Fifty Shades Of Sparkling Vampires With Dragon Tattoos That Play Starvation Games

by Lacy Maran

  "Get away from me," Damon scolded, fresh off dumping junk mortgages on day traders. Damon was making a killing, doubling down on payday lending companies and credit card companies. It didn't matter how much the working class stiffs 401k would be crippled. The stock shark was all about lining his own pockets. That yacht wasn't going to buy itself after all.

  But Zombies don't give a shit about Damon's custom suits and designer haircuts. Zombies weren't impressed by the sharks portfolio. And Zombies couldn't be bribed with payouts from his off shore back account. They just wanted brains.

  Not to mention investment bankers had especially tasty cerebellums. After years of stretching the limits of morals and decency, their craniums were mushy jelly. Desert for the undead. But even though the world seemed devoid of mercy, it sure as hell had a sense of irony. The same Occupy Protestors that Damon had ignored month after month coming off the subway had brought an undead reckoning to his cubicle.

  "I'll make a deal with you," Damon pleaded, as if talking to a coherent human being instead of a flesh crazy monsters. "I have a great stock tip for you."

  But the hordes were going to send Damon to a bloody grave. And suddenly Damon realized all the years of stock piling his assets in offshore accounts were little consolation when his spleen was going to be ripped out. But while the Zombies dug into their stock broker breakfast, Damon finally saw the light and realized what was truly important--that he was never going to get to use his two for one lap dance coupon.

  Damon wasn't the only investment banker on his floor turned to Zombie mulch, but he was the only one to squeal like a little bitch.

  Despite the screeching. Despite the chaos. Despite the mayhem just outside his corner office, Brent Tompkins didn't hear the warnings until it was too late. Brent was too busy getting sucked off by his latest busty bimbo of a secretary to notice.

  To be fair, it had been a rough week for the old multi millionaire. He'd been forced to live on his yacht ever since his third wife kicked him out of their mansion in the Hamptons and left him without a butler or personal chef. He'd spent a hooker's ransom lobbying Congress to keep regulators hands off his immoral trading practices. And he'd been forced to hire a new slutty secretary after the last one refused to suck him off without being guaranteed a promotion.

  That's what the common folk didn't understand. When you had enough money to roll around naked in, everyone wanted a piece of you. Between an ex wanting half of everything, the Government wanting fair business practices, and coworkers wanting his job, the stock holders would have his balls in a jar if he didn't give them ten percent growth every quarter.

  So Brent deserved a bad ass blow job under his desk. Didn't people realize he would have to fire half the floor after the Dow plunging like a little bitch? And Brent hated firing people. It really dampened his morning mocha. Plus it meant Brent would have to get off his lazy ass and actually do work for once instead of just delegating. Fuck, everyone knew middle management was about planning your next trip to St. Tropez while cashing checks.

  Hard work was for schmucks and construction workers. Investment banking was about gambling with other peoples money. Most of the time you got rich. But even if you went belly up, Congress was right there to bail you out. After all, the investment banks were too big to fail. It was fool proof scam disguised as a 9-5 job.

  No one told the Zombies that though. As Brent's sales managers bloody body was pressed against the glass in front of him, Brent realized that unlike Capitol Hill, the undead could not be bought off. And for once in Brent's life, he actually turned down a blow job. After all, he needed to use his Busty Secretary as a human shield. Brent lived in a world where he never heard "no." A world where his past dirty deeds never caught up with him. A world where he was allowed to run afoul of logic and the law without repercussions. So in Brent's mind, an army of Zombies were just a roadblock on the way back to easy street.

  Candy Callahan was not so eager to play decoy though. She wanted to be more than just a Busty Secretary. She wanted to be a survivor. Candy tried to move to the back of the room as the Zombies closed in. But douche that he was, Brent grabbed Candy and shoved her towards the Zombies, offering her body up as an appetizer. But Brent soon realized the undead were too numerous to just plow through. So Brent's mind spun, dizzying himself trying to come up with an escape while the Zombies tore Candy up in front of him.

  There would be no escape though. Just a bloody demise for the bastard. But dickhead that he was, Brent decided he would be a weakling right to the end. Brent made a beeline for his window, opting for a twenty story plunge instead of turning into Zombie munchies.

