#Ugly As Hell II - Uglier Than Hell

[gbhbl]

EP Review: Wasted Death - The Prequel To Evil (APF Records)

The Prequel to Evil is a three-track slice of Wasted Death nasty.

APF Records bring us The Prequel to Evil EP, the latest missive from Wasted Death. The EP was released with no fanfare on 27th March 2023, initially on Bandcamp only. In the past (the Ugly as Hell EP and Ugly as Hell II: Uglier Than Hell EP), we described Wasted Death as: Grinding metal mashing the brain matter into mush with punk snarl to make you feel like you’ve literally been chewed up and…

[senorboombastic]

a/s/l: WASTED DEATH

Remember the days of the old schoolyard? Remember when Myspace was a thing? Remember those time-wasting, laborious quizzes that everyone used to love so much? Birthday Cake For Breakfast is bringing them back!  Every couple of weeks, an unsuspecting band will be subject to the same old questions about dead bodies, Hitler, crying and crushes.   This Week: Ahead of releasing their second EP (the…

[ashesandhackles]

Inferius

(They are corpses that have been bewitched to do a Dark Wizard's bidding)

(i)

To the Dark Lord

His brother may call him an idiot for believing in their parent's spiel, but Regulus Black was never a fool. He understood what was going to happen when the Grimmauld Place went a week without fights, in deadly silence that he didn't have to keep to his room, or the basement (when things got uglier between his brother and parents) anymore. He understood the phrase calm before the storm better than anyone, and eyeing the ugly resentment on his brother's face during the meal, Regulus decided to spend the rest of the day in the basement.

Kreacher was the one who came to him in the night with sandwiches after the muffled shouting from upstairs had stopped, and said, "Master Sirius ran away."

Regulus nodded, throat dry, "Good riddance" because he couldn't have said anything else, he knew where his brother was going to go. He knew what it meant, (he is going to be the heir, no longer the shadow, the spare) and yet, it curiously felt like a sting of betrayal and abandonment.

The night when he ordered Kreacher to come back after the elf's service to the Dark Lord, he had kept the elf in the basement within his own blankets as the elf tried to calm his violent shivering, a curious ringing in Regulus's ear and the phrase calm before the storm struck his mind again. He was scared, the same fear he felt when he had watched Sirius spit blood in the basin. He asked his brother, furiously back then, "Why do you keep provoking them?"

"Because it feels good" Sirius had replied, wiping his mouth. The curious ringing in his ear happened then, and he knew what was going to happen before it did. He wasn't prepared then, for his brother leaving. He wasn't prepared for his instincts to be right. But he had to be prepared now, he owes it to this elf who had paid for his foolishness, for his trust in Dark Lord and if he was right, because this time he was sure he was, because as they say, truth is bitter, betrayal burns and both of them are churning in his system, and what he was about to do never felt more right.

He is not the child who hides in his basement so that he cannot see the evidence of his parent's cruelty, he is not the child who will ignore Dark Lord's cryptic sentences about his immortality, he is not a child who does not feel the horror of what he has been asked to do in name of an ideology. So when Kreacher wakes up, Regulus asks him quietly, "What happened?"

This time, he was prepared for his instincts to be right.

(ii)

I know I will be dead long before you read this

Mulciber had Regulus Black in a chokehold, he probably would have spit in that arrogant face that now looked so much like Sirius Black's that he would have happily choked the younger boy to death. However, this boy looked much thinner and almost ghostly, as if he hadn't eaten or slept for days, and whatever his resemblence to his blood traitor brother, he liked the kid until he chokes, "Fuck..", he struggled against the hold and decides to put on a sneer, "..you".

"You are rethinking your loyalties? Right bit of coward, aren't you, Regulus? Blood traitor like your brother to boot," Mulciber had gotten what he wanted when the offense at being compared to his brother, once again, registered in the boy's eyes. The kid seemed to want to protest his difference from his elder brother, but the moment had passed and Regulus Black said nothing.

With enormous satisfaction, Mulciber let him go, and Regulus massaged his throat and started to laugh, a hollow, desperate sound of a madman, "What a little piece of gormless shit you are, Mulciber. And a fool - I am betraying the Dark Lord? He is going to betray us all. All of us, every last bootlicker."

Mulciber snarled, "The moment you are disloyal, you are marked for death Regulus. Our disloyalty would be paid for by our life. You knew that as soon as the mark had been branded to our skin."

The boy's grey's eyes narrowed and he seemed to spit with spite Mulciber didn't know he was capable of, "And yet, Mulciber, he wouldn't have any qualms treating you like a throwaway servant. Forgive me if I have a bit more pride than that. I have had enough."

Mulciber gnashed his teeth, "Listen to me, he will kill you. Or he'll make one of us kill you. If this is the time you have chosen to worship your blood traitor brother's path, then you are going to be sorry.  You are going to get yourself captured, tortured and killed, hopefully not in that order. You are the heir of the most influential pureblood family - surely you know what happens?"

Regulus's eyes were cold, as if he was calculating something. Mulciber thought the kid looked rather like a corpse already. How pitiful.

When Regulus spoke, it was a whisper, "I do. I really do", after which he promptly wrenched the door open and left. That was the last Mulciber saw of the young heir.

(iii)

but I want you to know it was I who discovered your secret.

He was thirsty, so thirsty- he crawls to the edge, ignoring Kreacher's sobs. Why was he doing this? his tired brain demands an answer. Why?

This was a moment of glorious Gryffindor heroism, he would have thought. He is doing what his brother would have done, he had been born to replace his brother again, and again. To be an heir Sirius refused to be, to be a Death Eater because that is what is expected of him and that is what he believed in, he was the much better son and heir the Blacks deserved but not wanted.

