by Javan Bonds
The female forcefully blew chunky bowel butter for an exceptional amount of time all over its assailant’s abdomen. When the male blunatic dismounted, I was able to take in one of the most vomit inducing sights I can recall.
Its sagging testicles were coated in some type of running, sticky substance that had the consistency of maple syrup, framed by dripping shit trickling down its legs and all around its pubic area. Thinking about that reminds me of candy where the best part is on the inside–holy fuck, that was a disturbing thought! I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat a Reese’s Cup again. Now the question: “How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?” keeps running through my mind. God, I need a therapist. It was sickening to see what one would normally find in an adult film as a casual “wham, bam, thank you ma’am” in the woods and bathed in freezing water. What was more sickening was the fact that I had closely watched the animal baby-making dance and I continued to study the hairy, body fluids-soaked, private area of the male cannibal after it was over. I’ve seen some weird fetish porn, but if I ever decide to take the easy way out, I’m sure you will find this scene, which will forever be burned into my conscience, mentioned in the suicide note.
That brings another question to my mind. Are we going to have to worry about a second generation of peevies? Well, unless the virus makes the gestation period similar to canines or something, I think we’ll be okay for at least eight more months.
I wonder if peevie 2.0 will come out just like a normal baby, or if mama zombie will spawn some type of sharp toothed werewolf. Shit, now I’m scaring myself.
At some point during our self-imposed march, Smokes hung his head. “White cops gonna beat da shit out us.”
“Hell, we might get off easy; they could be black,” I snickered.
“Mufucka, I been stopped for DWB,” I had heard this before, but he clarified it at my cocked eyebrow, “Driving while black. ‘Sides, you white; you a cop.”
I nearly exploded with laughter. “Unless you are Ving Rhames, right?”
I was referring to the only argument I had ever witnessed in which he had been embarrassed and had clearly lost. He froze in place and narrowed his eyes at me as if he intended to make some type of ridiculous threat against my “cracka ass,” but eventually he just grunted and continued walking like neither one of us had spoken.
We moved in relative silence until we approached a large sign alerting us we were coming upon the Joseph A. Davidson Alabama State Correctional Facility.
The four of us did as Hammer instructed and interlaced our fingers over the top of our heads as we crossed in front of the entrance.
“Fucking freeze! On your knees and turn around,” came the bullhorn-enhanced command from somewhere above us.
I forced myself not to mention to the voice it would be somewhat difficult to turn around once we are already on our knees, simply doing a 180 and dropping to my knees in compliance. I really don’t know why I’m an asshole; I can see it quite clearly. Even when I’ve literally got a gun to my head, I just feel compelled to be a smartass. I could see the Oracle out of the corner of my eye and noticed a twitch in his cheek, he was clearly thinking about the same thing. What sounded like a small gate was thrown open and at least two or three jackbooted guards could be heard stomping in our direction.
The Expert spoke softly through the corner of her mouth, “Just give them anything they want.”
Really? What if they want to make me pregnant? I’m not sure if it was some sort of billy club or the butt of a rifle that connected with my temple, but my last conscious thoughts before my face impacted the pavement circled the question of: “Why the hell didn’t we send just one person to the GATE?”
☠☠☠
11
Mo Journal Entry 6
Prophecy from The Book of Smokes
Throughout the entire journey there will be several inevitable characters. One of these roles is The Dictator. One dictator will never meet the next, and whether the current dictator simply dies or disappears, there can only be one at a time. This character is a major antagonist, and while not necessarily connected to The Villain, is always seen as an enemy before long. This character may have good intentions, even plans for creating a better world, but will eventually realize they can only control others through tyranny and they happily accept that role.
☠☠☠
“…HAPPENS NEARLY EVERY day. Just don’t leave any cans of ale around him.”
“How long does it usually take for him to wake up?”
Before Hammer could respond, I shot up to glare at her and raised a finger. “They hit me in the head with a blunt object!” I began, noticing now that I was still woozy and moving fast was probably not a good idea.
“It’s not fainting when your brain bounces off your skull!”
I was sitting up from where they laid me on the floor. I looked to The Expert, there was a huge wad of tobacco sticking out of her cheek. I could not see a bloodied lip or a goose egg on her head anywhere. I turned to The Oracle who was nervously drumming his fingers on his knees, but was not injured. Finally, I turned to The Loner and saw no injury there, just that damn cat lying across his shoulders.
I was incredulous. “Why the hell didn’t they hit y’all?”
“You are the only white male that is anywhere near healthy. They didn’t want to carry him,” she said pointing at Smokes. “And they thought he was an actor, pointing at Tychus.” Then she poorly attempted to sound pitiful. “And I’m just a defenseless, weak little woman!”
I scoffed, weak my ass. That was almost laughable. At least I’m not the only one who thinks Tychus should be giving me true facts, and I can’t fault anyone for not having a crane to move Smokes’ lifeless body. I guess I’m somewhat flattered to be considered a reasonable facsimile of physically fit. Not that anyone could confuse my pasty form for anything but a white kid from the country.
