The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  “They had real estate. And we are left to wonder about Eve’s endowments. Maybe she didn’t need a boob job, so maybe she didn’t owe a boob doc.”

  Danny shakes his head. “They had real estate, true, but the real estate had terms and conditions: Don’t eat this apple.”

  Leo strokes his scruff and thinks. “You’re saying Nostradamus doesn’t have terms and conditions?”

  “Oh, sure he does. Rudeness is a crime. Violence is punishable by death. Blah, blah, blah. But once you and I go zombie, how motivated do you think we will be to be rude or to be violent?”

  “Not very.”

  “Not very. Exactly. So, practically speaking, there are no terms and conditions because he’s got the whole world in his hands. Head, I mean. He’s playing God, but even God knew to leave some friggin’ terms and some friggin’ conditions.”

  “So what happens if there are no terms and conditions?”

  “I’m not sure, Leo, old pal. I am just a simple aggressive collection agent. I am not a philosopher or a theo…theo-low…”

  “I know what you mean,” says Leo, trying and failing to come up with the word.

  “The point is, I’ve broken enough bones to tell you there has to be consequences in this crazy universe. Because when there are none, the universe has a way of kicking the ever-living shit out of you.”

  “That’s usually where we come in.”

  “You are correct,” Danny replies. “But in this case, I do believe the force of nature will be a different force of nature, if you know what I mean.”

  “The animals?” asks Leo, scratching the back of his head and turning to face the large coop off to the side of the fleet of armored vehicles.

  “The animals,” Danny agrees, laying his finger alongside his nose and nodding knowingly. “That’s the friggin’ hand of God, right there. Fuck.”

  “You think so?”

  “Nah. I don’t believe in God. But I don’t believe in birds and pigs that can think either, and yet here we are.”

  Leo nods. “Here we are.”

  “So are you ready to do this thing, or what?” asks Danny.

  “Not really. But the morons require a diversion, so a diversion they shall receive.”

  Danny holds his palm up for a shake. Leo stares at it. When was the last time they shook? Probably never. He grabs it and shakes, and in Danny’s eyes, Leo sees their shared history of highly professional ass kickings. The time they’d repoed Charlie Sheen’s car. The time they’d threatened to repo Denise Richards’ tits. Oh, and that time they’d drunk Mike Tyson under the table. That wath tha-weet.

  “It’s been a good life, Leo.”

  “It’s been a good life, Danny.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Ralph ducks beneath the hidey log with the others and adjusts his ninja mask. Christine and Consuelo pull theirs on also. Wang, already wearing his mask, scowls at them before poking his head over the top of the log again and starting over on his count.

  “You’re not listening,” says Ralph. “It doesn’t matter how many stories it is.”

  “It matters to me.” Wang tracks the little red curlicue thingies along the edge of the pagoda to mark his place, and continues counting.

  Five, six, seven…

  Ralph tugs on Wang’s ninja jacket. Wang slaps his hand.

  Eight, nine…

  “I think I read somewhere the world’s tallest pagoda was only thirteen stories?” says Shmuel, sitting upright.

  Consuelo yanks Shmuel below the log. “Well, that can’t be right. This one is clearly taller.”

  “Fifteen, no, nineteen.” Christine shakes her head. “It’s got to be in the twenties.”

  Ten, eleven…

  “Who. The fuck. Cares?” asks Ralph. “Guys. I need you to know something. I used to be a respected filmmaker. Okay? I used to know people. I’m not like you guys.”

  “Yeah…” Shmuel strokes his chin through his ninja mask. “I used to know people also? Before my dizer-bility?”

  Thirteen…? Shit, was that twelve? Wang punches the dirt. “It’s disability, you dumb lizard brain!”

  Everyone ducks beneath the hidey log.

  “Shh!” hisses Ralph. “Are you out of your damned mind? This place is crawling with zombies!”

  Wang hunches sheepishly. “…trying to…count.”

  “It’s in the twenties,” says Christine. “What does it matter?”

  “It matters,” counters Wang. “It’s either four or five big stories, or many, many normal-sized stories.”

  “What’s a normal story?” asks Shmuel. “Do normal stories have cows? I like cows.”

