Teejay fumbled with the buttons on his Gucci shirt, green skin which flaked off his fingers contrasting against the black cotton. Man, was he ever dumb. What kind of a future could Shannon possibly hope to have with somebody who couldn’t even unbutton his shirt? But of course she couldn’t finish with him – That’d be mortist.
After several minutes, Teejay scraped off the shirt and moved down to the Prada jeans.
Shannon turned away and went to the iPod. A few seconds later the beautiful classical music of her ancestors trilled through the speakers. She closed her eyes, fought away the tears and hummed to the beauty of it. She’d always loved Vivaldi and although the beauty of Four Seasons did not match her present situation, she hoped it would help dull the torment.
“Arg, kill dat mortist music!” Teejay ripped away his jeans, fist clenched. “You play Notorious Z!”
Shannon obeyed and within a few seconds, the all too familiar gargling and snapping of teeth crashed through the speakers. “Gonna kill me da human, gonna kill me da human. Gonna fuck me da human, gonna fuck me da human.” The lyrics continued.
Teejay closed his eyes and rubbed his crotch against the bedside table as he hacked along to the tune. When he pulled away, a streak of green remained on the pinewood that’d been a gift from Shannon’s grandmother. He turned to Shannon. “You promise food – Clothes off!”
How romantic.
Shannon backed toward the door. “I’m not so sure I…”
“Prove you not mortist – Take off clothes – You feed Teejay!” He crept closer in only his green stained CK underwear.
“Teejay, you know I’m not a mortist. I held hands with you in front of other humans.” She felt behind her back for the door handle. “I’m just not sure I’m ready yet.”
“You a mortist. You must feed Teejay to prove you not a mortist.” He lurched forward, ripping open Shannon’s blouse.
She brought a subconscious hand up to cover her breast. “Teejay, please, I’m not a mortist, anything but that, please.”
Teejay arched forward from the neck, his mouth wide open as he aimed for Shannon’s neck.
She crashed against the wall and brought a forearm up to block Teejay’s advance, pressing it against his own rotting neck.
But he gradually overpowered her, moving closer, his gaping mouth aimed for her vocal chords.
Shannon screamed with everything she could summon, images of her family passing through her mind.
A couple seconds later, the bounding of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Then the crash as the door flung open.
Her dad entered to find a naked Teejay sprawled on top of Shannon on the floor and then Teejay was lifted off and Shannon closed her eyes as she curled into a ball. She blotted out the thumping noises as her dad, her hero pounded fists into the monster.
From Behind The Curtain 3
“Let’s hear some numbers.” Evilyn de Redshield said.
Levi Goldstein knew the numbers by heart. “They commit well over half of all crime.” And that was despite them being only a little below fifteen percent of the total population.
Redshield slapped the table, reached for his brandy and downed it in one. “Well, I can only congratulate you on burying the news so well.”
“Oh, the vast majority of Goyim are far too busy with their sports games, TV shows and working long hours for a slave’s wage to give a damn.” Goldstein said, gesturing for a servant to refill everybody’s brandy.
Sumter Rothstein croaked from his darkened corner. “Don’t forget their music.” He accented the final word and made a gargling sound from his throat as if mimicking the horrific zombie diatribe known as groan, he’d succeeded in having the dumb Goyim embrace. Rothstein had often boasted that if he gave a sick dog a slick enough studio production and played it primetime, the sheeple would be barking in the schools, corridors and offices within weeks.
“It’s only around the corner, so we should use it to our advantage…” Shalom Schweiber began, everybody nodding their heads as though they understood without him having to finish, “…but it’s only a matter of time before these half Goyim half zombie freaks begin committing crimes.”
“Exactly!” Goldstein slapped the table and blew a large plume of cigar smoke into the center of the table. “For the sake of the crime statistics, we can classify these half Goyim freaks as fully Goyim and thus skew the data to further demonize the Goyim population.” Keeping the Goyim even further in the dark.