“We ain’t in a prison cell, so I guess that’s a good sign,” I said as I stood, leaning on the bench beside me.
“Dey ain’t gotta put us in a cage to kill us, white bread.”
I contemplated that and it made sense. I was hoping for some kind of reassurance from the Oracle, of course at this instance, he was not forthcoming. My first thought was that he did not know what was about to happen. I immediately realized that doubting his prophetical abilities was foolish. He simply wanted to leave me guessing.
We were in some type of waiting room. There were no bars or armed security guards to remind us that we were in a prison. No one spoke until Smokes looked at me, disgusted. “Damn son, you got sumpthin’ in yo ass?”
Was the clenching and unclenching of my butt cheeks that obvious? I didn’t feel that I was gritting my teeth. “Did they separate us?”
“Kinda, but they never had us more than across the room from one another,” The Expert helpfully supplied.
I was about to ask if there had ever been a large obstacle between my unconscious body and her line of sight. The Oracle exploded, “Mufucka, ya pants was up da whole time!”
Being knocked out and butt raped is something I fear more than my brother fears spiders. I was still not sure. “Well, it’s possible!
I’ve seen–“ my imagination was reeled back in as the door violently swung open and two men with pistols at the ready marched in before pointing at Smokes, “Fat guy…you first!”
He looked somewhat offended but managed to keep his damn mouth shut for once and followed unquestioningly.
After nearly fifteen minutes, the guards returned without the Oracle and called for “Morgan Freeman!” Tychus followed with some hesitation, but went, regardless of his preference. Hammer and I were left to contemplate our deaths. Really? Cannibals? If so, Smokes would keep them busy for a while. Were they collecting peevies and feeding people to them? I was just praying they knocked me unconscious before they raped me.
I wasn’t sure if she was trying to reassure me or calm herself down. “They are just s
ending us to talk to their boss one at a time, then separating us after just to keep the rest of us in the dark.”
That could actually be what was happening, I was just positive it had something to do with forced anal entry.
The pair of guards returned without the janitor, “Okay, lady. You’re up!”
“Just tell them the truth,” she said over her shoulder as she stood to follow the uniformed men.
What the hell did I have to lie about? I came here looking for my brother and I saw no reason not to tell them that.
Besides, I was about to get foreign objects inserted into me; I would’ve told them about the map on the back of the U.S. Constitution if that would buy me a quicker bullet. I was not surprised that I was the last of our group to be taken; I get to think about how my friends are being tortured while I wait for the gimp. Maybe he preferred blacks and women; hopefully he would be exhausted and just shoot me.
Shit. The door swung open before I was ready. “Your turn, Buck-o!”
I was forced into a room with a pistol jammed into my kidney. I knew it was nothing compared to the pain that was to come during my molestation. I was seated in front of a nearly empty office desk. There were exotic game trophies mounted on all four walls of the room. I was appreciating the natural light in the office–this, like all the others I had entered in the past month–except the ones in the Guntersville Island courthouse–was completely without electrical power. There weren’t any personal pictures on the walls and none on the desk.
I was attempting to focus on the animal heads and not think about what they did to my friends or what was about to happen to me. It was my personal, irrational fear and I kept coming back to it. Was he just going to bend me over this desk? Was there going to be a ball gag?
I knew I couldn’t get away; the guards had stepped against the back wall with their hands on their holstered pistols.
I heard their walkie-talkies buzz and alert them that “Warden Slice is on the way.” Slice? like Kimbo? I almost burst into tears. Here it was; I was about to get beat up and raped.
I remained facing away from the door as it opened. I started trying to hyperventilate myself as the heels clicked on the floor. Holy shit, I thought, the massive street fighter was wearing stilettos. I was trying not to scream as he walked around the desk.
I glanced up through squinted eyes and barely choked back another scream. Steven Tyler? I was immediately wondering why he would enjoy man butt when he could have any woman alive. I began hoping he would sing “Dream on” or “Back in the Saddle” while giving it to me; it might not be so bad. I opened my eyes fully and realized that this was neither a UFC champ nor the lead singer from Aerosmith. It was a tall, slender, light-skinned black woman in her mid-forties, actually fairly attractive.
Suddenly rape didn’t sound so horrifying. I was just disappointed she probably wouldn’t be willing to sing “Love In An Elevator” during our liaison. I confusedly asked, “So, you’re not gonna rape me?”
“Excuse me?”
Shit, I don’t think I could listen to this woman sing anyway. She shared the last name and the voice of Kimbo Slice.
I nearly laughed as I started imagining a video for “Dude Looks like a Lady” starring her–oh come on, I had just been thinking about Aerosmith.
I wisely kept my joke to myself as she sat behind the desk and began rifling through papers. “What is your name?”
I decided that this was either a personable rapist or that I was probably safe. “Mo–“ I realized she was writing this down. “Collins.”
“And where are you from?”
