Dumb White Husbands vs. Zombies: Monday

by Benjamin Wallace



  Dumb White Husbands

  vs. Zombies:

  Monday

  By

  Benjamin Wallace

  Copyright 2014 Benjamin Wallace

  Copyright 2014 by Benjamin Wallace

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by MonkeyPAWcreative.

  One

  It had been years since they had been bowling, but it was not lost on any of the men that, even in the establishment’s logo, bowling was distinctly separated from the word fun.

  The Meadows Park Family Fun & Bowling Center had gone to great lengths to look nothing like any bowling alley that they could remember. The interior designer had selected plush leather couches and rich wooden tables instead of the nicotine stained plastic furniture that used to line the lanes of America. Instead of flat beige walls marred with beer stains from flung bottles, the center was painted with dark and inviting shades of blue and red.

  The concession stand was actually Finnegan’s, a mock Irish pub that offered more fare than heat lamp pretzels and microwaved cheese cups. It contained a dining area that encompassed the billiard room where regulation-sized tables filled a sunken area. None of which appeared to take quarters.

  Beyond Finnegan’s, the screams of hyperactive children were swallowed by the gunfire, guitar riffs, and dance commands of an expansive arcade. Each ran on a “Fun Zone” card that you loaded with cash. This cash became credits that the kids could turn into points to redeem for tickets that could be exchanged for crap that the arcade kept in glass cases to give it the appearance of being really special crap. A piece of gum was five tickets. This equated to roughly four dollars by the time it had gone through the “Fun Zone” cash/credit/points/tickets/crap conversion.

  Menacing aliens stood guard at the doors of the Laser Tag arena. These ten-foot monstrosities took their inspiration from Geiger’s nightmares, but each wielded a bright orange rifle designed by a committee at the Department of Safety and Ruining Fun. They probably shot bubbles.

  A rope course was strung above everything. For five bucks a minute, kids could be tethered to a safety line and move from platform to platform via strung together bridges. One had to admit that from a kid’s point of view it could look fun, but for one of the men it brought back a tragic trust fall memory from an off-site work event.

  There were also bowling lanes.

  “So, why do you think they call it a turkey?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Maybe it matters to me, Chris.”

  “Actually, Erik. It matters to you the least.”

  “Why?”

  Chris set his beer down on the coffee table. “‘Because you suck the most.”

  “I do not. I got that strike in the first round.”

  “You need three in a row, genius.”

  “So what?” Erik grabbed his own beer. “You suck, too.”

  John, having just thrown a gutter ball, sat down on the leather couch and pulled a fresh bottle from the pail that sat in the middle of the table. “We all suck. Bowling sucks. This sucks.”

  Chris and Erik nodded.

  “But, Chris is right, Erik,” John continued. “You suck the most.”

  Erik sat back in the deep couch. “You guys are acting like this is all my fault. None of us want to be here. I’m just trying to make the most of it.”

  “By sucking?” asked Chris.

  “Our team name is your fault,” said John. “We were supposed to be called Austin Is a Big Piece of Crap so that Austin would know we think he’s a big piece of crap.”

  “Yeah, well, the embroiderer charged by the letter and you guys didn’t want to pitch in for the shirts.”

  “I didn’t even want a shirt,” said John.

  Erik fired back, “The league requires bowling shirts.”

  John set down his beer. “I could make the argument that any shirt in which I bowl is a bowling shirt.”

  “Screw you guys. We needed shirts.”

  “Fine, but,” Chris straightened out the pocket of his bowling shirt to reveal the team name. “Split Happens?”

  “I thought it was clever.”

  Chris and John shook their heads.

  A clatter of pins echoed behind them and was quickly followed by an overly enthusiastic, “Yeah! Take it! That’s how Ball Busters do it!” This had been going on for quite some time. The team they were up against had been bowling in the league for years and drinking since the first frame.

  A round of high fives shot off behind them and the three men of Split Happens sighed before an overly enthusiastic voice boomed in their direction, “Hey, Split Heads. It’s your turn, losers.”

  “He’s talking to you, Erik.”

  “Shut up, Chris.” Erik stood and stepped up to the lane. He pulled the purple house ball from the return, held it before his eyes and approached the line with cautious steps. There he stopped and eyed the pins.

  The comment, “Nice ball, loser,” was followed by drunken laughter and a round of high fives from the other team.

  “Do you think these guys are taking this a little too seriously?” John asked. “They know it’s bowling, right?”