  The Universe was not going to let Brent get off so easy. Brent was destined to become lunch. To be an unwitting organ donor. And to suffer more than he ever had before. The Zombies grabbed Brent as he opened his office window, pulling him back into the fold. Then they swarmed around him with their cold dead eyes. It was like staring down a pack of sharks.

  Brent started sweating through his shirt as the Zombies pulled him every which way. The smell of rotting flesh was overwhelming, stuck between the Zombies teeth. Brent could feel his shoulder pop out, then his hamstring blow. No appendage was safe. And Brent had never experienced something so terrifying. But the torture had just begun. Brent suddenly felt a pair of teeth rip into his flesh. It was excruciating. But not nearly as bad as the fingernails clawing his abs, exposing his intestines to a hungry audience.

  Before Brent knew it, he was turned inside out, writhing in pain, and desperate to die. But karma was a bitch. Not to mention, Brent had plenty of fresh meat to go around. It was a just desert after a lifetime of cutting rivals throats, having his gnawed on by the unwashed masses.

  And as the Zombies ate Brent alive, the only thing that could compete with his screaming were the commentators on his office tv.

  Fifth Avenue

  Philip Goodwin wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. And he hadn't even come face to face with a Zombie yet. Instead he was the messenger, about to be shot down by the cold, greedy glares of his Corporations board. Philip was the one that had to tell the investors that the company hadn't given their customers enough boners in the last quarter. See, Philip worked for the biggest drug dealer in the world. A pharmaceutical juggernaut. And proud restorer of erections to octogenarians everywhere.

  But they didn't just pop woodies on geriatrics for a living. They also lowered blood pressure, stopped rectal bleeding, and gave it's patients heart attacks. Wait, you didn't pay attention to the eight page warning labels? Sure the prescription will cure restless leg syndrome, but those pills could give you an ulcer, suicidal thoughts, or a full blown stroke. And go figure, one guy kicks the bucket after taking the companies indigestion pill and everyone goes into a panic.

  Enter Philip, sitting amongst twelve angry board members wondering why they'd have to hold off on buying another private island retreat. And sitting in that conference room, Philip started to realize how fucked up the stock market really was. The figures in his hand said his pharmaceutical employer had made a two million dollar profit in the last three months. Even a five year old could figure out the stock price should go up. But Wall Street had no use for logic. The prognosticators thought the Rx company should have made four million bucks. So instead the board would have to start popping pills of their own as their stock took a nose dive.

  Anywhere else and a two million dollar profit would be a wet dream. But instead, welcome to Wall Street, where no profit was big enough, no job couldn't be outsourced, and no penny couldn't be pinched all in the name of making millionaire's into billionaire's. The suits wanted their sports cars. They wanted their foie gras. They wanted to buy their own private golf courses. And Philip had come between that.

  So when the Zombie Security Guards and Janitors started pounding on the glass to the conference room, it was almost a relief to Philip. The math finally added up. Forty brain hungry Zombies versus twelve overpaid blowhards meant good eating for the undea
d. And what a last supper it would be.

  Philip wouldn't be spared from the carnage, becoming an appetizer himself. But Philip watched his bosses get eaten with a smile on his face. After all, the Pharmaceutical Companies stock may not have shot up, but they sure knew how to make good sleeping pills. So Philip popped a pill and closed his eyes, before the Zombies ripped them out of their sockets.

  Newport Beach

  Carlton Stoddard knew just how good sleeping pills were. The CEO slept like a baby. Then again, it didn't hurt that he'd gone to bed in a thousand dollar a night villa. As the East Coast had been ravaged by suicidal stocks and a zoo of Zombies, Carlton and his West Coast cohorts were just waking up to their corporate retreat on the Newport Coast. With the way those fat cats were living it up, you'd hardly know they were in the middle of a recession.

  Don't tell that to the ten thousand warehouse workers the company just laid off. Or the Chinese laborers working in human rights violating conditions so the company could make obscenely cheap smart phones. The sales managers for the Wireless Mobile Conglomerate worked damn hard and deserved corporate spa packages. A Swedish massage with just a little extra at the end. A room with a complimentary five hundred dollar bottle of wine. A filet at dinner that cost more per ounce than most American families weekly food bill. All on the company dime of course.