So he cups water in his hand, because even in the tale of glorious heroism, he is playing the part his brother would have done, and now he was forever resigned to play his shadow. He could hear Kreacher sob harder when hands from the water grabbed him- but for one infinite, one brilliant moment, he realised. Sirius would have never been put in this position in the first place, because Sirius isn't foolish enough to join the Death Eaters. This strike against the Dark Lord, a covert strike of a follower who had been disillusioned, like a docile snake rising from the grass, so Slytherin, was completely his own. The thought made him smile as bodies dragged him underwater.

(iv)

I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can.

Regulus's fingers broke the surface, he had been clawing ferociously at the water as if it was a wall he could climb, he opened his mouth to scream, to ask someone to help him and when his mouth formed the words, water rushed in, choking him.

A little part of him is glad the water cuts off his scream, because he knew whose name he was about to scream to come and help. Because that was the name that had been screaming in his head for days since Kreacher's return, Help me, Sirius!

The dead hands were pulling him under and his life was dwindling out of him,the blackness covered his lids, he could feel the hands choke him, (to be one of them, to serve the Dark Lord by protecting the fake locket he had planted) and that little part of him is glad he is dying like this, and not by the Dark Lord's hand.

He didn't think he could have tolerated the fact that his last second of life would be spent staring at the end of the Dark Lord's wand, the man who was going to betray them all, the man who cares about nothing but his own power.

Regulus had known his death was looming the moment he made up his mind, and yet, he struggles with Inferi as if he wants to live.

Help me, Sirius.

(v)

I face death in hope that when you meet your match,

If Mulciber thought he'd been in this position with the half breed pointing his wand between his eyes back during Hogwarts, he would have laughed himself hoarse. And yet, when he looked at the deranged face of Remus Lupin who looked more like a beast than a man at the moment, the fear of God was knocked into him. Remus Lupin's voice was both a desperate demand and a threat, "Where is Regulus Black?"

How the hell should I know? Mulciber wanted to say. Did you ever see this coming? The Dark Lord gone because of -good lord- an infant, and Sirius Black thrown into Azkaban for betraying the Potters. For all Mulciber knows, the world had gone mad. He could hear Regulus's sneer in his head as he stared up at the half breed and started to speak. Remus Lupin looked like he wanted explanations as well, from him, from anyone, to understand how the world had gone bleeding mad.

"Tell me where he is"

(vi)

you will be mortal once more.

No one knew where and what happened to Regulus Black, (except Kreacher but no one thinks to ask a house elf) and no one would recognise him if they did.

Not even the long awaited Dark Lord's equal, because all the bright green eyes saw was a grey, decayed dead body attacking him along with the mob (if Regulus Black were alive, he would smirk at the irony, oh the allegory of it all).

And briefly, briefly, within the ring of fire which the rest of the Inferi's collapsed against each other to move away from, Regulus Black's body recognised the light.

R.A.B

*Note: Lupin makes an appearance because he gave Harry information about how Regulus managed to stay alive for few days after defection in HBP when talking of Karkaroff's death. He obviously got that info second hand. Sirius's info is also second hand : "From what I found out after he died, he got in so far, panicked and tried to leave-". Hence the Mulciber scenes.

[clansayeed]

Oblivion Bound Fake Caps [ 9 / ? ] ↪ Bound by Destiny II Chapter 15: The King of Vampires

“Maybe His Highness isn’t as unreasonable as you think! You’d be a fool not to consider what he can offer!”

Kamilah twirls one of her blades dripping with blood. “The only fool here is you. With nothing to offer that he cannot take by force — Gaius knows this, and worse still knows you are blind to it.”

“After all Kamilah — he always favored you best!” Yet he keeps trying even if it’s in vain; a coward’s act. He steps back — she steps forward; a dance that grows deadlier every time the frightened man opens his mouth. “Surely out of all of us he would forgive you. Hell—he’d welcome you back at his side! The Bloodqueen back on her throne!”

“Difficult though the concept may be to the likes of you, Cecil, my loyalties are not so easily bought.”

“So you’d back a losing team?! Give up two thousand years of reign for—for what —” jabbing an angry swollen finger behind her to Nadya, “— a filthy human?! And one’a the uglier ones at that!”

“Who you callin’ ugly, Ugly?!” Lily jeers unrepentant. And honestly… is she wrong?

Kamilah turns her head in profile; the curtain of her hair keeping her expression just out of Nadya’s sight. But she doesn’t need to see the woman’s eyes to know who they’re resting on. She’s sure for Kamilah it’s quite the same.

“I would rather know love freely tonight and die tomorrow than spend another thousand years searching in vain.”

Searching for her.

credits: transparents courtesy of the choices assets database fake screencap template, original character/s & their designs made by me

[mysterioushedgehog]

Awesome close read of bookJaime/bookBrienne relationship.

https://www.reddit.com/r/asoiaf/comments/1dl37d/spoilers_all_brienne_and_jaime_an_indepth/

V. Knights in Shining Armor

The previous post in this series demonstrated how Brienne's relationship to Jaime subverts the typical male/female relationship in Westeros. Jaime gave Brienne a sword and a fight instead of roses and kisses. For Brienne, there's much symbolic importance in Jaime's gift of Oathkeeper. It represents a chance for her to redeem herself and Jaime's honor. More importantly, the sword grants her the ability be self-sufficient instead of relying on male gallantry to accomplish her goals (as most women are forced to do).

Another way their relationship subverts gender roles is that Brienne and Jaime have taken turns playing the rescuing knight and maiden to be rescued. At first, the references to traditional gender roles are mostly ironic:

Armed men lined both sides of the brook... “Well met, friends,” [Jaime] called to them amiably. “My pardons if I disturbed you. You caught me chastising my wife.”

“Seemed to me she was doing the chastising.” (ASOS 21/Jaime III)

Later:

After the second time he fell from the saddle, they bound him tight to Brienne of Tarth and made them share a horse again. One day...they bound them face-to-face. “The lovers,” Shagwell sighed loudly, “and what a lovely sight they are. ‘Twould be cruel to separate the good knight and his lady....Ah, but which one is the knight and which one is the lady?” (ASOS 31/Jaime IV)

And:

The eyelid was swollen, but Jaime found he could force it open halfway. Qyburn’s face loomed above. “How did you come by this one?” the maester asked.

