by Wiles, David
Smithers coughed softly and Cornwallis ignored him entirely. Smithers waited nearly a full minute, then cleared his throat again, and was again ignored. After nearly three full minutes, Cornwallis spoke.
“I am writing a letter to His Majesty,” Cornwallis began, “informing him of your failure to do your duty in regards to the secrecy of the existence of zombie soldiers serving in his Majesty’s armed forces.” Cornwallis was so angry he never even looked up at Smithers. It was well known that British officers took personal offence at the failure of subordinates and, in most cases, would rather have a subordinate piss in his shoe than fail in a military assignment.
“I am sorry, Sir,” Smithers said meekly, giving Cornwallis the opening he needed to administer a good tongue-lashing.
“Yes, I see,” Cornwallis scoffed. “Well it is, indeed, a pity that the energy and effort required to manifest your present state of personal sorrow was not more gainfully employed in the execution of your military assignment in fulfillment of your duty to your King, your country, and your military service. It is bad enough that your failure has blemished your previously exemplary record, but even worse, has now reflected negatively upon my own military service.”
“I am truly sorry, Sir,” Smithers said softly.
“Oh, you’re truly sorry?” Cornwallis mocked, looking up and glaring at Smithers. “You’re truly sorry? Don’t diddle me with that codswallop! Is your purported sorrow supposed to excuse your incompetence in this matter? Well, is it?”
“No, Sir,” Smithers replied.
“Indeed, not,” Cornwallis replied. “I would much rather that you had pissed in my shoe,” Cornwallis continued, “than you had failed in this assignment.”
“Yes, Sir,” Smithers replied, being red face and somewhat flustered. “I’d be happy to piss in your shoe now, Sir, if you think that might help.”
“It’s a figure of speech,” Cornwallis sighed. “And it would not help.”
“Sorry, Sir.”
“I must say how profoundly disappointed I am,” Cornwallis admitted. “And a less forgiving officer might clap you in irons, have you cock-pecked by parrots, or have your banger mashed. Why, last night I was feeling a bit squiffy and was all set to give Mrs. Cornwallis a good rogering until I received the news of your failure, which ruined my whole evening.”
“Yes, Sir,” Smithers replied. “Sorry, Sir,” he added, in the great British military tradition of taking a dressing down by a superior officer by answering with mainly-- yes, Sir--no, Sir- and sorry, Sir.
“So we know that Washington and Franklin have notified others of the existence of our zombie forces,” Cornwallis admitted. “The question is… will anyone believe them?”
Chapter 15
John Hancock
The letter was delivered to John Hancock at Hancock Manor on Beacon Hill in Boston, late one afternoon in November of 1765, about two weeks after it was written. Hancock opened the envelope carefully and read the message enclosed, and then read it again, and yet again. It was incredible.
Hancock personally knew both George Washington and Benjamin Franklin well, and trusted that the message must be true and authentic. For the briefest of moments, he considered that the letter itself might be a forgery, but he knew Franklin’s hand well, and his writing style was unmistakable.
“Zombies in the American Colonies,” Hancock whispered softly to himself. He unbuttoned the top button of his finely tailored silk shirt, as he was warm in his chair near the fireplace, and took a long, slow, sip of tea. He pressed the toes of his bare feet firmly into the thick, shag carpeting of his parlor and leaned back in his chair.
“What was that you said?” asked Bubba Hancock, one of John Hancock’s closest cousins, who had just walked into the parlor.
“Oh, Bubba,” Hancock said. “I did not see you there.” Hancock placed the letter back into the envelope and threw it into the fireplace, according to the directions in the post script of the message. The letter was burned away in seconds.
“Was that a secret message?” Bubba asked.
“Something like that,” John replied. “Or at least, the writers wish the information to remain… confidential.” Hancock trusted Bubba, but also knew he had a bit of a “loose tongue.”
“Oh, now I’m truly interested,” Bubba said excitedly.