Redshield coughed, stifling laughter, “besides, it’s only because of past Goyim crimes against the dead that they commit any crimes at all,” he spoke half as an idiot Goyim, half as a sheep. “Baaaaahhhh.” Finally he could no longer contain the laughter and a broken cloud of smoke shot from his nose and mouth as he cackled. The other tribe members joined with the merriment.
The servants finished refilling the tribe’s glasses with brandy. “It’s from one of my own estates near Bordeaux.” Redshield boasted. “My great, great, great, great, great grandfather took it from some Goyim aristocrat after he financed the revolution.”
“What happened to him?” Goldstein asked.
Redshield drew a finger across his throat and once again, the tribe broke into uncontrollable laughter.
“We have so much to thank your family for.” Goldstein said.
It had been Redshield’s ancestors who had financed all sides in the Napoleonic wars, ensuring they couldn’t lose. Soon after, they had tricked the British Goyim through total media ownership into believing they had lost the Battle of Waterloo, forcing a stock market collapse. They then bought up all stocks at rock bottom prices, effectively giving one family complete ownership of the world’s wealthiest nation. Within a few years, the Redshields became the richest family in world history and they used their wealth to create more wars through subversion and outright lies and they did this with next to no opposition due to complete ownership of all banks and media and therefore all governments via proxy. They had once come close to losing everything though - There had been that pesky Austrian/German Goyim in the thirties who managed to persuade his people to the true threat. Goldstein shuddered and prayed that never happened again. It was for that reason, bringing the Goyim to a more stable number, something around about zero, was of the utmost priority for the survival of the tribe. Goldstein breathed, “where are we with inter-mort mixing?”
Rothstein perked up. It was mainly in his brief to make the Goyim and zombie populations ‘come together’ being that he controlled media, advertising, music and film production companies. “Well, it’s certainly working. I just make sure I’m never around when they come in to make their, um, music.” The tip of his cigar glowed from the corner. “Because we have now normalized these freaks and promoted them to the Goyim, we have seen an incredible rise in inter-mort mixing and the resulting half Goyim freaks. Young female Goyim appear to be the easiest targets because they fear and have the most to lose from ostracization.” He laughed, “being outed as a mortist is a frightening prospect for them, especially the more weak minded and gullible female Goyim.” He blew out a large plume of smoke. “It’s working a charm.”
Goldstein felt his muscles relaxing from the news. Just as the Talmud said, the world belonged to the tribe. Even if they could only possess it by changing the western Goyim into a race of half dead freaks, it would ensure there would be no more pesky Austrian/Germans causing a popular uprising against their power. He laughed, “it will be a final humiliation after thousands of years of war.”
“And after we’ve dealt with the main threat, the Goyim, then we can begin with eradicating the zombies.” Shalom Schwieber added. “The damn fools no doubt think we’re on their side.”
Goldstein nodded. Seven billion was way too much to sustain. Though they couldn’t agree on an exact number, it was generally felt that anywhere below one billion was more suitable – The plan was coming to fruition. “What are we at now – The zombie population is at fifteen percent. How can we speed this up?�
� Goldstein thought about those few Goyim who knew the truth and were trying to get the word out by any means possible. They may not control the media, but there were other methods of spreading the truth – They must be stopped.
“We need at least a forty percent zombie or half Goyim half zombie population combined before we can trigger the inter-mort war.” Schwieber said.
The plan was to crash the economy under its own debt and use the media to drive each side against the other.
Redshield straightened, commanding silence from the tribe members. “We speed things up by bringing in zombies from Mexico, from Africa, from Asia, from any-fucking-where. We pay for their transit, their settling, health, education, clothes, food, kid’s college fund, their shit stained underwear, everything. Any human who complains – Label him a mortist and ruin him.”
Goldstein snorted. The zombies who’d become used to the good life wouldn’t be very happy when the economy suddenly crashed and all those goodies were cut off. They’d be sure to blame the Goyim for everything – With a little help from the media and government.
