Bob the Zombie (Part 2 of 4)
If you haven't read Part 1 (by Rebecca), go HERE first and read it before you continue. I'm going to paste the last paragraph of Part 1 here to make it look better. Also, the Zombie to English translations will be made in FOOTNOTES. Read them as you go along. OKAY. GO.
Bob had just about resigned himself to a life of eating pigeon crap and squirrel guts when, about a month after he'd first lost his leg to the unidentified falling anvil, he was dragging himself along down in the sewer, listening to nearby trains rumble past and drooling over the thought of all those people on them, people with fresh, juicy BRRAAAAAAIIIIIIINNNNSSS. He was so engrossed in his BRAIN fantasies that he didn't notice a Fellow Undead Creature shambling toward him. Oh, how Bob missed shambling.
"URNAAHHHHNUHAUGGG*," Bob grunted, attempting to fashion a frown with what little muscle and skin was left on his face. The Fellow Undead Creature (know from here on as the FUC) let out a strange noise that sounded like it could have been either maniacal laughter or a croup-like cough. Bob was not sure whether the FUC was dangerous or not. His first instinct was to get up and stand his ground, lest he lose another limb, but ALAS! He could no longer shamble! Bob glanced down at the empty space where his leg had been before the tragic anvil accident weeks before and sighed. His decaying arms were quite ineffectual when it came to moving quickly. It looked like he was stuck in that spot unless he wanted to try to roll away. After considering this, Bob resolved not to move. He had already lost a leg, and he wanted to keep his dignity.
The FUC was closing in now, proudly laughing his croup-laugh and flaunting his shamble like Joan Rivers flaunts her plastic surgery. Bob took these last few seconds to examine the rapidly advancing figure. He was surprisingly well-dressed for a zombie. His brown, double-breasted suit looked like it had come straight out of the Roaring Twenties. He carried a fountain pen in the front pocket of his jacket, although he would have had trouble writing with it (he had several fingers missing on each hand). Bob thought that if the FUC had hair, it would have probably been neatly combed with a straight part right down the middle. From the amount of decaying flesh hanging from his body (including a dangling eyeball that looked like it was about to fall off completely), Bob guessed that the FUC had probably been undead for around seventy years.
"WAHAARARAZLESH?**" the FUC demanded. He gave Bob a piercing glare with his remaining eye.
"NUH?***" Bob was officially confused. He had no idea what the FUC was talking about.
The FUC took the pen out of his pocket and began twirling it around with two of his four fingers. It seemed like a nervous tick. "Uhhhwahhhwoooogarrrlaeeeeeeezuhrad,****" he said. Bob saw the muscles in his forehead contract. He imagined that if the FUC had eyebrows, one of them would have just been raised. "Zelda."
The FUC reached inside of his jacket and pulled out an extremely old, fragile book. It seemed as if the pages would reduce to dust if Bob tried to open it. The FUC shifted his one-eyed glance between Bob and the book. Bob was not sure what he was supposed to do next. Was he supposed to take the book? Read it? Admire the dusty cover? He didn't know.
After a moment, the FUC seemed to grow tired of Bob's internal guessing game. He opened the book to the dedication page and pointed to the text with his fountain pen. It read:
* You lucky shambling bitch.
** Where is she?
*** Who?
**** Don't play dumb with me. You know who I'm talking about.
***** She left a few weeks ago. I don't know where she went.
****** I'll help you find her, though! I just need help learning to shamble again. Maybe we can create some device that will AID IN MY SHAMBLING.
MUFFIN HAIKU:
It's too late to think
Of a good muffin haiku
So I'll go to bed
Bob had just about resigned himself to a life of eating pigeon crap and squirrel guts when, about a month after he'd first lost his leg to the unidentified falling anvil, he was dragging himself along down in the sewer, listening to nearby trains rumble past and drooling over the thought of all those people on them, people with fresh, juicy BRRAAAAAAIIIIIIINNNNSSS. He was so engrossed in his BRAIN fantasies that he didn't notice a Fellow Undead Creature shambling toward him. Oh, how Bob missed shambling.