“A wench’s gift.”

“Rough wooing, my lord?”

“This wench is bigger than me and uglier than you. You’d best see to her as well. She’s still limping on the leg I pricked when we fought.”

“I will ask after her. What is this woman to you?”

“My protector.” Jaime had to laugh, no matter how it hurt. (ASOS 31/Jaime IV)

Then Jaime does take on the chivalric role of male protector by preventing Brienne from being raped by the Bloody Mummers (ASOS 31/Jaime IV) and rescuing her from the bear in the pit (ASOS 44/Jaime VI). But what distinguishes Brienne and Jaime's relationship from the knight/maiden trope is that they are essentially equal. They've each in turn assumed the role of rescuer and rescued: Brienne saved Jaime from being recaptured by the Starks. Jaime prevented Brienne from being raped. Brienne kept Jaime's spirits up after he lost his hand. Jaime rescued Brienne from the bear pit. Brienne goes off to redeem Jaime's honor. This basic equality was evident when each (amuthingly) kept trying to protect the other in the bear pit:

“What are you doing here?”

“Something stupid. Get behind me.” He circled toward her, putting himself between Brienne and the bear.

“You get behind. I have the sword.”

“A sword with no point and no edge. Get behind me!” (ASOS 44/Jaime VI)

Afterwards, Jaime again ironically casts himself as Brienne's hero, but without the nasty edge:

“Her name is Brienne,” Jaime said. “Brienne, the maid of Tarth. You are still maiden, I hope?”

Her broad homely face turned red. “Yes.”

“Oh, good,” Jaime said. “I only rescue maidens.” (ASOS 44/Jaime VI)

There's always been some mockery mixed in with Jaime's 'flirting'. He behaved similarly to Catelyn Stark while he was a prisoner of war. But at a certain point, he starts to actually care about what Brienne thinks of him. Jaime became aroused in the Harrenhal baths when he saw Brienne naked, though he dismisses it as evidence that he's been celibate too long (ASOS 37/Jaime V). He then tells her his greatest secret though he's not sure why ("Why am I telling this absurd ugly child?" ASOS 37/Jaime V). After he tells Brienne about Aerys's plans to burn down King's Landing with wildfire:

The wench looked ridiculous, clutching her towel to her meager teats with her thick white legs sticking out beneath. “Has my tale turned you speechless? Come, curse me or kiss me or call me a liar. Something.” (ASOS 37/Jaime V)

After that moment of honesty and intimacy (Jaime bares pretty much everything to Brienne) in the bathhouse, he starts to suppress his urge to be mean to her (ASOS 44/Jaime VI). When Brienne learns about the Red Wedding, "She looked so miserable that Jaime almost found himself wanting to comfort her." (ASOS 62/Jaime VII). He even compliments her appearance at one point:

“Blue is a good color on you, my lady,” Jaime observed. “It goes well with your eyes.” She does have astonishing eyes. (ASOS 72/Jaime IX)

To be clear: this isn't simply a case of 'shipping Brienne and Jaime. I think their changing relationship is significant for their character development. Brienne's growing regard for Jaime, a disgraced knight, echoes her disillusionment with knighthood. Jaime's growing regard for Brienne, a naive idealist, has changed his attitude towards knighthood in a positive direction.

Just as he used to defend Cersei from rude remarks, he chivalrously defended Brienne from Ser Ronnet:

Jaime’s golden hand cracked him across the mouth so hard the other knight went stumbling down the steps. His lantern fell and smashed, and the oil spread out, burning. “You are speaking of a highborn lady, ser. Call her by her name. Call her Brienne.” (AFFC 27/Jaime III)

Jaime is so disgusted by Ser Ronnet that he "charged Red Ronnet with the task of delivering Wylis Manderly to Maidenpool, so he would not need to look on him henceforth" (AFFC 30/Jaime IV).

Contrast the above to the deterioration of Jaime's feelings toward Cersei. Back at the beginning of their journey, Jaime defended Cersei against Brienne ("'You will be courteous as concerns Cersei, wench,' he warned her" ASOS 1/Jaime I). But in the Harrenhal baths, Jaime compares her favorably to Cersei "Brienne caught him before he could fall. Her arm was all gooseflesh...but she was strong, and gentler than he would have thought. Gentler than Cersei," (ASOS 37/Jaime V). Unlike Cersei, Jaime can rely on Brienne, who is kinder and more selfless. Their relationship is far less one-sided.

VI. Warrior, Maid, Strangers

In AFFC, Jaime becomes increasingly disenchanted with his beautiful twin. He's still physically attracted to her, but realizes what a terrible person she is:

Of late, Cersei always seemed to have a flagon of wine to hand, she who had once scorned Robert Baratheon for his drinking. He misliked that, but these days he seemed to mislike everything his sister did (AFFC 16/Jaime II)

Besides comparing her unflatteringly to King Robert, he also compares her to King Aery when she watches the Tower of the Hand burn:

The green light of the wildfire had bathed the face of the watchers, so they looked like nothing so much as rotting corpses, a pack of gleeful ghouls, but some of the corpses were prettier than others. Even in the baleful glow, Cersei had been beautiful to look upon (AFFC 16/Jaime II)

And:

Cersei had never taken kindly to being balked, he knew that. Softer words might have swayed her, yet of late the very sight of her made him angry. (AFFC 27/Jaime III)

Maybe falling out of love with Cersei was inevitable. Jaime's journey with Brienne has changed him so much that even self-absorbed Cersei has noticed:

"...What did they do to you?”

“They cut off my hand.”