Redshield spoke, “we continue to fund their existences in America, in all western nations. We help them to breed more, especially with humans. At the same time, we tax the humans more, thus preventing them from being able to breed like the cockroaches they are.” Redshield laughed, “they’re so brainwashed, they even celebrate their own demise.”
The tribe slapped the table in unison; again and again and again, whooping in joy.
Then Schweiber, the ever cautious, held up a finger in warning. “We have a problem.”
Redshield closed his eyes, rubbing them through his wrinkled eyelids. The painful part of the meeting had arrived, but it had to be addressed nonetheless. “Speak.”
“Israel, our sacred, beloved Israel is experiencing a rise in the zombie population.” Schweiber wiped a tear from his eye, the silence permeated the air.
But as Goldstein and everybody else knew, the problem could still be controlled and dealt with. “Then we must deport these zombies to Europe with haste.” He banged a fist on the table. “We cannot allow mother Israel to suffer from the same turmoil we are heaping on the rest of the world.”
Redshield nodded. “It’s done!” He looked to the media barons around him. “And there will be no news of this to the rest of the world.”
Goldstein breathed, he’d worked up an appetite. Lobster was on the way and it was sure to taste sweeeeet. “No news will get out!” It would be just like the time they used birth control injections to prevent the female zombies in Israel from giving birth.
Victory would soon be theirs.
Pride
The flags had been flying from nearly every public building in Boston and all surrounding suburbs for almost a month in anticipation. The black flag with a big round red circle in the center, probably to symbolize blood, had become the unifying flag of the dead. Some flags had their own modifications, many with crude depictions of brains, perhaps to represent the dead’s hopes and dreams for the future.
The city had clearly put its entire weight, along with its money, resources and manpower behind today’s event. It was finally here – Dead Pride Day.
John heard the groan belching from amplifiers long before the first float was in sight. If you chose not to participate in Dead Pride Day, not only were you frowned at, you still had to live with the gargling sounds scaring the dogs. The whole neighborhood turned into a cacophony of howling mixed with the snapping jaws of the dead. Then the lyrics started. “Gone get me some human hos with me pocket fulla’ Ben Franks.” Then, “zombies in the Bronx call me Lex cause I push a Lex, and I rock a Rolex and I lounge on Lex', and I love sex.”
It was a Saturday morning and John and the family had just returned from a bike ride through the nearby woods. For whatever reason, the dead tended not to feel much affinity for nature and so it was one place John could go to get away from it all. But as the convoy of floats rumbled along the street, out of curiosity more than anything else, the family left their bikes in the back yard and went to watch the procession. They could clean away the mud and leaves from the woods later.
John had a clear view down the street now and the first float would pass shortly. “I’m hungry for brains like hungry hungry hippo.” Belched the groan.
“Do they ever think of anything else?” John asked nobody in particular, putting an arm around Kerry.
Shannon smiled, “I must say dad, you’re taking this very well, considering they’re moving right by our front door.”
John shrugged, “there’s nothing wrong with having pride in your own people.”
The first float arrived, displaying the banner ‘Dead Cuisine,’ where a bunch of scantily dressed morts flaunted the brains they ate. Blood oozed from their mouths as they took large mouthfuls of the highly valued mort delicacy. Surely the brains belonged to pigs or sheep or something. The dead were becoming more and more powerful in America but thankfully the day still hadn’t arrived where they could demand human brains simply because it was their ‘culture.’ The way things were going, it wouldn’t surprise John if that day was just around the corner. He chuckled to himself at the absurdity of the thought – Surely not!
“If you don't bring back my mutha fuckin’ hos o’ my mutha fuckin’ brains, you can fo’get ‘bout Christmas zombie, cause you ain't gon’ even see New Years.” John thought he heard that correct, though he couldn’t be sure. Didn’t New Years follow Christmas?