"URNAAHHHHNUHAUGGG*," Bob grunted, attempting to fashion a frown with what little muscle and skin was left on his face. The Fellow Undead Creature (know from here on as the FUC) let out a strange noise that sounded like it could have been either maniacal laughter or a croup-like cough. Bob was not sure whether the FUC was dangerous or not. His first instinct was to get up and stand his ground, lest he lose another limb, but ALAS! He could no longer shamble! Bob glanced down at the empty space where his leg had been before the tragic anvil accident weeks before and sighed. His decaying arms were quite ineffectual when it came to moving quickly. It looked like he was stuck in that spot unless he wanted to try to roll away. After considering this, Bob resolved not to move. He had already lost a leg, and he wanted to keep his dignity.
The FUC was closing in now, proudly laughing his croup-laugh and flaunting his shamble like Joan Rivers flaunts her plastic surgery. Bob took these last few seconds to examine the rapidly advancing figure. He was surprisingly well-dressed for a zombie. His brown, double-breasted suit looked like it had come straight out of the Roaring Twenties. He carried a fountain pen in the front pocket of his jacket, although he would have had trouble writing with it (he had several fingers missing on each hand). Bob thought that if the FUC had hair, it would have probably been neatly combed with a straight part right down the middle. From the amount of decaying flesh hanging from his body (including a dangling eyeball that looked like it was about to fall off completely), Bob guessed that the FUC had probably been undead for around seventy years.
"WAHAARARAZLESH?**" the FUC demanded. He gave Bob a piercing glare with his remaining eye.
"NUH?***" Bob was officially confused. He had no idea what the FUC was talking about.
The FUC took the pen out of his pocket and began twirling it around with two of his four fingers. It seemed like a nervous tick. "Uhhhwahhhwoooogarrrlaeeeeeeezuhrad,****" he said. Bob saw the muscles in his forehead contract. He imagined that if the FUC had eyebrows, one of them would have just been raised. "Zelda."
The FUC reached inside of his jacket and pulled out an extremely old, fragile book. It seemed as if the pages would reduce to dust if Bob tried to open it. The FUC shifted his one-eyed glance between Bob and the book. Bob was not sure what he was supposed to do next. Was he supposed to take the book? Read it? Admire the dusty cover? He didn't know.
After a moment, the FUC seemed to grow tired of Bob's internal guessing game. He opened the book to the dedication page and pointed to the text with his fountain pen. It read:
ONCE AGAIN TO ZELDA
This triggered Bob's memory. He had heard these words before in a book he had read while he was still alive. He remembered the lavish parties and superficial characters. He remembered the dishonesty and the corruption. He remembered reading this book and wishing that he could create something even half as great as this man Fitzgerald had. Bob looked up, still confused. "Eeeuhnhazueallllllaurrggh,*****" he shook his head slowly. Then, an idea slowly formed in his mind. "Rahhhnughluazruhnnn! Azeruhhhhhhhhhhhhhnuhrjah. Munnnnarrrrughnnnalllllla?******"
The FUC considered this, stroking the bare bone on his chin with a fleshless finger. He nodded, and things were set. Together, they crafted a shambling stick out of an old tree limb and some duct tape (because zombies know to ALWAYS carry duct tape) and started off on their journey.
The FUC considered this, stroking the bare bone on his chin with a fleshless finger. He nodded, and things were set. Together, they crafted a shambling stick out of an old tree limb and some duct tape (because zombies know to ALWAYS carry duct tape) and started off on their journey.
* You lucky shambling bitch.
** Where is she?
*** Who?
**** Don't play dumb with me. You know who I'm talking about.
***** She left a few weeks ago. I don't know where she went.
****** I'll help you find her, though! I just need help learning to shamble again. Maybe we can create some device that will AID IN MY SHAMBLING.
MUFFIN HAIKU:
It's too late to think
Of a good muffin haiku
So I'll go to bed
Comment
-
Comment by Rebecca on April 29, 2009 at 2:43am - OH BOB YOU HAVE FOUND TRUE LOVE AGAIN. I am so happy. :D
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