“No, it’s more, you’re changed.” (ASOS 62/Jaime VII)

Jaime himself feels like a different man. He's lost everything that made him who he is:

...Half the court no longer seemed to know him. I am a stranger in my own House. His son was dead, his father had disowned him, and his sister... she had not allowed him to be alone with her once, after that first day in the royal sept where Joffrey lay amongst the candles. (ASOS 67/Jaime)

The cooling of Jaime's relationship with Cersei is connected to the evolution of his relationship to Brienne. Her idealism about knighthood has actually rubbed off on the cynical Jaime--a change that irritates the hell out of Cersei, who is more interested in having a co-conspirator than a hero by her side:

[Jaime] Once a man puts on that cloak, it changes him.”

[Cersei] “It certainly changed you, and not for the better.” (AFFC 12/Cersei III)

The twins have become estranged from each other. Remember that Jaime joined the Kingsguard for Cersei, that he tried to kill an innocent child for Cersei. Now he is a stranger to her:

He was your twin, your shadow, your other half, ...Once, perhap...No longer. He has become a stranger to me. (AFFC 12/Cersei III)

And she has become a stranger to him:

I thought that I was the Warrior and Cersei was the Maid, but all the time she was the Stranger, hiding her true face from my gaze. (AFFC 30/Jaime IV)

Embracing knighthood has distanced Jaime not only from Cersei, but from his father as well. Jaime rejected Tywin's offer of Casterly Rock and Lady Margarey's hand in marriage. Astonishingly, the notorious oathbreaker and kingslayer asserted the priority of his vows as a knight and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard even over loyalty to his House:

“I am a knight of the Kingsguard. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard! And that’s all I mean to be!” (ASOS 62/Jaime VII)

This is a significant change. When Roland Crakehall found Jaime standing over Aerys's body, "[h]e had not seemed surprised to find Aerys slain; Jaime had been Lord Tywin’s son long before he had been named to the Kingsguard" (ASOS 11/Jaime II). In AGOT, Jaime thought it was more important to avenge Tyrion than it was to remain at his post as kingsguard. Now Jaime prioritizes his duties as Kingsguard over his family duties.

Later, Cersei attempts to seduce him in the White Tower and he rebuffs her advances, telling her he won't have sex with her in that particular place (ASOS 72/Jaime IX). This is interesting since he had no problem violating the sanctity of a sept and his own son's wake in order to fuck his sister. Yet he refuses to do the same in the Lord Commander's apartment. Jaime is taking his position as Kingsguard very seriously.

(Continued in the comments)

[uarcana]

Bad Reputation Pt. II Enter: Aoi Tamahagane

“So, y’see…”, the nervous mystic concluded her statement. “He…had it comin’”.

An unnerved shake of the mongoose’s head made his annoyance evident.

“Honestly, Mrs. Heiwa, as a teacher at the most prestigious hero school in Japan, you should know how to better control your temper”, he lightly scolded. “What if one of the students would’ve seen you?”

“At a bar?”, a low chuckle averted the principal’s attention to the smirking Aoi planted on the other side of Nemuri. 

“Highly unlikely…especially considering the time. 4 hours before the start of the new semester wouldn’t exactly be the time to be trudging around in the middle of the night”, the sleepy eyed woman commented while staring out the window.

“After all, they would all know by now that Eraser would have their heads if they weren’t all bright eyed and bushy tailed for another one of his riveting lectures”.

Aoi’s collective tone was usually a breath of fresh air during situations like this, but in this case…she more so came off ruder than she probably intended.

And given that the principal was already bothered with the three of them, this more so wasn’t the time for her sarcastic retorts.

“Hm…and as Mr. Aizawa’s assistant”, the principal’s voice returning to his regular cheery tone, “I am sure he would be very adamant about you being the same way, yes, Mrs. Tamahagane?”

The other two ladies glanced toward their silent friend as a mere exasperated sigh left her nostrils.

Last night…

“What the hell?!”

A light sigh slid from Aoi’s throat as her friend proceeded to argue with the man.

“The fuck do you want, little girl?”

Her eyes shut in irritation as she tried to find zen in her mind.

“She said she doesn’t wanna join your little party and you’re destroying mine!! Leave. Before things get ugly”.

Why does she have to be so loud? This is worse than listening to her train with Bakugo.

“Why don’t we show you how ugly things can get for girls who don’t know how to keep their pretty little mouths shut?”

Ooo, goodie, does your quirk cause brain hemorrhages because that’s the only way I could see this getting any uglier.

“Boys”.

I don’t know. Alcohol poisoning is sounding pretty good right about no-UNF!!

A sudden harsh thud against her side shook Aoi from her trance, opening her eyes, finally.

Peering down to her side, Aoi’s confusion abruptly shifted to concealed fury as she witnessed the glass that previously sat in front of her shattered on the floor accompanied by a giant splatter of hot sake on the side of her sweater.

A low grumble averted the woman’s attention to a man pulling himself from the floor directly behind her.

Noticing the smell of hot mango sake, she easily identified him as the culprit.

“Dammit…that bitch”, he growled as he stood, preparing to lunge at Silver. “Wait til I get my hands on y-“.

An abrupt slam, almost identical to that of a double barrel shotgun, silenced the entire atmosphere.

“What the?!”, one of the men gasped as he noticed the table at which the girls were previously sitting at now resembled a pile of twigs upon the floor, with his buddy’s head unconsciously perched in the center of it.

“Sorry about that...”, Aoi’s smooth rustic voice finally breaking the silence as she rose her hand from the direction of her victim into a fist, the titanium rings that coated her fingers tightening against her flesh. “…but would you mind keeping it down?”

If the sound of cracking knuckles didn’t make each man’s nuts shrink in terror, “some of us are trying to relax”, the sudden shift of her flesh to solid titanium did.

“…you’re too loud”.

AOI TAMAHAGANE. HER QUIRK: METAMORPH. SHE CAN SHIFT HER MOLECULAR STRUCTURE TO MATCH ANY MATERIAL SHE TOUCHES, ALLOWING HER TO MANIPULATE IT TO HER WILL. 