“Honor forbids me from disclosing the contents of the letter,” Hancock stated. “But I will say, these recent, newly disclosed British atrocities may well have planted the seeds of …an American Revolution!
Chapter 16
Elbridge Gerry
Elbridge Gerry was astonished at the contents of the letter he had just finished reading. Could it really be possible that the British were using undead, zombie soldiers in the American Colonies? It seemed too far-fetched an idea to be true. And yet Gerry knew Benjamin Franklin and George Washington well. He knew they were men of honor, men to be trusted.
Gerry was a smart, thin, tall young man in his twenties, and a recent Harvard graduate. He was well read, well-educated and annoying, as only a Harvard graduate can be. He tended to smell a bit like fish due to his recent employ in his family Cod fishing business.
Being formally schooled and educated, Gerry was open to the possibility that there could, indeed, be undead zombie soldiers in use by the British. Did not his recent courses in modern science at Harvard teach of the importance of the balance of bodily humours and the unpredictable consequences of an imbalance? Did not his recent religious studies confirm the existence of demons, witches, gnomes, faeries and elves? Did not the Bible itself confirm demonic possession and unearthly sprits that walk the earth?
It was just a few weeks ago that a parade of costumed children had come to his door asking for candy on Halloween night. And all the while he handed snicker-doodles and Baby Ruths to these little tykes dressed as Moses, Columbus, Pocahontas and Lady Gaga, he reflected that the holiday was really a celebration of All-Hollows Eve, a night where spirits and ghosts could freely walk the earth.
Was it really so much of a stretch to believe that the dead could rise and walk and be trained to eat American Colonists?
Elbridge Gerry had not been feeling well and had an afternoon appointment for a good blood-letting. He hoped this bleeding would restore his own strength and bring him to a more robust bearing. He would need his good health in the coming Colonial crisis.
If the British were truly using zombie soldiers, it could mean only that they were making ready for war against the Colonies. It could mean only that the British feared the one word that, until now, was spoken of only in whispers at secret gatherings: Revolution.
Chapter 17
Samuel Adams
“British cocksuckers!” exclaimed Samuel Adams after he read the letter from George Washington and Benjamin Franklin. “Bad-toothed, tea slurping, tax imposing, zombie breeding cocksuckers!” He had just finished reading the letter for the second time, and he took a sip of his personal stock of home-brewed ale, and began to read the letter yet again.
***
November 4, 1765 Mount Vernon, Virginia
My Dear Mr. Samuel Adams:
Boston, Massachusetts
It is with utmost sincerity that Col. Geo. Washington and Dr. Benjamin Franklin proffer this communicae to you regarding a sensitive matter, the discovery of which we have just recently detected. You know us to be honest men who, like yourself, are devoted to the cause of rights and liberty for all men, excepting negroes, of course. We hereby attest and swear that what we say is of firm and absolute truth, as incredible and fantastical as it may seem. Similar letters have been sent to many other of our friends throughout the Colonies.
We ask you to hold this information in strictest confidence, to only be shared amongst those you trust most absolutely.
We have discovered that the officers of the British forces stationed in the American Colonies have been creating and are in development of squadrons of “undead” zombie soldiers, soul-less monsters whos sole
aim is the devourment of living flesh. These ferocious, unholy soldiers are being trained and almost certainly intended for military use against we Colonials who have begun to challenge the unfair taxational policies so recently imposed upon us all.
We know it sounds like we’re fuckin’ with ya, and we understand the fantastical nature of our claim, but be assured that it is the truth. These zombies are real! We urgently send this transcript as a warning to be alert and on guard for this threat!
These zombies are flesh-eating monsters, being trained and developed by these British officers, we believe, to crush the possibility of revolutionary revolt.
Be advised: These creatures cannot be stopped by conventional means. But through much research and examination, we have learned they can still be stopped by being be-headed, or by being thus shot through the skull and brainpan with a pistol or musket.
