by Jack Geurts
Ishmael is silent for a long moment, then he steps forward into the shaft of light and throws back his hood...
Underneath, he has the same grey skin and white eyes as Ike, which can only mean one thing...
Ishmael’s a motherfucking zombie too!
GENESIS SPECIAL EPISODE
Ishmael, the Zombie Hunter
So Ishmael’s a zombie, right?
And Esau has no skin on his body.
Both of the freaks just stand there looking at each other for a moment, before Ishmael says, “So...uh...does it hurt?”
“Yes, it fucking hurts. What do you think?”
“Jeez, no need to get angry, man, I was just asking.”
Ishmael lights a joint, smokes it. He’s got a bit of a hippy vibe about him. Take the whole ‘living in a desert commune’ thing, the meditation and the incense, and we get the idea he isn’t quite the same guy we met last time.
The hardened, ruthless, Mel Gibson-esque desert warrior is gone, and in his place is a chilled-out, barefoot, long-bearded dude.
Think Big Lebowski rather than Braveheart. But, y’know, grey-skinned and white-eyed.
He’s clearly not one of those mindless zombies. He’s calmed down in the way that Ike calmed down after he had a few kids.
Esau never met him in his prime, but he’s heard stories about him – how he saved Ike and Becca from a pack of bloodthirsty zombies. How he killed Esau’s own grandmother, Sarah.
She was a zombie, herself, after all.
But she also cast Ishmael and his mother, Hagar, out into the desert to die. So Esau thinks there’s probably more than just her being a zombie that motivated his decapitation of her.
“So, yeah, about this whole revenge thing...”
Ishmael waves a dismissive hand. “Man...I’m not in that game anymore. I found peace. I’m out here with my family, living off the land.” He takes a puff, holds it in. “And slaves. Slaves help.” He relaxes, letting out a stream of white smoke like a dragon.
Esau’s like, “But...what about what Ike did to you? To your mother?”
At the mention of his mother, a dark cloud comes over Ishmael’s face, like he’s having a Tarantino flashback.
For a moment, Esau thinks he might reconsider.
Then, a voice outside the tent says, “Yo, Ish – you coming?”
Ishmael snaps out of it, reverting to his ‘the Dude’ persona. “Be right there.” He leaves his joint burning in a stone ashtray and says, “Come on, man, I’m up next.”
Esau frowns. “Up where?”
Ishmael laughs. “On stage, man. Where do you think? I like to meditate before I go on stage. Get myself centered, y’know?”
The skinless drifter plays it off like he knows what Ishmael’s talking about. “Yeah, for sure. What are you, like a performer? Musician, singer, something like that?”
Ishmael gets real serious for a minute, leans in close. “Na, man, nothing like that. What I do is an art form. I reach out and connect with every member of the audience on a personal level. I get up there and open my veins, man. I bleed for them. And they love me for it.”
Esau’s still waiting for a straightforward answer. “So...you’re a...”
“You’ll see.” He pulls the tent flap open a little to see the crowd gathered outside.
Crowd is actually putting it a little strong. There’s maybe thirty people there, most of them members of his own family. A few local shepherds have wandered in and there’s sheep...fucking...everywhere.
It’s a Friday afternoon and everyone’s already pretty drunk. Eager to get on with the weekend.
Ishmael takes a deep breath to prepare himself, then lets it out just as slow. “It’s show-time.”
He goes to leave and Esau goes to follow, but Ishmael stops him. “No, no, no. You stay here, man. Wait for my signal.”
The newcomer sighs and stays where he is. Ishmael bursts out through the tent flap to scattered applause. Esau just waits in the tent like a fucking loser, listening as the zombie takes whatever passes for a stage out here.
“Alright, alright, alright,” says Ishmael, warming the crowd up. “You folks having a good time? You having fun tonight?”
No response. One guy lets out a drunken “Woooooo!”
Taking whatever he can get, Ishmael feeds off that one guy. “So, I was out milking the goats, the other day. You know what that’s like...am I right?” He waits for laughter, but none comes.
It’s at that exact moment that Esau’s worst fears are confirmed.