“She just broke the table with his head!!!”, one of the men shouted in disbelief.

SHE’S ALSO CRAZY STRONG.

“That sake was really hot…”, Aoi sighed, irritation very present in her voice.

“Who’s buying me another one?”

Tagging: (Feedback is always nice! Thank you for your time!)

@digitalkanvas @glacian-apocalypse @nykamito @a-new-recipehhh @aquathemermaidstripper

A/N: Thank you so much from the bottom of our hearts. We love you all! Happy New Year!

[thesketchiestone]

The Woes of the Zombie Man

Chapter I

During which the reader becomes acquainted with Boris and his beloved buddy Bugger

Due to the abundance and the enormity of the festering boils that had plagued him his whole life, Boris Buford had long been the butt of many jokes and the source of many nightmares. Thanks to a rare and, as far as he knew, incurable skin disease, the entirety of his body was covered with grotesque pocks that closely resembled the open wounds of a bullet-riddled carcass of any kind. Outbreaks of red and green cysts stood out against the pale casing his body was wrapped in. His oozy limbs constantly swelled with pus and caused him no small amount of discomfort. The terrible ailment had bothered him to the point of anguish in his youth, and at an early age he had become fearful of his peers and the ridicule they produced, so he had learned to keep to himself in an effort to avoid scaring people or hearing newly invented nicknames for himself or any one of the thousand other unwanted annoyances he knew all too well that came with participating in society. Conditioned to be distant, he decided not to bother people with his gruesome presence. Becoming a homeless recluse, he chose to suffer alone, thereby suffering a little bit less. Boris was fully aware of how unappealing his visage was to others, and although it saddened him to admit it, he found his own reflection rather frightening and had made a habit of avoiding mirrors. Folks around town knew him as the Zombie Man, which only added to his already insurmountable grief. Needless to say, he was somewhat of an ugly duckling.

Bleak Boris Buford was born and bred beside Biloxi in Boonesville, a small municipality slightly less populated than you’re imagining it to be, and he had never once stepped even a single foot outside the county line. He existed mainly in the shadows of alleyways to keep himself from being seen by others, though sightings of him were reported from time to time, and were always thoroughly discussed. The misfortune of the Zombie Man was well known throughout his hometown and was frequently talked about. Boris became something of a myth and rumors spread viciously, adding to his macabre mystique.

His mother and father had abandoned him when he was still a child, because – and this cannot be stressed enough – he was as nauseating as is visually possible. Even at such a young age he was offensively taxing on the eyes. One day his parents had had enough, so they up and threw him away. In a garbage bin. Mr. and Mrs. Buford shed many tears at having deserted their only child; not from the guilt, but out of self-pity. Though his parents were right in thinking he was an awful excuse for a baby boy, they later admitted that perhaps they could have handled the situation with more tact. Nevertheless, Boris somehow survived and grew up to be an amazingly unattractive young man, and an even uglier adult.

His only friend in the world was Bugger, a sickly flea-ridden mutt with a terrible case of mange. Boris had bonded deeply with the hideous dog, and he cherished the animal’s friendship more than anything. Constantly praising the loyalty of his companion, he would embrace and pet the gross beast day and night. Caressing his pal was often quite painful, as both creatures usually had ulcers leaking from head to toe, but that had never stopped them from expressing the camaraderie they held so dear. They were inseparably close, both at heart and in physical proximity, at all times. The appalling exterior of the two monstrosities did not agree with the beautiful love they shared, as Boris and Bugger both possessed kind and gentle souls, but to see the two of them together was such a horrific sight even the most righteous nun in the world would have found it difficult to show them any generosity.

Having so little to do with his fellow man, Boris was between jobs, and had never been employed at all for that matter. Living so many years without money had made him resourceful. Painstakingly, through countless woeful tribulations, he had grown accustomed to dumpster diving in order to provide for himself and his amigo. In fact, the duo had first met while excavating a trash can behind a diner, and it was then they had shared their first meal of foul fowl parts. Rummaging through the waste supplied them with anything and everything their hearts desired, as long as their hearts desired discarded junk and rotting leftovers, which had never been the case. Still, ransacking trash receptacles sustained them. Occasionally, on certain nights as infrequent as they were exciting, when another mouthful of garbage scraps could not be stomached, Boris would steal. It was on a night such as this that he set his sights on Gitcha Goods, a corner store, and it is here we will join the pair of vagrants as they prepared for the famous caper during an instance that will be recounted now.

Chapter II

In which the baffling buffoonery of the Boonesvillian banditos begins

Hiding in an alley across the street from Gitcha Goods, peeking around the corner, crouching in the darkness, and generally exhibiting shifty behavior in a number of ways, Boris turned to his mangy counterpart, licked his lips, and said:

“We’re gon’ be eatin’ good tonight, boy.”

Bugger weakly wagged his limp tail in agreement. The diseased dog knew what delicacies he could soon expect, as he was familiar with Boris’s mannerisms, and all signs pointed towards good eatin’.

Boris was all business; he had consumed so much spoiled grub lately, and fresh meals were so few are far between, any opportunity to swipe a proper feast was no laughing matter. Concealing himself in the adjacent alley, he focused his unblinking gaze through the glass door of Gitcha Goods on the store clerk, an extremely sloppily dressed young girl.

She was unaware of the attention being given to her as she sat behind the counter bored and high out of her mind. She was new to town, and in order to compensate for her lack of friends she had continued her daily doing of drugs and downing of drinks to depress her depression. She had not yet heard of the Zombie Man, and as anyone who was familiar could relate, a person seeing him for the first time was guaranteed to be taken aback, especially with the bonus of Bugger, who was equally as shocking. The store clerk sat behind the counter breathing through an open mouth, alone in the building, staring dumbly at nothing in silence.

As Boris waited for her to get off work and leave him to his thievery he did not look away from the corner store that housed his future dinner.