I was kinda relieved that she did not make any comments about MadTV. I started, “Well, I was born in Georgia and then we moved to–“
She waved her hand. “No, I mean where do you currently live?”
☠☠☠
The warden’s line of questioning continued for what seemed like hours until she finally dismissed me to another room. This time I was glad to be greeted. “What up dawg? She touch yo naughty places?”
I was glad to see that none of my comrades appeared to have been violated and sat down. Hammer tsk-tsked. “See, I told you they just wanted to get our stories separately.”
Well shit. I guess she was right. I was a bit confused. “So why did they stick us in here and what happens now?”
The Expert reassured, “I reckon somebody will be in here shortly to let us know that our stories checked out–“
I shot a look over at Smokes as I interrupted him. “That is, if he didn’t fuck it up.”
He looked shocked and offended, “Mufucka, I pass wit flyin’cullas”
We discussed the questions we were asked until the warden walked in again. “It looks like your stories match up; I don’t think it will be a problem if y’all want to stay here for a while as long as you pull your own weight…” she added as if she’d forgotten, “…oh, and you are looking for your brother? We do currently have an Ezekiel Collins living here. I will get you his information before you leave.”
Holy shit, I would have kissed her had she not been so scary. “Wow! Thank you,” was all I could muster.
We should have asked her about our weapons and what she meant by “pulling our own weight.” I wonder if she can play the guitar? Dance? I’m not betting she can sing, but it would be pretty cool to at least watch her lip-synch.
Just as I felt that I had guessed the official role of the warden, I looked to The Oracle, who answered my unspoken question: “Dat da Dictata, WATSON.”
12
Who You Gonna Call
THE NSG UNIT was able to bring very little information with them; Dr. George really knew nothing that he didn’t know yesterday. The civilized world had been overcome so quickly, there had not even been time to dub it with any sort of official and proper name. “It” was simply known as “the infection” or “the virus.” The Medicine Man wasn’t going to label it anything. He wasn’t willing to have the plague that destroyed the Western world called “George’s Syndrome.” It didn’t really need any other name, “blue death,” “the turning plague,” and the hundreds of other nicknames the island residents had given to the affliction were simply playful and did not stick. Philip George could never bring himself to think of it as anything but “the infection.” Not one of the recovered articles or medical journals the team had brought with them were worth a grain of salt to the cardiologist. USAMRID had at least had the time to do a few preliminary tests and studies on symptoms and reactions, but there had not been enough time for anyone to work on a vaccine.
To learn anything new, he supposed he would have to get a living infected and do his own research. With his Phantoms here, that became possible.
With the island’s dozens of cattle, his HITs could use one as bait and easily procure one of the infected who the HITs agreed to casually call peevies. After some group planning with his Phantoms, he was hoping the mayor would not take much convincing.
A sample of an infected heart could eventually bring about an end to the sickness that had destroyed the world and possibly put homo sapiens back on the top of the food chain. The Medicine Man was not elated with the idea of sacrificing a sick, defenseless person who came to him, but he was willing to go beyond his Hippocratic Oath for the sake of saving the healthy population. Sometimes the needs of the many were worth the life of a few, even if they were completely innocent. If an infected could think, Dr. George reasoned he would likely freely give himself to save the entire human race; wouldn’t THEY?
13
But Now I’m Found
Prophecy from The Book of Smokes
From time to time there will be one or more treacherous individuals who will separate from the protagonists and ally themselves with an enemy. Another common occurrence is for a person who has been bitten to hide the injury, eventually turning while in the safe zone. They will, of course, end up causing havoc unintentionally. The Betrayer(s) can ally formally with a group of human antagonists to cause mayhe
m among those that believe they are safe. This character will initially appear–and may actually be on the side of the survivors, but will become hostile whether consciously or sub consciously. There is a chance this may become a dual role played by one of the main protagonists.
☠☠☠
EARL BUCKALEW WAS seriously considering just giving up. He was sick of this shit.
Since he’d left that stupid cunt at the pawnshop, he had been living on scattered scraps he found in the various houses that he stayed in temporarily.
The pickings had been fairly plentiful at the beginning, but having to stay one step ahead of this large group of bandits was tiring. They couldn’t be anything other than marauders. He knew from watching movies that guys with guns and four-wheel-drives scavenging around after the apocalypse could not be trusted.
He made the decision not to enter Publix that day, thinking he’d just start walking towards his house, maybe cool down before turning back to the pawnshop. By the time he was thinking clearly, he had traveled miles and could tell by the sun that he needed to find a place to stay for the night. At first he’d barricaded himself into a windowless room in an abandoned house where he realized that he could enjoy this life, scavenging alone, indefinitely. He didn’t need to go back to that evil redheaded bitch; he was happy with cans of beans or peas or whatever and not seeing another damn soul. That was until he heard that explosion from down the mountain. He’d prayed that stupid dike had blown herself up somehow, but in the following days these marauders started appearing, cleaning out houses, his houses.