  “I presented at Cannes,” says Ralph. “Johnny and I were going to lampoon you morons in a documentary.”

  “Morons, huh?” says Wang. “It looks like you misjudged us.”

  Ralph’s eyes narrow inside the slit of his ninja mask. “True. You’re not morons. You’re lunatics.”

  “Who’s more foolish?” asks Shmuel. “The fool, or the fool who swallows?”

  Ralph’s eyes close. “That’s… That’s not the saying.”

  “Okay, listen up,” say Wang. “Guys, I want you to know I’ve given this plan a fair amount of thought. That’s why I can confidently say, as plans go, this one is—oh, man—so good. Genius, really, if you wanna know. So. Are you ready?” From beneath their ninja masks, four sets of eyes peer at him expectantly. “The plan is,” he continues, lowering his voice, “we go in…from the top floor!” He waits as from beneath their ninja masks, four sets of eyes peer at him expectantly. “Come on, guys. That’s it. We go in from the top, see? Then work our way down. Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

  Shmuel shrugs. “I mean… I mean… I’m confused?”

  “Big fucking surprise, Clam Bake.”

  Ralph raises a hand. “How and why are we going in from the top floor?”

  “Think about it, man!” exclaims Wang. “There’ll be less security! They just had it built! That means there’s probably nothing up there but workers painting or some bullshit.”

  “You think there’ll be fumes?” asks Shmuel.

  Christine raises her hand. “I don’t think you’re right about less security.”

  “Oh yeah?” replies Wang. “And what makes you such a fucking expert on security?”

  “Kung fu movies,” she replies. “And that’s a pagoda, so kung fu movies are germane.”

  “It’s pronounced German,” says Shmuel. “Did the Germans make Game of Derp?”

  “It’s Game of Death,” says Christine. “And that movie is why I know the top floor is always the final boss, and the other floors below that are where you fight the lieutenants. If we go in through the top, you can be sure we are going to face the final boss. You really think that’s going to be less security?”

  “Well, you just said it yourself!” cries Wang. “All the security is on the lower floors! And we can’t tell if there are just a few really big floors, or twenty normal-sized floors. Makes a difference for how many bad guys we have to fight. Right?”

  “I can’t believe I’m dignifying this conversation, but…” Ralph sighs. “Christine may be right.”

  “Then at least we’ll face him when we’re fresh,” says Wang. “Listen, Cluck-n-Pray, I happen to be an expert on kung fu movies and video games, so I can tell you the reason the final boss is so hard to beat isn’t because he’s any tougher than the lieutenants. It’s because your health meter is depleted from fighting Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and the Golden Ninja.”

  “His name isn’t ‘golden ninja,’” says Consuelo. “Just because he has a golden karate belt and karate jacket doesn’t make him a ninja.”

  “Ninjas wear black?” Shmuel strokes his torso to emphasize the black ninja uniform he’s wearing, and Christine pats him on the shoulder.

  “That’s right, Shmuel. Ninjas wear black. No need for the question mark.”

  Shmuel faces Wang. “Ninjas wear black.”

  “
In the credits, he’s listed as the ‘Fourth-Floor Guardian,’” says Consuelo.

  “Da fuck?” says Wang.

  “Mm-hmm.” Consuelo nods. “Racist bastards didn’t even bother to give him a name.”

  “Fourth-Floor Guardian is a name?” says Shmuel.

  “Fuck,” says Wang.

  “I agree,” says Ralph. “Look. It’s the end of the world. And while you guys may be total lunatics, at least you can still, you know…think. Kind of. I mean there’s evidence of thinking types of…thought-like things…in the neighborhood. For the most part. Sometimes.” Ralph coughs softly into his fist. “What I’m trying to say is, if we’re going to do this, it behooves me to point out that in Game of Death, the final boss was an old guy behind a desk. I say we can take an old guy behind a desk. Especially since we can’t tell how many floors there really are, and consequently how many lieutenants may be waiting to do battle. So we fight the final boss first and work our way down. Make sense?”

  Wang raises a finger. “Ah-hah! See? See?”