  And for Carlton, it was just the break he'd been looking for. It had been tough for him, having been fired from his last CEO job and forced to settle for a ten million dollar buyout. He was hoping his severance would be more like fifteen. But incompetence had never paid so well. Carlton bounced back from his unemployed days toiling on his yacht, landing the CEO position at Wireless Mobile Corporation. Although at thirty million a year, he did feel a bit underpaid. After all, it didn't seem worth getting out of bed in the morning for less than twenty-five mil.

  It was poised to be an exhausting day of relaxation for Carlton. A light two hour massage. Round of golf on the coast. And finally an awards banquet where his sales managers told him how great he was. All in a days work though.

  The last thing Carlton expected was a toothy surprise at his door. As a matter of fact, when he heard a tap, Carlton thought the escort he'd ordered had finally arrived to ride his dick into the sunset. But instead it was housekeeping, eager to do some Spring Cleaning with his sternum.

  Marge the Maid lunged at Carlton as he opened the door. Carlton was completely blindsided by the Zombie Maid. And before he knew it, Carlton was on the ground, mounted by a brain-thirsty servant. It had been a long time since the CEO had been mounted by a woman he didn't have to pay. Although it wasn't the first time a woman wanted to tear Carlton to shreds. But it appeared Marge the Maid would succeed where so many other angry women had failed.

  Marge opened her mouth wide, her chompers ready to take a bite out of the bigwig. But Carlton didn't get to be the CEO of a company without leaving a trail of blood in his wake. The CEO fought back, pushing Marge off of him and into the hotel room dresser. He then got up and moved to the phone, looking to do what he did best--outsource his own rescue.

  There would be no 911 call though. No reprieve. No escape. Marge was too frisky of a Zombie for that. And she hadn't had a bite since tearing open a corporate lawyer down the hall.

  Marge lunged at Carlton, but the slippery son of a bitch stayed out of her grasp. Carlton backed himself into the corner, seemingly signing his own death warrant. But while Marge saw lunch, Carlton saw his chance at freedom. Marge took another lunge at Carlton, but this time he grabbed the lamp from the night stand and cracked Marge on the head with it. The Zombie Maid dropped to the ground, defeated.

  And as Carlton saw Marge twitching before finally succumbing to her head wound, he got cocky. "Don't you know who I am?" he boasted. "Never mess with a CEO, bitch."

  Carlton was completely full of himself. Like he'd just completed a hostile takeover. Like he was more than just a shark in a suit. But with all his gusto, Carlton forgot that he left the door to his room open.

  Looking up at a room full of Zombified Hotel Employees that had let themselves in from the hallway, Carlton realized the time for bluster was over. It was time to pray. But the undead didn't believe in mercy. They only cared about their next meal. The only question was, how would they split Carlton's body twenty ways?

  The Zombies cornered the CEO. He could smell the latest kill on their breath. And for once, the tycoon started to sweat through his suit. But it was no matter. One Zombie after another lunged at Carlton, knocking him over, making him easy prey. The undead then had themselves a buffet, grabbing fresh meat off the bone. The pain was excruciating. There was nothing worse than watching yourself being eaten alive. Plus, the Zombies were in no hurry. After all, there were a lot of mouths to feed. And they were going to savor every bite.

  *********

  It was the biggest bloodbath Wall Street had ever seen. An absolute massacre. And after months of being ignored by the filthy rich tycoons, the ninety-nine percent were finally heard. It was a rabid revenge. A tasty triumph. A headhunters Heaven. It was a day that wouldn't be soon forgotten. A day the apocalypse toppled tycoons. A day when the Zombie Protestors didn't just Occupy Wall St, they ate it alive.

  The End.

  Zombies Eat Hollywood

  "Don't you know who I am?" Brent Williams barked, issuing the douche bag call to arms.

  Everyone in Hollywood knew who Brent was. The guy was box office royalty. The man with the million dollar abs. The only guy in the world that could star in a movie about 14th Century French Unicycling and have it rake in the dough. And he had a fan base more rabid than a pack of methed out werewolves.