“Ya know what, Bugger boy,” Boris said to his only pal, “I bet they got jerky in there. I know you’d love some jerky, wouldn’t ya, boy?”

Bugger responded with a string of drool and a whimper so wimpish it would have broken the heart of anyone who had heard it, as long as they had not seen the source of the sound, in which case they would have felt nothing but repugnance, because, as has already been stated, Bugger was hideous beyond belief, and was repulsing to all who were unlucky enough to lay eyes on him. It was true though, that Bugger loved jerky. Boris knew this and hoped desperately the corner store had some available, because he loved the dog more than he loved himself, and wanted only good things for his compadre. He was determined to provide, but he did not yet know how he would break in and acquire the nourishment. All he knew was that night he and Bugger would be doing some good eatin’.

Boris hid in the alley, staring at the clerk intently, biding his time until the store was unattended. Picturing all the deliciousness he would have in his clutches and gullet before long, he was jittery, delirious with desire, manic with anticipation.

Bugger, stricken with hunger and fantasizing about tasty treats, sat still in suspense, looking forward to whatever morsels their plunderous activities might bring. The two skeletal delinquents remained hidden and frozen in this manner for over an hour, awaiting their supper with mouths watering, transfixed by the neon sign that read “Gitcha Goods.”

Boris was curious as to why the clerk did not leave when her shift ended; he knew the store’s hours of operation well, and had observed and recorded her departure for several nights. It was well past three o’clock in the morning, which, according to his calculations, was after closing time. She should have left. There was no logical reason for her to still be holding her post, which made Boris worry she was on to him. She appeared to be facing the alley he and Bugger were hiding in, and he suddenly found it plausible, if not probable, that she had been watching him for quite a while. Contrary to his fears, the inebriated store clerk had fallen asleep with her head propped up in her hands, her elbows on top of the counter in a pool of drool.

Agitated by the enemy’s strategic maneuver, Boris turned to his ailing ally in the alley and hissed, “How does she know? Bitch is tryin’ to foil our plot, boy.”

Nervous and hungry as hell, Boris could not imagine shoveling through another dumpster for something to eat. He did not care if his mission had been compromised; he had to follow through with his plan, even though it had yet to be formulated. Distressed to the point of madness, he decided what he was going to do then and there.

“We’re fuckin’ doing this, boy,” Boris exclaimed to his starving cohort, “I don’t give a shit anymore. Tonight’s the night we’re gonna eat good. Let’s just fucking do it!”

He then charged Gitcha Goods with complete disregard to stealth and sensibility.

At this point it is necessary to remind you, dear reader, just how horrendous and upsetting a spectacle Boris was; his hide a hot bed harvesting pimply pocks packed with pus, bloody boils as big as blueberries, and gross growths galore; and Bugger, the corpse-like canine, in the same miserable condition, not a pinch more pleasing to perceive. There was not a man alive whose stomach would not churn at the sight of them.

The two miscreants crashed into the glass door and entered the store. The clerk awoke, astonished and dumbstruck. The violent variation of vodka and Vicodin that voyaged through her veins with vigor, in addition to the marathon of The Walking Dead she had been watching for two days straight and the gruesome appearance of the two figures in the doorway, assured her civilization had fallen and the apocalypse had begun.

Ducking behind the counter without a peep, her eyes began to scan her immediate surroundings for a weapon. Finding only a mechanical pencil and a stapler, she grabbed the office supplies; pencil in the right hand, stapler in the left. She breathed as inaudibly as she could, hunkering down and not moving a muscle.

Paying no attention to anything other than filling his face with food and forgetting his famishment, Boris dropped to his knees and began to gorge, ferociously ripping cookies and coffee cakes out of their wrappers with an enthusiasm never before seen for such cheap snacks. Bugger found a shrine of assorted jerkies and joined in on the festivities, viciously attacking a box of teriyaki flavored beef sticks. The disgusting duo continued insatiably devouring everything they could, giving not a single thought to the Gitcha Goods employee in the same room.

Hiding behind the counter at the front of the store, the clerk was terrified. She had never heard of zombies eating prepackaged goods, or of zombie dogs, but she was no expert on the subject. The abruptness of the situation hadn’t allowed her to think rationally, and her intoxication didn’t make her any more reasonable.

The furious feasting, during which Boris and Bugger ate much more than they had in the previous three weeks combined, lasted only around fifteen minutes. Exhausted and stuffed, they lay on the tile floor and moaned in satisfaction. On their backs, side by side, in sedentary bliss, they let the fluorescent light bathe them. The clerk, taking notice of how slothful the monsters had become and seeing their pause in activity as advantageous, opted to strike before it was too late.

Knowing what had to be done, she leapt from her cover, let out a deafening war cry, rushed the zombie of human physiology, drove a flurry of staples into his skull, and stabbed the mechanical pencil into its head and neck repeatedly.

Going from total ecstasy to fearing his death in the blink of an eye, Boris was bewildered by the barrage. He pushed the assailant off of him, stood up, and tried to run towards the door, but because he was so full, he moved at a pace better described as a lumber. The store clerk, still stoned, staunchly stabbed and stapled with strengthening strikes as Boris fled. Bugger saw how badly his friend was being treated, tapped into his guard dog instincts, slowly got up, and waddled his way over to the commotion in order to give some assistance. Once he finally reached the quarrel, the clerk saw him, shrieked, and kicked the undead dog with all of her might, breaking a few of his ribs. When the dog fell down she stabbed and stapled it a few times for good measure before hiding behind the counter again and feverishly reciting a prayer. The two friends retreated in a panic, wailing in excruciation. They exited the glass door and didn’t look back. The clerk locked the door right away. Her heart was racing as she thanked the heavens she was still alive. She tried to calm down and catch her breath as she picked up the store’s phone, called the police, and earnestly reported a zombie attack.

Boris and Bugger rendezvoused in the alley across the street from Gitcha Goods and collapsed pitifully.

