Get Zombie: 8-Book Set

by Raymund Hensley

WENDY

  Jesus Christ! Its thing is real!

  NATALIE

  TOUCH THE PENIS!

  WENDY

  Release me!

  NATALIE

  Rub it! Smack it! Let herrr attack it!

  GEEK (o.s.)

  Jesus Christ!

  There is a struggle as they try to keep Wendy from running away.

  WENDY

  Mommy! Mommy!

  Wendy breaks free and trips and falls into the camera, face-first.

  BLACK.

  SOUNDS OF MUFFLED SCREAMS/A CHAIR FALLING/THUNDER/CANS BANGING TOGETHER.

  CUE: classical violin music.

  BED.

  Wendy sits, motionless – her eyes are glazed over – she has been crying. She is naked. The geeky cameraman tries to focus in on her breasts.

  Natalie walks into frame, fixes up Wendy’s hair for the camera, and sits down next to her – and pets her head. Natalie digs into her own hair and produces a needle and dips the tip into a glass of purple liquid and sticks its entire length through Wendy’s forearm.

  She doesn’t move: Her eyes always forward.

  The cameraman MOANS. Then the camera shakes. Then from somewhere far away, we hear the sudden roar of THUNDER. Natalie looks into the camera.

  NATALIE

  This is the new Age of Virgo Sheep.

  The camera nods.

  GEEK (o.s.)

  Yesssssm.

  FADE OUT:

  …silence…

  FADE IN:

  INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

  Wendy is sitting on the bed – eyes empty. Natalie paints her body with a white, thick substance.

  Natalie looks into the camera.

  NATALIE

  Now it is your turn, oh child.

  GEEK (o.s.)

  I wish to be immortalized.

  NATALIE

  So let it be painted…

  JUMP CUT:

  GEEK

  sits on the bed, in the glowing nude, with his hands between his knees, next to Wendy. He appears to have been crying.

  GEEK

  (into camera)

  So let it be done.

  He turns to Natalie as she paints his thighs a shiny white. He begins to sob. Wendy begins to sing vowels.

  CUT TO:

  INT. BATHROOM – NIGHT

  It’s very BRIGHT. The shower is on at full BLAST. Geek – now made frozen into a mannequin – sits on the toilet as Natalie, wearing a pink bathrobe, fingers his mouth like a jackhammer and sucks on his nose while making strange erotic sounds.

  She takes her finger out from his mouth.

  Geek Mannequin looks into the camera’s general direction (though his eyes are pure white) and opens his mouth to say something, but he sounds like a RACCOON.

  Natalie claps her hands – slowly at first – and then HOOTS and HOLLERS.

  NATALIE

  Hurray! Hurray!

  CUT TO BLACK:

  CUT TO:

  SAME SHOT – STABLE/ON TRIPOD

  INT. BATHROOM – NIGHT

  Natalie HACKS at the Geek Mannequin repeatedly with two miniature axes. Mannequin is frozen (has been posed) with his hands over his eyes – mouth agape in horror.

  With three clunky chops, Natalie lops off his left arm; then with one, large blow, off comes his right. Red fountains out from his shoulders like two insane fire hoses.

  The mannequin doesn’t move an inch: Its face scared stiff.

  Natalie is covered in blood from hair to ankles, as if she just climbed out from a giant can of red paint. She fixes her hair and walks to the camera…the whites of her eyes shining through her red face.

  NATALIE

  I am the sponge, and I have been fertilized.

  FADE OUT:

  INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

  Wendy The Mannequin is on the floor, on her back, her arms spread out over the carpet. Natalie is videotaping her.

  Someone is in the background, on the ground…

  SCREEN BLINKS OFF.

  I turn off the VCR and run into the kitchen and vomit into the sink – into a frying pan with leftover tiny sausages, the kind with cheese inside.

  I make a glass of water and set my tummy at ease.

  Was it all real?

  Couldn’t be.