  But while the adoring public couldn't get enough of their favorite hunk, Hollywood got to see the dark side of their dashing dickwad. His million dollar demands, his unquenchable addiction to blow, an ego that couldn't fit into his double decker trailer.

  Jim Baker got the brunt of the abuse. He was the coffee bitch. The gofer. The intern. Only a sadistic hell hole like Hollywood worked someone like a goat with dick for pay to show for it. And it only took five minutes on the job for Jim to realize if Hollywood was a Cleveland Steamer, he was the chest being pooped on.

  But things were different that day on the set of "Vampire Amish Versus Aliens." The apocalypse had come to Hollywood for real. But for Jim, it seemed just like any other day. Waking up at four a.m. to the sound of the neighborhood tweaker teething for his next fix just outside his window. Rushing out of his hipster infested apartment complex on the way to soul crushing traffic. Arriving on the studio lot to an avalanche of problems with a belly only half full of ramen noodles and 98 cent store energy drinks.

  But unlike the nerve rattling onslaught of obscenities that usually greeted Jim in the production office, he was instead met by Samantha Burns, his onset crush and fellow put upon grunt. Maybe it was the Universe's way of finally throwing Jim a romantic bone. Giving Jim the chance to tell her how he felt about her. Expressing his long simmering feelings. So as Samantha sat at the production desk with her back turned to him, Jim tried to take precedence over her paperwork.

  "Samantha, I've been meaning to tell you this for a while now," Jim stammered, his hands sweating as his stomach turned. "But I just can't stop thinking about you lately. You're the only thing in this wacked out town that makes me happy. I find myself constantly looking forward to the next time I get to see you. And I was just wondering if you felt the same way."

  There, Jim had finally done it. He'd put his feelings on the line. And Samantha took immediate notice. But as the dirty blonde beauty turned around in her chair, Jim did not get the reaction he had hoped for.

  Instead of the sweet and smart woman he'd worked alongside, a brain-thirsty Zombie stared Jim down. Zombie Samantha was rabid and ravaged, a bloody mess with cold dead eyes.

  Jim was slack-jawed and paralyzed with fear. When Jim dreamed about Samantha craving him, that wasn't what he had in mind. Jim slowly back tracked like he had stumb
led upon an angry wolf in the wild. But Zombie Samantha wasn't about to back down. She had fresh meat in her sights and lunged at Jim to get it.

  Jim narrowly avoided the advances of his undead would be girlfriend, but tripped over a box of props in the process. Jim fell to the ground with a thud and couldn't get up fast enough to avoid Samantha's second toothy attack.

  Round two wasn't as kind to Jim. Zombie Samantha's teeth tore into Jim's thigh while he tried to get up, leaving him wincing. But even with the excruciating pain, Jim managed to shove Samantha off him and get to his feet.

  But the damage had been done and Zombie Samantha wanted to finish the job. She bared her teeth again, then made a third attempt, lunging straight at Jim's head. Jim was prepared though, grabbing the flat panel computer monitor from the desk and slamming her in the head with it.

  The blow sent Zombie Samantha to the ground, but Jim could tell he'd only stunned her. Jim hobbled to the door with his leg on fire with pain, and ducked out of the production office.

  The problem with being a lowly production bitch was that you were the first person on the studio lot. Which meant Jim was alone with his bite wound trying to hobble to safety. But it only took a few excruciating feet to realize Jim was in a hurry to get nowhere.

  He was in too much pain to even make it to the adjacent sound stage. Instead he just collapsed to the ground, bitten and beaten, rejected in the most rabid way possible. So much for a love connection. The woman of Jim's dreams was instead the dagger in the heart of Jim's forgettable life.

  And as the Zombie virus hijacked Jim's body, he spent the final moments of his life thinking what an ironic little bitch Hollywood was. After all, Jim had come to Tinsel town to become a big star, and he was going to die a coffee bitch.

  Jim finally bled out on the pavement in front of Soundstage 42. But while Jim was a nobody in life, death brought all new horrifying possibilities. Zombie Jim wasn't the same guy that came to Hollywood from Vermont with a heart on his sleeve short film about “the value of love and doing the right thing” only to be roundly ignored by boob and box office obsessed producers. Zombie Jim was a mindless, hollow, check your soul at the door killer. Finally, someone Hollywood could relate to.