The guy is a stand-up comedian.
He proceeds to listen for several excruciating minutes as Ishmael gets a few chuckles here and there, before he hears his own name mentioned.
“A lot of you here tonight, you’re probably wondering who that is in my tent there. The stranger who blew in on the wind. There might be a few rumours circulating the camp. Rumours like this guy doesn’t have any skin.” He waits. “Well, it’s true. It’s true. And I promise...he was like that before he got here!”
“Oh, good,” Esau mutters to himself. “Another zombie joke.”
It gets a few laughs.
“Why don’t we bring him out here?” Ishmael says. “New guy, why don’t you come on out here and grace us with your presence?”
Esau rolls his eyes. He walks out unceremoniously to face the crowd – a lot of shepherd-types leaning on crooks.
They recoil when they see him. Some are just flat-out disgusted (one guy even throws up – though, to be fair, he was doing an upside-down wine-chug just moments before). Others are simply curious, wondering (as anyone would) how the fuck he’s still alive.
Ishmael’s buzzing with energy, pacing on an elevated rocky outcrop (his ‘stage’). “Let me introduce you to these nice people, new guy. Everyone, this is Esau.” He reacts to the name as if hearing it for the first time. “Esau? More like eye-sore. Folks...”
He waits for laughter, but no one laughs. They’re too busy staring at the guy without any skin.
Ishmael’s visibly disappointed with the response. Esau has zero sympathy for him. He turns around and goes back into the tent. The crowd lets out a collective “Awwwww” for the hurt feelings of the skinless drifter.
As any comedian worth his salt would do, Ishmael immediately goes on the defensive. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is that a bit too edgy for you, you inbred fucks? Am I pushing the boundaries a little too hard? Am I a little too in-your-face and controversial? Well, you know what? That’s comedy, baby. Sorry if you’re too stupid to get it.”
The crowd is loudly and unanimously booing him now, and Ishmael’s hurling insults back at them – a torrent of slurs that are alternately racist, sexist, homophobic and transphobic (yes, even transphobic – there are members of the commune who do not identify with the sex they were assigned at birth).
Finally, Ishmael bursts into the tent muttering under his breath, “Lousy, ungrateful sons of bitches...” He notices Esau standing there. “Thanks for having my back, man.”
Esau fights sarcasm with sarcasm. “Yeah, sorry about that. Real dick move on my part.”
Ishmael just shakes his head, picks up the still-burning joint, and takes a drag.
“Yeah, puff away, man. That’ll make it better.”
“Always does,” Ishmael says, letting the smoke out. He seems to calm a little, refocus. “Alright...you still wanna get revenge?”
Esau perks up a little, hopeful. “Yeah. Why the sudden change?”
“‘Cause I just bombed up there and I want to take it out on somebody. What, you don’t wanna do it anymore? Did I eat your balls up there along with mine?”
“Jesus...relax, man – you had a bad set, alright? It happens.” Esau quickly realises he doesn’t know anything about the industry and adds, “...I guess.”
Ishmael takes another puff, mellows a bit more. “I’m sorry I shat on you up there.”
“It’s alright.”
“No, it’s not. A good comic doesn’t insult people to
their face. Laughter earned at the expense of someone in the audience isn’t earned at all. It’s like finding a trapped animal, killing it and pretending you’re a hunter. It was weak and desperate, and they could smell it on me. I deserved to be booed off stage.” He flops down on a nearby couch, depressed. “It’s just hard coming up with new material, y’know?”
Despite himself, Esau is starting to feel a little sympathy for the guy. He goes over and sits down beside him. “It can’t be easy – making humorous observations when there’s not really much to observe...humorously.” Esau frowns, knowing he ended the sentence in a grammatically-incorrect way, but not sure how to recover.
Ishmael doesn’t seem to notice.
“You’re telling me,” he says. “Back when I was hunting zombies for a living, I had loads of material. It’s actually how I got into stand-up in the first place. Like...what’d I used to say?”
Ishmael thinks. Esau braces himself for a terrible zombie-hunting bit.