  I want to call Polly. I want to ask her. But what if it disturbs her and I don’t get the cameraman job? I can’t chance it. I need the job. Need to pay rent. I can’t survive in the real world with a real job – at least not forever. I don’t want to be a bum living in Ala Park. That’s the lowest of the low for me, I swear. If it ever did come to that, me having nothing AT ALL except for my own skin, I would split my wrists.

  I decide to not make any waves with Polly.

  I microwave myself some cold pizza and eat my feelings. I should be depressed more often. Then maybe I’d gain more weight and be a fattie. I should create my own weight gain system.

  PART TWO

  “Clean Water”

  THE 1st DAY OF WORK is on a Monday. Polly calls me up at 6am and tells me to be ready by 6:1o. I say okay and hang up, then say obscenities at the sunrays creeping into my bedroom window.

  “Obscenities!”

  I can’t stand mornings. They tell me, “Yessm! Another day of hell for you! Another day possibly wasted!”

  Well, dear Sun, maybe not today.

  I shower for 3o seconds, shampooing my hair with Fructis, and get dressed and walk outside, hopping into Polly’s car.

  We have to drive to Aina Haina, to the shoot location: Some rich house on the high hills.

  On the freeway, Polly asks if I’ve eaten. I tell her no, and she gives me a lump of tinfoil. I open it up and eat the fried banana rolls inside. It’s yummy.

  The fastest way to my heart?

  My mouth.

  And penis.

  But it’s my mouth first.

  Raindrops begin to splat against the windshield. We’re getting close to the house. I begin to get nervous. I want to do a good job. I don’t even care about what my friends or family will say anymore. I just want to work at a job that I find fun and/or interesting, to make enough money to buy cigarettes and go out drinking at Scores while we all play darts – then go out to Hawaiian Brian’s on BYOB nights and drink more beer and play more darts.

  The great thing about Brian’s is that they’ve got a video arcade, pool tables (their main attraction) and 8 dartboards, and because there’s a club next door – Blue Tropix – you have eye-candy strutting in every now and then.

  That’s good cake.

  There are actually two clubs: Blue Tropix, where the hippidy hoppers go, and that Black Building, where all the Gothos & Depressos go.

  They all come together at Brain’s.

  The nexus of the universe.

  Aina Haina makes me ill. My ex lives here – well, last I checked anyway. I don’t tell Polly. I don’t want her feeling sorry for me – no pity applause, please. Polly drives by my ex’s house and I can’t help myself but look.

  No one outside.

  Good.

  If I did see her, oh I don’t know, raking or something, it would be a thorn in my mind that would take another 3 fucking years to dig out (exhales, depressingly).

  That’s a good name for a band:

  Exhales Depressingly

  And it’s not that I don’t love her. I do. It’s just that she’s off and married and happy with someone else (who I’m sure is a good guy) that’s not me. I see her now and I feel used & abused & worthless. Just not good enough. Sorry Rubs, do not pass Go.

  I miss feeling wanted.

  Blarghhhh…

  The good thing about the breakup was that when it ended, it ENDED. No phone calls, no possibilities. Wow. She’s “off limits” now. Doesn’t matter how much I care. Doesn’t matter what I think. Just gotta mooooove on like a sad cow. It’s hideous. Dark days ahead folks. Very dark.

  Polly’s cellphone goes off, plays the ring tone “What’s this? What’s this” from A Nightmare
Before Christmas. Irritated by the conversation, she hangs up, violently, and tells me that the address of the house where the adult movie is being filmed has been changed – for security reasons. Seems that someone on the inside has tipped the fuzz.

  After an hour of driving and searching, we drive up to the two-story house. Other cars are parked, all close to each other. There is a large blue van – looks as if it time-traveled from the 70’s. It is rocking back and forth, and muted tribal music can be heard inside.

  The backdoors are opened by an obese woman with bad ankles and children on pogo sticks jump out and hop here and there and everywhere.

  Polly and I climb the long flight of stairs, towards the cotton-filled blue sky, up to the front, sliding glass door. It takes our combined bulk to open it.

