringing the Cranberry sauce."
"Yessss..." he voice cracks with annoyance.
"She's your mother."
"I didn't say anything"
Silence. The man turns back towards us, lays the AK back down where it was, takes a quick sip of his beer and gets up off his throne with some effort. He waddles his way to the steps, turns towards you out there across the fourth wall or whatever.
"Zombies or vampires? Which one are you?"
Reluctantly he makes his way up the stairs.
There's the smell of bug spray, mold and wet cat food.
In the center there is a large chair made out of carefully stacked Campbells Soup cans and tins of Spam. This throne is flanked by a thoroughly dented washer and dryer on each side, they have crudely drawn monster faces drawn across their fronts in black magic marker. An AK-47 rests along one of the the right hand arm while a splayed issue of PENTHOUSE rests spine up on the left. A man sits there, looking somewhere between ponderous and bored, staring out indifferently across the void between the scene and the page. He is exactly the kind of man you see in your head when I say a word like "Slum Lord": Not so much white as pale, barrel gut held in the sling of a beer stained wife beater, tartan boxers with crotch worn out, black socks, a mane of black fur across his shoulders and the sweat on his head holding down the strands of his combover across his dome.
"Alright now lissen up! I'm not gonna say this twice! I am the last man standing! That's right... me!" he reaches over and unclips a cold one off a six pack resting by the leg of the chair. He pops the lid and gives himself a toast. "You hear that? Me. Not you! Not your wife, not your damn kids, not even your boss or his boss or her boss! ME! Got it! Not some cop or solider or scientist or any of that shit you see in the doomsday movies... ME! Not Charleton Heston! Not Vincent Fucking Price! Not whassisface...ME mother fucker ME!"
He takes himself a thoughtfull sip followed by a mindless wiping of his chin with the side of his wrist.
"As for everyone else? Simple. They're either Zombies or Vampires!"
Another sip, this one longer.
"Lemme explain. First you got your zombies, right? This is like... I dunno 90 percent of the world's Population. They walk around with no life in 'em looking for 'brains' to eat. Know why? Cause they ain't got no ideas of their own anymore, got no memories anymore... except whatever they saw on TV last night... they got no... whachacallit..." taps his temple three times quick, "... sub-conscious. No dreams. That's why they eat our brains, see? Cause the dead don't dream no more... but they still need 'em. Need 'em bad. enough to kill ya. Don't know why they do but believe me when I say that they will tear you apart to get at 'em. Just grab you, throw you down and tear all the meat off you like you were a god damn fried chicken. They won't even finish you off. Nope. 'Cause once they start eating you you start becoming one of them. You got no choice. Your body changes itself into one of them. 'Adpats' or whatever. It knows that thats the only way to survive."
He glugs the beer down, crushes it with his fist and tosses it behind him where it hits the water heater with a loud clang. Pops another one off the six pack and snaps it open. Foam hisses out and he sucks it down quick not wanting to waste a single drop. Another wipe of the chin and a tilt of the hips to let out a fart.
"The rest of 'em, pffff.... vampires, plain and simple! Now don't go thinkin' that by 'vampire' I mean any of that poffy gay ass shit you see in the movies now a days. This ain't dinner and a movie with the Count. This is blood sucking monsters that come crawling into your bed at night when your asleep!"
Throws his back and guzzles the beer. A loud belch.
"That ain't to say they ain't seductive. They have to be. See, the zombie needs brains for their dreams, but vampires... they need blood because thats where the love is. The love's in the heart and the blood soaks in it when it goes through our bodies. Vampires ain't got no love in 'em. They got lust, they got obsession, they got pride out the yin-yang but real honest to god love... no dice! That's why they fear the cross. It ain't the Jesus that spooks 'em but the Sacrifice, that whole givin' of the self thing that stings ther eyes like mace."
He drains the can and lets this rest on the arm chair.
"But just 'cause they can't love don't mean they can't make you love 'em. That's the worst part. Not being sucked dry through the neck... na-uh.... its the betrayl... but just like in the movies its the same deal wid the zombies... when you get bit by a vampire your body shuts down and becomes one of them. The love is gone now, drained, evaporated and without it the sunlight burns you like fire while the blood just boils, boils inside and you can feel it itching under your skin. The next thing y'know you're crawling through someones window in the middle of the night lookin' for it... takin' it... leavin' nothing behind but another hollow monster where a human being once was."
He hangs his head down. His eyes masked by shadows, something almost leaks out of him but he sniffles it back. Silence. No movement. A half minute crawls by. Then he snaps off another beer and takes a quick taste and then grabs the Ak.
"...'nother thing the movies got right though: A bullet through the head for zombies, a bullet in the heart for vampires. Nope you don't need a stake, good old fashioned American lead does the trick just fine! I'm ready for 'em too!"
He cycles the rifle through a series of clicks and slides and aims it out across the barrier of the page.
There is a knocking sound from the stairway above.
"What is it!" he screams swiveling the gun .
"Honey" a muffled womens voice, "It's your mother on the phone. She wants to know if you don't mind walnuts in the stuffing."
"What?"
"She wants to know if you don't mind walnuts in the stuffing" the voice repeats slowly, emphasizing the words the way you do with children.
"I don't mind" he yells back softer.
"...and she wants to know if we're still bringing the Cranberry sauce."
"Yessss..." he voice cracks with annoyance.
"She's your mother."
"I didn't say anything"
Silence. The man turns back towards us, lays the AK back down where it was, takes a quick sip of his beer and gets up off his throne with some effort. He waddles his way to the steps, turns towards you out there across the fourth wall or whatever.
"Zombies or vampires? Which one are you?"
Reluctantly he makes his way up the stairs.
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no subject
on 2007-11-22 03:16 am (UTC)I've found both in Atlanta.