“Oh!” Ishmael laughs, like he can’t contain himself because his joke is just that damn good. “You know what the difference is between a zombie and a corpse?”
“What?”
“The corpse doesn’t wake up when you’re fucking it!”
Ishmael stares at Esau, open-mouthed, expectant.
Unable to hide his true feelings, Esau’s face wrinkles in disgust. Ishmael’s face falls. “What? You don’t like it?”
“A necrophilia joke? Really?”
Ishmael waves a dismissive hand. “You don’t get it.”
Muttering, Esau goes, “No, of course. I’m what’s wrong with that joke.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Ishmael sighs. “I guess things were a little more exciting then.” He takes a puff. “What’s your plan?”
“For getting back at Ike and Jake?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t have one, really. I thought you’d be able to help, seeing as how you’re this badass desert warrior...”
The words die on his tongue as he takes in the failed comedian/hippy/goat herder smoking weed before his eyes. Esau lets out a sigh. “You know what? Forget it. I’ll go back and get revenge myself.”
Esau goes to leave, but Ishmael grabs his arm, before remembering it’s nothing but exposed muscle.
“Ewwww...” He instantly recoils, hand covered in blood. He wipes it on the couch cushion.
Frustrated, Esau says, “Yeah, I don’t have any fucking skin. Deal with it!”
At this, Ishmael freezes. He looks at Esau like he’s just discovered some rare, skinless diamond in the rough.
“What?”
“You got the heart of a stand-up, kid. You know that?”
“I don’t care. I don’t wanna be a stand-up.”
But this only makes Ishmael more excited. “Exactly! No one wants to be a stand-up. It’s something you have to be. It’s a vocation. A calling to serve a higher purpose.”
“You are still talking about being a stand-up, right? Getting up on that rock you call a stage and telling dick jokes?”
“No, it’s more than that. So much more. It’s bringing joy. It’s giving people an experience. It’s being able to say terrible, unspeakable things, and not having to take responsibility for them because it’s comedy. Don’t you want that?”
Flatly, Esau says, “No. I just want revenge.”
“You got the gift, man. Be a shame to let it go to waste. I thought I was the only one, but...it must be in our blood. Maybe it runs diagonally in the family tree.”
“I don’t...Wait, what?”
“Diagonally. You know...” He draws a diagonal line in the air, connecting two invisible dots. “Like from uncle to nephew.”
“First of all, that doesn’t make any fucking sense...”
“Does to me,” Ishmael says, taking another puff.
“Second of all, I’m not interested – in any way – in becoming a stand-up comedian. Look at me. I’d be the guy without skin. I think people would have a hard time getting past that.”
“But that gives you an edge. A gimmick.”
“I’m not gonna be some gimmicky prop-guy, alright? You want me to wear a lampshade on my head and a big, red, clown nose too?” Esau catches himself, realises he’s actually thinking about it. “Look, that’s not why I came...”
“Alright, fine.” Ishmael sits up, flicking his roach into the sand. “You wanna talk revenge? Let’s talk revenge. You came to me because you think I can help you, and you’re right. It might not seem like it now, but before I settled down and had a family, I used to be a stone-cold zombie hunter. Which means...I’ve got a very specific set of skills. I’m not talking about joke writing or dealing with hecklers – that’s a separate skill set. I’m talking about hand-to-hand combat, stealth, decapitation, et cetera. If you want me to help you kill Ike and Jake for cutting your skin off, I will.”
“Ike didn’t cut my skin off. Neither did Jake.”
Ishmael frowns, not understanding. “Then, who did?
“My mom.”
“Jesus,” Ishmael says. “Becca?”
Esau nods. Ishmael thinks about it. “Is she on our hit-list, too?”
“Of course.”
“Why didn’t you mention that before?”
Esau shrugs. “I don’t know. Makes for a more symmetrical narrative if you’re killing your brother and I’m killing mine.”
“So you’re just cutting the only woman out of the story?”
“After she cut me out of my own skin? You bet your ass I am.”
“Seems kinda sexist.”