  The place is one, large living room. People in orange towels loiter. They look at us and then go back to their conversations. A fat, white cat walks past us. It looks over its shoulder and gives me the old bug-eye.

  I squint my eyes and give it the look back.

  An older man – wearing white socks – walks up to Polly and gives her a big hug. He looks at me with those large, blue eyes and shakes my hand – introduces himself as Mr. Snake, the director of the project. He assumes that I’m the new cinematographer.

  When I agree, he lets out a heavy “Huzzah!” and calls forth a waiter who lumbers out from the bathroom. He looks tired – dressed in a black, turtleneck sweater, holding a silver platter over his head. He yawns.

  “How may I help you, Sir?” he says in a thick British accent.

  Mr. Snake slaps him across the mouth.

  “Don’t ask stupid questions, Sigourney!”

  He is slapped again, and I take a step back, hiding a little behind Polly, who just stands there, emotionless.

  This Mr. Snake person raises a stiff finger in front of Sigourney’s eyes, asks him if he wants another – for his own good. The waiter says Yes, with a tear, and braces his face.

  SLAP!

  The waiter nods, dramatically.

  “Yessm. I love it.”

  Mr. Snake takes him by the shoulders and looks into his eyes, passionately.

  “Now I want you to listen to me very carefully. I care for you. And I want you to go into the kitchen and make me and my friends here a tiny cake, and then I want you to make yourself a tiny cake and urinate on it, and you’re going to eat it because I tell you to. And you will love it. I care for you so much. This is for your own good. Discipline is radical. You understand, don’t you? I know you do. Later, I command you to ejaculate into the tiny cake and feed it to a hungry whore, and then look at her. Hrmm, I know she’s here somewhere. Moped?? Moped, where are you, love!? On the toilet, maybe? You better be.”

  The waiter blinks a tear.

  “I think she’s massaging out a stool, sir.”

  Mr. Snake stuffs a dollar into Sigourney’s mouth and SLAPS him a heavy one, knocking him back toward the kitchen.

  “You make my mouth happy!” Sigourney cries.

  He disappears behind a wall.

  Mr. Snake wipes the sweat from his brow and turns to us, surprised.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that. You know how waiters get. The help like it when you hit them every now and then: Their anger makes them feel special. Heehaw!”

  I want to slap him a good one of my own. And then scream into his face: “HOW DOES IT FEEL – HUH! HOW DOES IT FEEL!!” But I don’t, because he’s much bigger than me (he looks like a drugged-out, Samoan Santa). Polly points to the waiting crowd in the living room.

  “How much have you so far?”

  Mr. Snake cracks his neck.

  “The crew has been organized…everyone’s here and ready to blow.”

  We walk down the hallway. I have no idea where to, and I’m too afraid to ask. I keep my mind level by thinking about my pay and my splendid future-condo in Waikiki.

  A row of 5 girls, age 18 by the looks of it, wrapped in black towels, sit in chairs with their legs crossed, reading Fangoria Magazine, their hair being worked on by what I can only assume to be make-up artists.

  I can’t hear what Polly and this Mr. Snake are yakking about – I’m trailing a little too far behind them and I begin to panic. I walk past a room and catch a glimpse of two obese, naked Hawaiian men sitting on the foot of a bed, licking the other’s face, madly: I remember clearly, against my will, the waving of their arm flab.

  Past another door: children are jumping up and down on a clean bed. A balding, adult-woman in a red leotard laughs along with them, clapping her hands to a made-up beat. I can only assume this to be some kind of desperate nursery.

  I stop to stare into the bathroom.

  It’s dark inside, but I can make out the outline of a human-female, sleeping in the tub, clear curtain obscuring her face. She doesn’t move…yet her breasts are not still.

  Afraid that I may have discovered a cracked-out, bye-bye whore, I speed-walk after Polly.

  Bad insanity.

