Fry!

rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr It was 3:23 A.M., and my brother was as sweaty as a fat country sheriff. The wrangling went bad that night, and I dealt with the brunt of it. My brother's name is Kolbe. Kolbe was sitting in the passenger sit of the Jeep Wrangler, all black, and his face showed a gaping hole gasping for air. I turned on the light to get a better look at how he was doing. Terrible. A river of deep red came from his mouth, and his shirt looked like he just spread ketchup all over it all over it. So, I told him, “Shut up.” I picked up a Bic pen that was in the center console, took out the ink, took off the tip, and shoved it into my brother's throat. He could breathe now. The world was entirely different for us. It was night, but the sky wouldn't stop howling at the earth, and colors wouldn't stop whispering against the trees. Rocks tumbled out of nowhere from the sky blowing into bottles and whistling downward. Mushrooms grew huge into the sky. The atmosphere had changed and made everything’s color booming, vibrant and flowing. I saw a blue jay sitting in the branches of a gigantic white oak. The blue jay’s color was waving to and fro though the blue jay itself did not move. This was happening to most other things too. I inhaled the air and exhaled. Thick smoke traveled out of my mouth and in front of my brother’s face. The smoke trickled through veins in the air in front of my brother. This continued to happen for a few minutes. The same thing was happening to Kolbe. When it all blew away, he asked me, “Do you think humans are going back to primeval standards?” He was perfectly fine. I told him, “Fucking fuck, man, I was worried to shit!” He only went, “What?” So, in reply I went, “Man, just never mind.” I looked back out the front window of the Jeep. “Oh, crap,” came passively off my tongue. A mass of people were running right at us. Their flesh looked...“What the hell, man? They're rotting and smell like death or they’re just bone.” They were coming right at us. They looked pissed. Not only that, but they had a ton of guns. Kolbe turned to me, “We’ve got guns”
Their bodies broke my eyes, and when I gained my insights I realized my brother and I had to stop this army of living dead. It's a good thing we took guns on our trip. I took out a Camel unfiltered and told Kolbe, "Let's shoot the fuckers up!" I hopped out of the Jeep and used the door as cover. I put my cigarette in my mouth. It was my first cigarette of the day, and it was like kissing Jesus when I should be crapping my pants. Glowing orange set it afire. The illuminated tip extended beyond the cigarette and guided my thoughts. I breathed steadier, and grasped the wood of the .44 magnum. I pointed the long, shiny barrel at my first victim. My trigger finger pulled and released. Death traveled to the rotting being at 300 feet per second. Blood, brain and bone was everywhere.
Suddenly, they had all stopped dead in their tracks. I heard a voice scream, “Wha’ da heel wa dat fo’?! We allreddye friggin’ daed!” I didn’t realize they could talk. The voice nearly made me pass out. It was as if a small worm was wriggling inside my ear when he spoke. I stepped back in fear. But, I pushed on and gained the courage to ask the crowd of zombies, “What do you want?” Another voice that was not so eerily wormy but rather surfer-ish answered my question, “Uh…well, dood, were just here ta partay and scoor!” As I looked closer, I realized…and then Kolbe turned to me said, “Hey, man, those aren’t guns. They’re holding beer and wine and vodka and absinth and chips and beer and beer and beer! Holy shit, man! They have so much beer! Dude, I love beer!” I replied to him with, “You’re right. I love beer too!”
The surfer voice said something again, “Do you doods wanna come with? Were gonna pick up some chicks!” Kolbe and I discussed the proposal in private, speaking in whispers. Here’s how it went:
I said, “Can we trust them?”
Kolbe replied with, “They’re dead.”
“True…but they look like they know how to party.”
“They sure do…but they’re dead”
I rubbed my bearded chin as I trialed the pitch. I told Kolbe, “Look…they may be zombies, but they have good beer.”
“Yeah, fuck it, the world looks like it’s ending, but good beer brings good times!”
“Yeah, man, you may as well dance if you’re on thin ice.”
As we were conversing in secrecy, the party zombies were having a conversation that went like this:
“Neow, whaeye di’ yew axe two mo’tels li’ dem ta paw-dee wit uz?” questioned Black John, he was the one with the creepy, crawling and wormy voice.
“Man, I assed those mortools ta partee with us ‘cause…I mean…the more, the jollier!” answered White John; he had the surfer voice.
“Bu’…dey’s mo’tels! ‘n dey jus’ keeled wun’a our buddeez.”
“So? S’not like the dood wud’nt already dead.”
“Das true, I gheeus.”
After all the talking was over with, Kolbe and I dropped our guns onto the abyss of black pavement and kicked them into a near-by sewer drain. We walked casually over to the party zombies, each step sent small shockwaves swimming under our feet. When we were face to face with them, Kolbe jovially said with half a smile, “You part with the living, you party with the dead. A party’s a party, and parties are great!” My cheeks pushed up with a grin, and my head gave a nod of agreement. “Awhsome, jawhsome, bros!” cried out the surfer zombie, “Muh name is White John.” He turned to the other zombie with the wormy voice, the eerie zombie said, “Muh naym iz Blehack John.” I introduced myself, “My name Forrest. I never met a dead man before…pretty neat. Surprised you don’t want to eat us!” I laughed nervously, but they laughed along which made me feel more comfortable. My brother said to them, “I’m Kolbe. How you guys doing?”