Zombie Short Story
Don't know if this is going anywhere.
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
I didn’t know the dead had risen because I’d spent the wee hours of the morning vomiting in the bathtub. Normally, I’d know better than to mix Beam and beer—and Christ, in such quantities--, but after the fifth was burning in my belly all I could think of was getting drunker. In the fridge were the remains of an Amber Bock twelve pack, normally saved for after dinner, just absolutely singing’ to me. Aw, c’mom, Andy, they crooned to my whiskey beaten brain. You’re a tough guy, you can keep at least four of us down. It’s not like we’re goddam tequila.
So, at the suggestion of talking domestic beer, I proceed to mix beer with a gut full of Kentucky bourbon. That’s when the night’s dinner of Taco Hell and kosher pickles decided to protest. The bathtub caught the brunt of my indiscretion because it was the first thing I saw. Now, I know guys that are cool and considerate enough to hold their stew until the can make it to the back porch, but I own neither of those traits. Quite simply, trailing a stream of partially digested indentured servant picked tomatoes and semi-expensive spirits, I shouldered through the bathroom door and upchucked into my tub. I hate puking in general, but especially hard liquor because it likes to come out my nose. After that, I passed out with my head on the forgivingly cool tub sill.
At least I didn’t shit my pants.
I woke up later that morning, hung over, still a little drunk, with a bad neck cramp. Prompted my the stink of stale alcohol and stomach acid I fumbled on the shower and let the icy water needle my throbbing gourd. As my expelled juices began to clog the drain I negotiated with the sweet baby Jesus over what it would cost me to end the English soccer riot between my ears. Confident that my credit had run out with Almighty, I paused under the water for a few minutes, taking long gulps of water, waiting for the swaying poop deck of my existence to reach equilibrium.
Wary not to swoon and yank the sink off the wall, I slowly got myself into a standing position. This little feat was immediately rewarded with another surge of bile. This time I had the civility to vomit in the toilet like a grown up. Little came out this time, but I forced my self to dry heave a few times, anyway. There’s nothing worse than getting to the nirvana of your own bed just to puke in it.
Wiping puke and snot from my mouth I made the bad decision to look in the mirror. Christ, I was fugly. I’ve never been a pretty man, but being deathly hung over and soaked from the shoulders up wouldn’t get me any closer to the cover of GQ. My unkempt black hair was one huge cowlick, all swept to the left by the flow of the shower, and my eyes were even more bloodshot and red rimmed than usual. My left eye was so bad that the green iris looked like an old martini olive. I could only hope that my more sallow than usual complexion wasn’t sign of impending liver failure. Grimacing at myself, I knocked back two aspirin with a generous swallow of Pepto from the medicine shelf.
Miserable, but confident I wouldn’t vomit anytime soon, I picked up the bathroom wastebasket and stumbled into the adjoining bedroom. Pausing only to strip off my wet t-shirt and place the wastebasket in a tactical position I collapsed into my meager twin bed. There are few joys in life and trying to force yourself to sleep while monstrously hung over is not one of them.
While I fitfully slept, the world died.
So, at the suggestion of talking domestic beer, I proceed to mix beer with a gut full of Kentucky bourbon. That’s when the night’s dinner of Taco Hell and kosher pickles decided to protest. The bathtub caught the brunt of my indiscretion because it was the first thing I saw. Now, I know guys that are cool and considerate enough to hold their stew until the can make it to the back porch, but I own neither of those traits. Quite simply, trailing a stream of partially digested indentured servant picked tomatoes and semi-expensive spirits, I shouldered through the bathroom door and upchucked into my tub. I hate puking in general, but especially hard liquor because it likes to come out my nose. After that, I passed out with my head on the forgivingly cool tub sill.
At least I didn’t shit my pants.
I woke up later that morning, hung over, still a little drunk, with a bad neck cramp. Prompted my the stink of stale alcohol and stomach acid I fumbled on the shower and let the icy water needle my throbbing gourd. As my expelled juices began to clog the drain I negotiated with the sweet baby Jesus over what it would cost me to end the English soccer riot between my ears. Confident that my credit had run out with Almighty, I paused under the water for a few minutes, taking long gulps of water, waiting for the swaying poop deck of my existence to reach equilibrium.
Wary not to swoon and yank the sink off the wall, I slowly got myself into a standing position. This little feat was immediately rewarded with another surge of bile. This time I had the civility to vomit in the toilet like a grown up. Little came out this time, but I forced my self to dry heave a few times, anyway. There’s nothing worse than getting to the nirvana of your own bed just to puke in it.
Wiping puke and snot from my mouth I made the bad decision to look in the mirror. Christ, I was fugly. I’ve never been a pretty man, but being deathly hung over and soaked from the shoulders up wouldn’t get me any closer to the cover of GQ. My unkempt black hair was one huge cowlick, all swept to the left by the flow of the shower, and my eyes were even more bloodshot and red rimmed than usual. My left eye was so bad that the green iris looked like an old martini olive. I could only hope that my more sallow than usual complexion wasn’t sign of impending liver failure. Grimacing at myself, I knocked back two aspirin with a generous swallow of Pepto from the medicine shelf.
Miserable, but confident I wouldn’t vomit anytime soon, I picked up the bathroom wastebasket and stumbled into the adjoining bedroom. Pausing only to strip off my wet t-shirt and place the wastebasket in a tactical position I collapsed into my meager twin bed. There are few joys in life and trying to force yourself to sleep while monstrously hung over is not one of them.
While I fitfully slept, the world died.