“Oh, man. She fucked you up,” blurted Boris as he brushed Bugger’s beaten back. “Got you good, didn’t she, boy?  Tramp got me too. Unnecessary if you ask me. I saw you going to town on some jerky, though. That’s good. At least we got you that.”

Boris smiled faintly as the staple wounds in his head steadily trickled blood. Being almost certain he had gone blind in his left eye thanks to the stabbings from the pencil, he felt as if he might faint, puke, or die. Bruised and battered and licking their wounds, our heroes huddled together, dreading the damned dumpster diving they would undoubtedly do the next day, wondering if they would ever eat that good again.

Chapter III

Which tells of a time Boris and Bugger experienced a bout of “food” poisoning

For many days they reminisced on the good eatin’ they had done and been punished severely for, wondering if they would ever again enjoy such luxuries. They would, of course, just not for some time. Quite a while, really. After a spell of dreadful hunger they found themselves devastatingly starving for a bit. Suffering from such a perilous case of the munchies for so long left them both weak and utterly hopeless. Succumbing to extreme caloric deficit, they had begun unenthusiastically scouring dumpsters. After chewing on something he mistook to be edible, Boris, on the verge of tears, fell to the pavement and screamed:

“We can’t live like this, boy!”

He groaned for a few seconds, wailed for a few more still, and carried on with a series of unintelligible, depressing noises.  Soon actual words escaped from his mouth, and he whiningly said, “There’s nothing any good for us in these damn dumpsters. It’s all trash. All of it! Why don’t people ever toss out a pizza or two?”

He then threw up his hands in incredulity.

“Are you trying to tell me nobody ever has too many quesadillas? I call bullshit! There’s gotta be at least a couple little pieces of prime rib somebody could do without and just place real nicely in this here dumpster. I know it. But no! Nothing. I don’t know about you, boy, but I can’t do it. I just can’t! If somebody doesn’t throw away a rotisserie chicken or somethin’ like it real soon, I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

His anger dissipating, he paused and became calm. Looking down and shaking his head, he picked at his fingernails and said, “Maybe I’m just putting on airs. Maybe this is the way it’s gotta be. We’ve had it worse than this before, I know. But how much can we take, boy? I guess we just been pampered by all those fancy snacks. Thought we was rich folk, didn’t we, boy? Well, we ain’t. Maybe we deserve this. Maybe we’s spose’ta live like this. Are you even listenin’ to me?”

Bugger, whose nose had grown an itchy fungus of sorts, continued licking a rash on one of his mangy hind legs, paying little attention to the long-winded spew of complaints being directed at him.

Boris grumbled for a while longer about his lack of nachos and similar subjects, then the moderately one-sided discussion came to an end. Night passed, and the two friends woke up hungrier than usual. Joints cracking as he rose from his concrete bed, Boris rubbed his knobby knees and noticed how strangely gaunt he had become. Looking down at his legs, he saw two misshapen, spindly poles, like laminated twigs. An emaciated boogeyman, he was thinner than most supermodels and inversely as arousing, aesthetically speaking. Bugger looked to have drastically dropped a few pounds as well. The mutt’s belly discovered itself to be shockingly close to the underside of his spine, and his ribs, both broken and not, jutted out at disturbing angles, stretching his deplorable skin. Boris saw the sad state his friend was in and pitied him. Even though he was no better off, he placed Bugger’s wellbeing before his own, if only by a smidgen. He had to help.

Finding a new sense of purpose, with a surge of determination, Boris decided he was going to find a way, somehow, for them to do some good eatin’ yet again. At that or any other moment a storm of brilliant ideas did not overflow or even trickle into his mind. His thoughts were few. Not knowing what else to do, he began foraging in every dumpster he knew of, searching garbage cans large and small, until he finally scrounged up a brownish, questionable substance they might could eat. Very questionable indeed. It was meat, Boris thought. Or an old salad, perhaps. A poorly executed quiche? It very well could’ve been something other than food, but Boris was optimistic. He gestured to Bugger to smell it. Bugger did so, but was unsure as to how he felt about it. They looked at it. They looked at each other, then looked back at the possibly food in unison, looked one more time into each other’s hungry eyes, and pounced on it.

Whatever it was was gone within seconds.

Boris got up off of his knees and brushed himself off. Bugger tried wagging his tail, but it didn’t feel right. Embarrassed and regretful, they avoided making eye contact as they walked to where their home wasn’t. After taking less than ten steps, Boris felt a tingling sensation in his stomach he knew meant nothing good. He looked down at Bugger, who was dry heaving violently, and braced himself as the tingling quickly grew into a rolling wave of sickness wrenching his gut. Bugger had already begun to spasm wildly, defenseless against the throes that were throwing him about. Overtaken by convulsions, abdomens seized and knotted, the unfortunate pair clutched at the ground and scrambled, as if trying to leave the pain behind. Their howls and screams of agony soon dwindled into soft cries and before long all was silent. Whatever the stuff had been it had really given their innards a good thrashing. Boris was as sick as a dog; the one trembling next to him in particular. After five hours of lying in the hot sun and allowing it to dry out their oft-wet open sores, they still didn’t feel well at all. Both of them lay on the concrete until nightfall, looking especially cadaverous, with their insides in ruins. It just goes to show the misstep it can be to chow down on a mysterious blob of unidentified stuff – specifically if the mysterious blob of unidentified stuff being chowed down upon is a few heavily deteriorated washcloths tangled together.

Chapter IV

Regarding our heroes stay in the little shack

Months passed but the washcloths never did.

As the sky warped from a drizzling gray to a sunny blue, it was unaware of how desperate the dumpster diving duo beneath it had become. It had been a tough few days for the two rejects and things weren’t looking up. After dining on a plentitude of assorted condiment packets, Boris and Bugger were less than satisfied, but not for long. When they had almost surrendered their hope and quit their search empty-handed, they stumbled upon a good deal of raw dough that had semi-baked in a sun-scorched aluminum garbage can and really turned out to be quite palatable. Having some packets left over, Boris spread relish on the bread he relished as he fed.