  Children’s toys litter the hallway: Yellow Tonka Construction Trucks, Barbie dolls with their heads replaced by giant crayons, an autographed picture of Adam Sandler addressed to someone named “Toots”, a toy rat, a jump rope still in its packaging, a baseball bat covered in peanut butter, a shirt stitched to pants that’s stitched to a pair of white shoes, and toy babies. Training bras cover some toys. At the end of this long hallway is an unusually tall pile of used panties. I begin to wonder where all the man-briefs are. There’s a full body mirror, too. But I walk on by, not daring to look at myself in it.

  Stepping over a discarded pink shampoo bottle, we enter a fake room – fake walls, fake TV, fake couch, fake ceiling, fake ceiling fan, fake windows, and a fake floor. I notice a bathroom and wonder if the toilet inside is real. I’m afraid to move. I don’t know what’s going on, or what’s going to happen to me. I can feel eyes on me, although there is no one else in the room with us. I’m getting The Fever again. God, help me. I’m now a cinematographer – at least very soon I will be. Responsibility responsibility responsibility. Am I ready for this responsibility? What if I fail? What if they hate my work? What will these alien apes do to me?

  Oh, Jesus…

  Will they rape?

  MAN UP!

  Will I vomit?

  MAN UP!

  Am I even attractive enough to be raped?

  MAN UP!

  I’m so sensitive.

  MAN UP!

  I want to be raped by a beautiful woman.

  MAN UP!

  Shhh. Calm down, child. Relax. Take a laxative. Nothing bad will happen. Here – sit down with them on the bed. Nod your head, constantly, as they chat. See? Nothing bad is happening. Nothing bad WILL happen. The glass is half full, not half empty. Yesssssm, just nod your head. Nice. You’re wonderful. You’re doing so well.

  MAN UP!

  Don’t listen to him. You’re doing great. Remember this: They just want to make some money. That’s their goal – that’s why they’re here. You’re all on the same boat. The good ship Lollypop.

  Polly and Mr. Snake look at me.

  “Well?” one of them says.

  I stop shaking my head. Who said what now? Don’t panic. Just look into their eyes and say something positive.

  “Yessm.”

  Mr. Snake explains that we should go over the script before we begin to plan the shots. I agree and he walks off, briskly, in a gay way. My right arm hurts. I poopoo it sometimes playing darts – practicing at Hawaiian Brian’s from 6-12am, preparing for Play-Offs.

  I feel nauseous.

  My brain wants to vomit.

  Polly asks if I’m okay.

  I tell her I have a witch in my belly and that the witch hates me and she hurts me and my head hurts. “I have two owees.” She hands me a bottle of some kind of prescription medication for my headache and walks out to get me a glass of water.

  Watching her leave, I worry immediately that I may find something nasty in my water.

  T
he red bottle in my hand reads: Take one pill rectally, by mouth.

  I sigh and fall back on the bed.

  Just let me close my eyes for a minute.

  When I open my eyes, I forget where I am and make a pathetic, chirping sound. The lights hurt my eyes. I realize where I am and BOLT UP. Was I touched, sexually? Was I felt up in a sexy way? I check my body for any weird marks.

  Nothing.

  Oh, good, God. Good.

  There’s no one else in the room.

  I guess I’m okay. If anyone did molest me, better have been a woman. Or at least a girl. A pretty Canadian girl with blond hair and skinny muscles.

  I look down at a fluffy pillow on my right. There’s a bloody tissue on it. I pick it up with a raised pinky. Who does this belong to?

  Who was in here?

  Voices in the hallway. I throw the blood-covered tissue behind the bed and sit up straight with my hands in my lap.

  Mr. Snake and Polly walk in, laughing. They both hold screenplays. Polly waves at me and they sit on the bed.

  “Good. You’re up,” she says, patting my back. “Very good.”

  Mr. Snake also pats my back.

  “Yes, very good. How have ye been, my son? Good?” he asks, smiling. “Very good.”

  “I’m fine. When do I start work?”