“Seems kinda ‘I don’t give a fuck’. Get over yourself, you hippy douche. The woman literally flayed me alive. I know you don’t have a problem with killing women – you cut Sarah’s head off, didn’t you?”
“She was a zombie! And...” His face darkens. “I’ve killed enough mothers in my time.”
Esau studies him, waiting for him to elaborate.
Ishmael snaps out of it, remembering his train of thought. “Look, if I help you do this, I want something in return.”
Esau eyes him warily, fearing that the favour may be sexual in nature. “What?”
“You have to come on the road with me.”
It takes Esau a minute to figure out what he’s proposing. “You mean...as a comedian?”
Ishmael nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, it’ll be great. You can start out opening for me, then once you’ve honed your craft, you’ll be able to headline your own shows. We’ll go all over – Babylon, Egypt, you name it.”
“What about your family?”
“What about ‘em? You heard ‘em out there, the way they disrespect me. They don’t understand the art, man. The pain that goes into it. They don’t understand that it’s just as hard sitting in here all day trying to come up with jokes as it is out there doing manual labour.”
“Wait...you seriously just sit in here all day? You ever think that’s why they don’t respect you when you go up on stage?”
“I’m a comedian!” Ishmael says, suddenly defensive. “It’s part of the job.”
He calms himself, lays a hand on Esau’s shoulder as if about to impart some wisdom, forgetting (once again) that it’s nothing but exposed muscle. He stiffens instantly, looking horrified as he realises what he’s done. He desperately wants to remove his hand and wipe it off, but he fights the urge, keeps it there, as if proving his commitment to Esau.
“Part of our job,” he says, trying to keep the disgust from his voice.
*
The very next day, they’re on the road. Esau and Ishmael. Wronged men seeking to make things right. Heading back to the place where it all began, to kill the brothers that betrayed them.
They’ve gone about a mile and a half when Ishmael needs to stop and rest. He hasn’t done any physical activity in some time, and this walking shit gets old real quick.
Esau hauls him to his feet with a ‘get up you zombie sack of shit’ at
titude, and pushes him along.
To distract his uncle from the agony of exercise, Esau goes, “So...listen, there’s something I wanted to ask you about. Back in the tent, you said, rather ominously, that you’d killed enough mothers in your time. How many are we talking here?”
“A lot,” Ishmael says. “Including my own.”
I feel I’ve been very clear up to this point that Esau has no eyelids, and therefore, constantly looks surprised. However, at this moment, he seems truly shocked. “Hold up – you killed your own mom?”
“I had to. She was a zombie.”
“She got bit?”
Ishmael nods. “That was how I became a zombie hunter in the first place. Before she died, she made me promise to exterminate Abe’s bloodline. She hated him, and she hated God for going back on his promise to her.”
“What promise?”
“Well, at one time, when I was still a kid, he was planning to replace Isaac with me. I think the idea was to make dad disobey him by asking him to sacrifice his son. That way, God could weasel out of the covenant and have me be the new patriarch. But then the crazy motherfucker went ahead and actually killed his own kid. So God came back to my mom with his tail between his legs and said, “Sorry, I didn’t think he’d actually do it.” Supposedly, he had another deal going with Lot to make him patriarch, but I think that was like a second backup if I fell through. The big guy sure does like to stack the deck, doesn’t he? Heard he jumped off a cliff or something.”
“Who, God?”
“No, you asshole. Lot.”
“Oh.” Esau takes a moment to process it all. “Okay, but...how did you become a zombie, then?”
“Well, after mom died, I went on a bit of a rampage. Boozin’, fuckin’, killin’ zombies. You know, the usual grieving process. Killed ‘em by the hundred. Then I got scratched in the fight at dad’s funeral and turned into one myself.”
“You got scratched?”
“Apparently that’s all it takes.”
“What’s the science behind that?”
Ishmael laughs. “Beats me. This is God’s country, man. Science don’t apply.”
Esau goes silent. He knows for a fact that it was Abe who caused this whole zombie plague in the first place, when he sacrificed Isaac and turned him into Ike. Or maybe it was God’s fault, for bringing Isaac back from the dead, or for telling Abe to kill him in the first place.