  “This whole place is crazy. I’ve been talked to by four different people for ‘breach of etiquette.’ I didn’t think there’d be so much protocol in trying to knock things over from a distance.”

  John sat with his back to the lane. There was a grunt from behind him. “How’d he do?”

  “Gutter,” Chris said.

  John slammed his beer down on the table and made a pile of bottle caps dance. “I can’t believe we have to be here. Who would have thought the HOA had so much power?”

  Chris nodded and echoed the registered letter they had each received. “Hereby required to socialize and get along for the benefit of the community.” HOAs loved sending registered letters.

  “I certainly don’t remember the ‘mandatory bowling’ clause in the bylines. It’s BS. Just because he’s president, Austin thinks he gets to boss everyone around as long as he hides behind ‘for the benefit of the community.’” There was another grunt from behind him. “How’d he do?”

  “He fell down,” Chris said. “Again.”

  Most people would respond with a snicker. Perhaps they would pretend to hide it or just catch it in their hand. But that was not the Ball Buster way. The team’s mouthpiece bellowed the actual word, “Ha,” as Erik picked himself up from the lane. The rest of the team erupted in laughter.

  Erik returned to the couch rubbing his elbow.

  “On your way to a turkey, Split Head?”

  “Shut up, Chris. I’ve never been good at sports.”

  “This isn’t a sport, Erik,” John said. “It’s a game.”

  “What’s the difference?” Erik snapped.

  “For it to be a sport there has to be a potential for injury.”

  “I just hurt my elbow.”

  “Because you suck, not because this is a sport.”

  Chris hung his head. “We’ve got sixteen weeks of this crap.”

  “Maybe not.” John leaned in, expecting the two men to do the same. They didn’t move. He waved them in. They didn’t move. “What if we could get Austin ... “

  “No,” Chris said.

  “You haven’t even heard my plan.”

  “Your last plan cost me my yard and got me stuck in a bowling league. No.”

  “Don’t be such a baby. Your yard grew back. Lo
ok, I’ve been going over the HOA bylaws. Austin’s broken his own rules. Have you seen that ugly ass fountain he put in his yard?”

  “The one with the kid peeing?” Erik asked.

  Another strike sounded behind them. A series of high fives followed.

  John continued. “It’s a total violation of HOA rules and probably public decency laws.”

  Chris pulled another beer from the bucket on the coffee table. “It’s a terrible idea.”

  “What is?” John asked.

  “The idea you’re about to have. It’s the worst idea ever.”

  The loudest and drunkest of the Ball Busters landed on the couch next to John and slammed his palm down on the coffee table. The empty beer bottles jumped and rattled. “Hey!” He was built like a former football player that ate like he thought he still ran two-a-days but didn’t. He put his arm around John. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look just like that guy from that commercial?”

  “Which commercial?”

  “Every commercial. You know that guy. Kinda fat. Kinda old. Kinda bald. That’s the guy you look like.”

  John looked to his teammates. Each had a look of realization on his face.

  “I hate you guys.”

  “Anyway, fatty,” the Ball Buster continued, “are we going to bowl or are you girlfriends going to gossip?”

  Chris shook his head in disbelief. “Girlfriends? Really?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “Girlfriends.”

  “You guys call yourselves the Ball Busters?” Chris asked.

  “Yeah!” The bowler stood and turned. Perhaps the Ball Busters knew a cheaper embroiderer, maybe one of them was handy with a needle and thread, but the entire back of his team shirt was covered with the Ball Busters logo—two balls striking a single pin between them. He pointed to the back of his shirt with his thumbs. “We’re the Ball Busters, baby!”

  “You’re all dudes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  The smile faded. “Just bowl, Mary.” The man grunted as he stood and walked back over to his team. “I called him Mary.” There was more high fiving.

  “You heard him, Mary,” John said.

  Chris shook his head. “This can’t get any worse.”

  The overhead lights switched off and the PA crackled. “You know what that means, folks. It’s time for Laser Bowling!”

  The speaker system had been playing 90’s rock all evening. Now the woofers took over duty as techno music began to blast through the massive cabinets that hung from the wall. Black lights cast the lanes in a pale blue hue that lit the pins in a horrid rainbow of dayglow colors. Strobes flashed and lights danced across the lanes.

  “I can’t believe we have to do this.” Chris stood and approached the lane. He stopped and turned. “Before I go up there, I want it to be clear that I hate you both.”

  John raised his beer and nodded his agreement.