My Lived List: Assisted in Three Autopsies
Serial Job Killer

Zombies at the Gate

I heard the gate rattle. I fixed that fucking gate yesterday. If it's broken again, I'm going to rip that picket fence motherfucker off its hinges and run over it with my goddamn car until it is a pile of splinters.

I looked out the front window, expecting to see that useless piece of shit flapping in the breeze. A gray hand grabbed the gate and rattled it again. Stupid motherfucking zombies, can't even open a motherfucking gate.

"What's the matter, shit for brains? Can't open the gate?"

Three zombies lifted their milky, lifeless eyes to the window. "VRRGH?" The one in the tattered pink prom dress asked. I gave her the finger.

"Try the fucking latch, you stupid undead cow!" I grabbed my sawed-off shotgun out of the umbrella stand by the front door and kicked open the screen. I gave it a pump and shot her right in the tiara. "Guess you should have stayed at the dance."

The two remaining zombies cried out, sort of, "Maa! Graa!" then looked around, trying to remember why they were standing on the sidewalk in front of my house. The taller one, dressed in motherfucking overalls like there was a fucking farm anywhere within a hundred miles of this place, rattled the gate again.

The shorter one, fat still, even on a diet of brains, bent down and picked up something from the sidewalk. He raised a large rock over his head and looked at the latch.

"Don't even think about it, you Jabba the Hut zombie motherfucker." The blast from my shotgun took his head clean off. His porky body slumped forward and bounced off my fence, leaving a fucking zombie stain on the fresh white paint. He rolled onto the prom queen.

Farmer fucking zombie shook his fist at me. "ZRRT! Rhagh!" He looked at his headless companions. No brains to salvage there. He looked back at me and shrugged his shoulders. "Murg?"

I motioned up the street with my shotgun. "Try next door. I think their fucking cat popped out a bunch of kittens in the garage." He shuffled off.

I closed the screen door and dialed 3-1-1 on my cell phone.

"City services. How may I help you?"

"Zombie clean-up."

"Please hold while I transfer your call." Motherfucking Celine Dion tinkled in my ear. I saw the prom queen's leg twitch out of the corner of my eye. With one hand, I gave the shotgun a pump, twirled it around, and blew the rest of her head off.

"Zombie clean-up. You need a pick-up?"

"Yes, I have two headless motherfucking zombies stinking up my front walk. There's another one wandering down the street." I thought of those kittens next door and sighed. "I'll probably shoot him, too."


"862 Lark Street."

"We'll be there before 5:00 PM. Please be sure to tag the zombies with your citizen I.D. number so that we can credit your account."

Stupid motherfucking zombies.



That was fun. More, please?


There are some really interesting aspects to this work of fiction. For instance, the excessive profanity suggests a bit of a wrinkle in society, likely caused by the the presence of zombie caused a sort of disillusionment.
Another really interesting concept here is the "Citizen ID" and having an account to be credited for reporting/killing zombies.

Of course, I'm assuming you wrote this piece. Working with that assumption, I would really like to read more. I think it would be fascinating to hear more about how things have changed, and more about the apparent government-run zombie disposal service.



PS. I'm not trained to do that. I guess I don't really know what the fuck I'm talking about.


ok you BROUGHT IT with this story. i will buy your books, in fact i'll buy a lot and pass them out.

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