  “Because if we defeat an old guy behind a desk,” continues Ralph, “you can be sure he’s at that desk in some kind of administrative capacity. If we beat him first, there’s a good chance the henchmen on the floors below us will be less effective without an administrative coordinator.”

  “Exactly!” cries Wang.

  “Making them easier to beat,” finishes Ralph.

  Wang bobs his head up and down. “It’s brilliant. It’s fucking brilliant.”

  “I say we do Ralph’s plan,” says Consuelo.

  “I second the motion,” says Christine.

  “Wait-wait-wait,” says Wang. “Whose plan?”

  “Ralph’s plan.” Consuelo points. “It’s smart. He’s really thought it through.”

  “No.” Wang shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. This is my plan. You want to do my plan.”

  “All those in favor of Ralph’s plan, raise your hand?” says Shmuel, and everyone but Wang raises their hand.

  “Da fuck!?” cries Wang. “Shmuel, you fucking traitor! This is my fucking plan!”

  “No,” says Christine. “Your plan was to go in from the top floor. His plan is to beat the old guy behind the desk and make all the other hench-presenting-type people less effective without their administrator telling them what to do or whatever.”

  “Hench presenting?” asks Ralph.

  “Well, I don’t want to assume their sex,” Christine explains. “Hench-man is sexist. And it’s not fair to henchwomen.”

  Wang shakes his head. “Da fuck? Listen, all the rest was implicit in my fucking plan! The old fucking guy on the top fucking floor is my fucking plan! Fuck!”

  “But you didn’t say that,” says Consuelo.

  “Implicit or not, we’re all over eighteen?” says Shmuel. “Are we watching implicit movies?”

  Ralph leans over and whispers to Wang. “Seriously, though. How do we get in from the top floor?”

  “Ah-hah! He doesn’t even know how we’re getting in from the top floor!”

  “I do so.” Ralph scratches the back of his neck and shifts his weight.

  “You could use the grappling hooks Wang was going to use?” offers Shmuel.

  “Grappling hooks!” Ralph snaps his fingers. “My plan uses grappling hooks.”

  “All those in favor of Ralph’s grappling hooks?” Christine raises her hand, followed by everyone but Wang.

  Wang’s shoulders slump. “You guys suck.”

  “But it is a good plan,” says Ralph. “My plan, I mean.” Leaning to whisper into Wang’s ear again, he adds, “You got intel on the old guy behind the desk, right?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” says Wang.

  “I would,” Ralph replies. “Because if we’re going to face the final boss in Nostradamus’s pagoda, you do realize that means we could be facing Nostradamus himself, right?”

  Wang gulps.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Two hundred armored road warriors speed across the desert in arrow formation, dust and sand rising in their wake. The tip of the spear is Danny. Manning the eardrum-rupturing M242 Bushmaster roof-mounted chain gun is Leo. Ahead, the blinding desert empties into the Tower of Cock Block. Several hundred zombies follow in pursuit, including a sombrero mobile with a mariachi horn.

  Danny adjusts his ear protection and checks the speedometer. 160. This is a dumbass plan devised by dumbasses and executed by double dumbasses, he thinks, mentally flogging himself for probably the billionth time since joining the Church of the Ladder Day Dimwits. Not that there’d been any better cults offering specials or anything like that.

  Leo fires another round, and a cone of ringing treble tones glows in Danny’s ears.

  “I don’t think they made it loud enough!”

  “What?” yells Leo. “You missin’ the catapults already?” He fires again. “Say hello to my little act of aggression!”

  “Happy World Peace Day, motherfuckers!” yells Danny, squeezing his butt cheeks together as hard as he can as they woosh past the Tower of Cock Block and several dozen gaping zombies turn their heads like prairie dogs.

  The chain gun stops firing.

  “What’re you doin’?” asks Danny.

  “I got something special for this dumb hat car!” Leo replies.

  Danny checks the rearview mirror. The sombrero mobile is hot on their tail.

  The back door swings open. Leo clings desperately to the handle as he flies out, his legs swooping left, then right. The door bangs on the hinge, slams shut. Leo tumbles into the modified SUV and crashes into the open box of dildos. He sits up, snatches one at random. Back to the door. He inches it open this time, hurls the dildo at the sombrero mobile, where it strikes the spring-mounted piñata. The piñata cracks. Candy litters the desert. Leo bangs the door shut and faces Danny, who lowers his eyebrows at him in the rearview mirror.