The next float carried several flags of the dead which fluttered proudly in the wind. The float rumbled by, emblazoned with ‘Dead History.’
“This should be good.” John said, not even attempting to mask his sarcasm.
Shannon smiled, which brought comfort to John. Thankfully, her experience with the dead had enabled her to see the light. But John felt a great pity for all those other poor human girls who had yet to realize they’d been manipulated by the media and popular culture into exalting the dead to a status, at least in their heads, to a level far greater than they deserved, a level greater than their own people. John had come to realize his daughter, due to a lack of confidence and self-esteem had been crying out for attention. John would ensure Shannon stayed on the right path from now on – She had so much to live for.
The float, which also had a long line of the dead stumbling alongside it, contained numerous giant blow-up images of paintings by Vincent van Gogh.
“What? I don’t get it.” John said.
Finn perked up, “we learned in school dad, van Gogh only became appreciated after he died.”
John’s eyes narrowed, “what? And they’re taking credit for that?” Wasn’t he technically living while he carried out his work? If the dead could take credit for human achievements in such spurious ways, what else could they conceivably take credit for?
The convoy continued for at least an hour with each float separated by up to a hundred marching morts in costumes, most chomping on some animal appendage as they stuttered by. The largest and grandest of all floats was dedicated to Grover Starks, the mort who refused to give up his seat on the bus and had thus began a civil rights campaign for the dead within the media. Ever since that damn incident, public opinion had moved more and more toward further integrating the dead into human society, always at the expense of humans, instead of maybe giving them their own country or state within America where they could thrive by themselves and have the culture and life they wanted without human interference. To John, that would have made much more sense.
“Look, there he is.” Finn pointed to Grover Starks on the float, sitting on a giant throne, surrounded by female humans who fawned over him. One young human, probably no more than seventeen, fed the legendary mort what could only be gastrointestinal tract while another young human pressed her crotch against his side. It was a sickening display of public whoredom just because the mort happened to be famous.
“Young, zombie, and famous, with money hanging out ma anus.” The ‘Dead Mu
sic’ float rumbled by which contained even more scantily dressed humans as they partied with Notorious Z, rubbing themselves up against him while he groaned out the lyrics.
The convoy ended with the curious spectacle of hundreds of humans marching behind the final float. Some ate raw meat in solidarity with the dead, others snapped their jaws open and closed, mimicking their, um, music. While none of the humans greened up their faces in an effort to look or dress like the dead, they did all have one thing in common.
“Have these people not heard of taking a shower?” Finn asked, cupping a hand around his nose.
They certainly were the most bedraggled, unkempt and disgusting bunch of humans you ever did see. Dreadlocks, long gold chains, piercings and facial tattoos were a common thread. Grotty clothes and the stench which kept even the dead at bay were another.
“How’re you feeling?” Kerry asked, squeezing John’s side.
John breathed and thought for a few seconds. “Actually, not too bad at all. If we all had such pride in our own people, the world would be a much better place.”
“Why don’t we have a human pride event, dad?” Finn asked.
Why not indeed. With everything humans had achieved throughout history, it was only fitting that if the dead could have a pride event, then humans should too. “I think it’s a great idea. We should make some preparations.”
And then the last of the parade, of Dead Pride Day, was over as the convoy passed. John turned to stare at the back of them, as much to ensure they were gone as much as anything else. “Those thieving bastards!”
Four morts cycled down the street on stolen bicycles.
*
The assembled flash mob jeered and threw eggs into the small convoy of floats as it proceeded through the center of Boston. A mixture of moaning and human screams provided a verbal backdrop to the rotten garbage and occasional solid projectile that flew their way. The children crouched in the corner of the floats, covering their ears, many crying from the onslaught. How many protesters? Three hundred perhaps? And they’d all followed the convoy from the starting point on Arlington Street and would doubtless stalk them all the way to the Waterfront Park. John recognized several of the human protesters from the Dead Pride event only the week before.
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