The creatures may be identified by their pale, unearthly complexion and an inability to speak or reason. They tend to growl a lot, and bite. Do not let the creatures bite you! It is in this manner that one is killed and converted into a zombie oneself!
In your case, friend Adams, we fear that, were such zombie soldiers to be unleashed upon the city and peaceful residents of Boston, we truly feel it would be a massacre !
In closing, we wish you a pleasant Thanksgiving and all our best wishes during the upcoming Christmas and Holiday season!
We thus sign ourselves most sincerely,
Col Geo. Washington and Dr. Benj. Franklin
(Please burn this letter after reading. There must be NO public knowledge of this, lest complete panic ensue throughout the Colonies).
“Fuck me,” Samuel Adams swore again. “This is just the sort of sneaky, underhanded bullshit I have come to expect from these British cocksuckers.”
“What are you on about?” asked Mrs. Adams as she walked into the parlor while wiping her wet hands on her kitchen apron. “What’s the matter, now?” she asked.
“Zombie soldiers!” Adams said angrily. “The British are training zombie soldiers for use against the Colonists! Though Washington and Franklin have asked us to keep this confidential.”
“Zombie soldiers, truly?” she asked, somewhat dumbstruck.
“Well,” Adams replied. “So say Washington and Franklin both. And I trust them. The use of zombie soldiers violates all the heretofore practiced rules of war. I believe we must now allow for the very real possibility of …an American revolution.”
Chapter 18
Christmas at Mount Vernon
George and Martha Washington sat together beside the toasty fireplace in the parlor of Mount Vernon and handed each other a single, small wrapped package. George was wrapped in his favorite red velour robe and Martha in her cotton Snuggie, a recent invention by Benjamin Franklin. It was Christmas Eve, December 24, 1765 and Martha and George Washington were exchanging Christmas gifts.
George took his gift from Martha and looked at it carefully before opening it. The box was beautifully wrapped with a thin piece of green velvet cloth and securely tied with gold ribbon, with an ornate gold bow across the top. George untied the ribbon gently, careful not to rip the velvet wrapping, which could certainly be reused for some productive purpose.
“Oh how wonderful,” George exclaimed upon his seeing a new set of diamond encrusted dentures with gold grillework. “Thank you, they’re beautiful, and just what I need for special social occasions.”
“You’re welcome, my darling,” Martha replied. “They were freshly made from slave’s teeth. And I had our jeweler in Richmond do the grillework.”
“Oh I must try them on,” George said, removing the unadorned dentures he currently wore and sliding in the blinged-up dentures he had just received. They fit snugly and beautifully. Washington went to the mirror and smiled widely and admired the sparkle of gold and diamonds in his luxe new dentures.
“Ohhh, yeah!” George Washington said with a growing smile. “Now that’s what I’m talkn’ bout!”
“So you like them?” she asked, standing up in her Snuggie and hugging George in a loving embrace.
“Why they’re just the thing for an up-and-coming, ‘A’-list celebrity gentleman,” George replied, hugging Martha tightly. “Who’s your pimp-Daddy?” George asked smiling widely and striking her firmly upon the buttocks. “C’mon, who’s your pimp-daddy,” he repeated, slapping her ass again.
“Why, Mister Washington!” Martha cried out in mock outrage. “I am a lady and will not be spoken to in that manner!”
“Say it!” George demanded, hugging his wife tightly so she could not escape. “Who’s your pimp daddy?” he said, slapping her ass repeatedly. “Who’s your pimp daddy?”
“You’re my pimp-daddy!” Martha shouted reluctantly and giggled. “You are!”
“You’re damn right I am,” George said, releasing her and giving her a final swat on the tush. “And don’t you forget it!”
“May I open mine?” Martha asked, still giggling, holding George’s gift.
“By all means do,” George Washington replied.
Martha Washington removed the delicate lace wrapping from her gift and could see a finely crafted glass bottle beneath, filled with large white pills. There was a brown paper label across the front of the bottle that read:
Doctor Fitzbaum’s 100% Guaranteed
Medically Certified- FEMALE FERTILITY PILLS
The Only Pills to be Takin’ When You’re Baby-Makin!