  “What?” asks Leo. “You look like you’ve just seen your first internet horse penis.”

  “You defiled a festive piece of Mexican heritage with a dildo.”

  “It’s war!”

  Leo climbs back into the gunner chair, wheels the chain gun around, and fires.

  Thucka-thucka-thucka-thucka-thucka!

  Danny scans the rearview mirror. “The Mexican Hat Dance” rings out into the desert sky.

  “Zorro!” yells Leo through the gun hole. “The legend has returned!”

  The sombrero car swerves and crashes, taking out two more zombie mobiles in the process.

  “What part of this says Zorro to you?” asks Danny.

  “The part where I broke his piñata,” answers Leo.

  “I think you and I saw a different Zorro.”

  Danny checks the speedometer. 165. He checks the tower, now the size of his pinky in the rearview mirror. “Okay!” he yells. “Buckle up! It’s time!”

  Leo scrambles out of the gun chair, climbs into the passenger seat, buckles in.

  “Danny, my friend, I swear to God, if they zombie me and you’re still you. I want you to fucking kill me.”

  “Same.”

  Danny scans the rearview mirror. As per the plan, the rest of the Dudes have broken formation and angled back toward camp and the safety of the catapults. The other zombie mobiles are still chasing him and Leo.

  “All right,” he says. “Let’s do it. I’ll hit the brakes, and they’ll fly right by.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

  Danny slams on the brakes. Everything in the back flies to the front—the box of dildos, ammunition, blankets, jumper cables; a rear tire explodes; the van tips left. They’re rolling, bouncing—whump—sliding. Broken glass everywhere. And then…

  The zombies do indeed fly right by.

  Wang squints into the blinding haze on the horizon. The Dudes are pulling out. The zombies are still on Danny’s and Leo’s asses, and—oh, fuck, that looks bad.

  Turning back to face the tower, he pulls his mask over his head—or tries to. He tugs lower, and t
he ninja mask barely makes it to his Adam’s apple. He scoots the turban-like bandages around through the top of the mask as best he can, then tugs it low enough to tuck into the neck hole of his ninja suit.

  “You look like a Funko Pop ninja,” says Christine.

  “Whatever,” says Wang. “Let’s go.”

  “It’s time.” Ralph unclips his grappling hook from his belt.

  “Hey-hey-hey.” Wang waves. “Stop doing that.”

  “Stop doing what?”

  “Pretending like you’re in charge.”

  “I am in charge,” Ralph replies.

  “I go first.” Wang fires the hook successfully over the second-story beam and tugs on the cable so it’s taut. He gets a foot on the wall and pulls. Another foot, another pull. A moment later, he’s halfway to his hook.

  “First in is first to die,” mutters Ralph from below.

  “Whatever, Caboose. You get to smell my farts all the way up.” Wang turns his gaze toward the top floor. It’s a long way. But this is living his best motherfucking life. He only hopes Danny and Leo aren’t fucking it all up.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  “We’re fucking it all up!” cries Danny, his bloody hands slick on the shovel’s handle. “We should be at the bird coop by now! Tying little friggin’ knots onto little friggin’ bird ankles!”

  “I know, I know!” yells Leo through split lips.

  A mustard-yellow Yugo pulls up. Four doors open. Four zombies pile out. Their faces go slack. Their heads tilt, and their arms lift in front. Lurching, limping, each groaning like a scene from Night of the Living Dead, and each dragging one foot behind.

  Leo shakes his shovel at them, but they keep coming. “Why are they acting like that?”

  “Who cares?” Danny cracks his shovel into a zombie stomach. A second one in a Pizza Hut uniform replaces the first and reaches for Danny’s medallion.

  Swing—

  —Clunk.

  Hat falls off. Pizza Hut zombie collides with Cheerleader zombie.

  A crescendoing thrum triggers Danny’s fight-or-flight. A loud pop sounds from behind Pizza Hut and Cheerleader. A skateboarder sails over their fallen bodies.