A Proprietary Blending of Arsenic, Mustard Seed, Red Raspberry, Vinegar, Hazelnut, Turpentine,
Baking Soda, Spearmint
and Other Proprietary Ingredients
Certain to Stimulate Fetal Development in the Lazy Uterus
“Oh George, thank you,” Martha said after reading the label upon the bottle. “These must have been very, very expensive.” Martha began to weep tears of both joy and sadness.
“You don’t like your gift?” George asked.
“Oh, no, I love the gift,” Martha said truthfully. “I believe I am just a bit sad that I have thus far not provided you with the son you have always wished for.”
George hugged his wife tightly and whispered softly in her ear. “What is meant to be will be,” he said. “If we are to have a child of our own, it’s all in God’s hands now. We can only use the tools of modern science and pharmacology, and just keep on screwing as often as we can.”
“Oh, I love you, George,” Martha Washington said lovingly.
“And I love you, Missus Washington,” George said looking down at her. And he smiled a smile that sparkled with gold and diamonds.
At just that moment, there was a knock upon the door of the parlor, and Reebock was admitted, and asked to speak with George. Reebok seemed upset.
“I think I shall go upstairs and retire for the evening,” Martha said, taking leave of her husband and his valet-slave. Washington sat down in his favorite chair, and Reebock stood across from him, somewhat agitated.
“I am startin’ to feel somewhat…abused,” Reebock said.
“Abused?” Washington asked. “Has Mr. Kindly been too harsh with the lash again?”
“No dat ain’t it, mon,” Reebock stated. “It’s just that…”
“Yes? “Washington urged, listening patiently. “Do go on.”
“Look at this,” Reebock said, pointing to the one-inch square adhesive stamp affixed to the back of his neck. “Look at dis, mon!”
“I don’t like it any more than you do,” Washington admitted. “But the British Stamp Act states that all property must bear the British stamp of taxation.”
“Well , that’s not all,” Reebock began, “I had to give up three of my damn teeth to make your new dentures! And so did lots o’ de other slaves! ”
“Yes and I DO appreciate you volunteering to sell those teeth,” Washington smiled at his slave with his expensive new grillework. “Aren’t they beautiful?
“Yeah, beautiful,” Reebock said sadly. “But I feel dey looked better in my
OWN mouth!”
“We’ll you did volunteer to sell them,” Washington stated. “And you were paid for each tooth, as I understand,” he added.
“Yeah…I volunteered,” Reebock said sadly. “Mr. Kindly said three of my teeth were needed and told me that I had just volunteered for the procedure.”
“I see,” Washington replied with a small frown.
“And you know what I was paid?” Reebock asked. “One penny per damn tooth!”
“Well consider, you are property, and I already own you,” Washington reminded his slave, “I feel that it is fairly generous for me to pay anything, for something I already own!’
“You know what I can buy in the plantation store for a penny?” Reebock asked in exasperation. “I can buy a grape! One god-damn grape!”
“Well that is a grape you didn’t have before,” Washington replied curtly. “I must say, Reebock,” he continued, “You do seem somewhat ungrateful, if I may be entirely honest.”
“Look, mon,” Reebock said sitting down on the stool directly across from the large padded chair where Washington sat. “I do…know my place,” he said truthfully. “I know dat many slaves at other plantations have it much worse den we all do. But still, sometimes I feel it would be…”
“Go on,” Washington urged.
“It would be nice to be treated with a little more…” Reebock paused.
“Continue,” Washington said, finding himself growing a bit angry.
“Respect,” Reebock stated.
Washington laughed out loud for a moment, then went silent. There was a long pause where neither man said a word nor made a sound. They just stared intently at each other during the long silence, each seeing a slightly new side of the other. Washington was angry at comments he considered insubordinate, but his anger was tempered by the honesty and sincerity of this slave and valet who was also his friend.