Feeling full and finding the future less foreboding than they customarily found it, Boris and Bugger took a walk. A long one, out of town, following a path towards the trees, with no destination and no worries. They felt the breeze and the sunlight on their faces as Boonesville faded from view behind them, its alienating judgments seeping away with it. They looked up at the clouds and the lack thereof. Bugger ran around chasing nothing while Boris chased him. Tall grass tickled their scabby legs as they ran through it, laughing. Making his way back to the path, Boris watched the blue sky melt into orange, appreciating the tranquility. Thinking he’d rather taken a liking to the act of breathing, Boris’s disgustingly chapped lips were almost tempted to smile. He thought he might have been feeling happy, but he had nothing to use for reference. Without disturbing the calm, Boris and Bugger followed the path quietly, keeping their eyes to the front, and in no time they saw themselves nearing the trees.

Passing into the woods, the path threaded through the thick, living columns. Leafy branches rattled and shook around them as they took it in. Shadows jumped forward and retreated back again as the sun broke through the trees’ extremities. The woody, waving fingers of the forest welcomed Boris and Bugger in as the breeze blew by, making them feel as at home there as they did anywhere, for reasons that should be evident. They walked respectfully among the commotion, mesmerized by the motioning greenery, captivated by it all.

Still following the weaving path into a sparsely wooded area, the trees dissolved and they entered a clearing. They saw in front of them, not far off, a little shack. It stood alone, encircled by the forest. The front door was open, creaking back and forth in the wind. Exploring his curiosity, Boris approached it slowly. The closer he got to the place the emptier it seemed.

Advancing from the side, they reached the building and crept around to the front. Boris stopped and put his ear to a window, keeping himself from view. He heard nothing but the creaking door. Guessing it safe, they poked their heads in through the open doorway, with their bodies waiting outside for the time being as they scanned the small, one-room domicile. If outwardly it had appeared to be abandoned, inwardly it appeared even more so. Stepping in all the way, they took a leisurely look around the place, and after discovering a stash of canned foods in a drawer, they instantly took a liking to it, and didn’t plan on leaving it unattended for the foreseeable future, deciding that squatting was the proper thing to do in such an establishment.

Boris finally got his hands on an elusive can opener, and life was good. Living as lavish as lords, they enjoyed home-style beans, chili, and tuna. The whole nine. With each mouthful their spirits soared higher. In a dreamlike stupor, they pigged out nonstop, force feeding their haggard frames, nodding off into inevitable food-comas, waking from one dream and falling into another. They kept this up for what felt like an eternity. Then the seemingly never-ending supply of food ran out. It had only been three days.

Chapter V

During which Boris is interrupted by and retaliates against libelers

Pot smoke swam between the brick walls of the alley as the wind played with it, possibly a little high itself. A rickety, lousily rolled blunt was passed from one misfit to another as a fit of coughing echoed between the walls. Seeing as hip hop and existentialism had already been thoroughly discussed, there seemed to be nothing left to talk about, when one of the grungy young men broke the silence and said, “I haven’t seen the Zombie Man in a minute, man. I wonder what that frickin’ sicko’s been up to. Probably some sick shit, I tell you that.”

“Oh, for sure,” replied the infinitesimally grungier of the two, “I bet he’s doing somethin’ super sick right now. Like voodoo wizardry or terrorizin’ the elderly or somethin’. Dude scares me, man.”

“I feel you. Just seeing him scares me. He’s for sure the sickest lookin’ dude I ever saw. I mean, you know I watch some nasty ass shit online, but I’ve never seen anything as sick as him. And I’ve tried. But he takes the top spot, man, no doubt. Dude, just thinkin’ about him makes my stomach feel, like, sick, you know?”

“Oh yeah. I know exactly what you’re gittin’ at, dude. That creepy fucker makes me wanna blow chunks real bad. This might sound stupid ‘n’ shit, but like, he’s not a real zombie, right? ‘Cause he’s like, monster status, bro.”

The blunt was passed. Coughing commenced and was quickly concluded, and the enlightening conversation continued.

“No, he’s probably not the legit real deal, but that’s a good point, man. I heard from my boy he ate his own family but the cops are too scared to go after him. I don’t know if it’s true, but you never know. I wouldn’t even blame the Federales, ‘cause that guy is, like, not fun to look at.”

Thoughtful nods were shared.

“True, true. The Zombie Man is an ugly dude, that’s for sure. Maybe even the ugliest dude in the world. I mean, think about it. Do you really think there could possibly be someone even…”

Out of sight but within earshot, digging around inside of a dumpster, Boris tired of listening to such verbal abuse being spouted so incompetently about him. He stopped looking for grub, climbed out unnoticed, and walked away till he heard no more.

The Zombie Man.

He couldn’t remember a time before that awful moniker. I wonder how long I’ve been living like this, Boris thought to himself. This line of thinking brought him to guess at how much time had sneakily crawled past him since his birth, the date of which he had long forgotten. He knew he wasn’t old yet, at least, he didn’t think it was so, but he didn’t feel young either. He caught a glimpse of himself as he passed a window. Approaching the cracked pane of glass to better study the face it framed, his already shrinking enthusiasm for living further depleted. To his own eyes he looked to have aged about fifty years postmortem, give or take a few dozen. It hadn’t been long enough since he’d last seen his wretched reflection, and judging by what he saw looking back at him, he was genuinely surprised he wasn’t an evil bastard. He definitely wasn’t the staunchest anti-immoralist, but he felt he was on the righter side of the ethical divide. He attempted to throw himself a good-natured smirk, landed on a scowl, and looked away, disheartened. Part of the problem was this: his skin, droopy and tight simultaneously, caused his features to appear unfathomably uncertain as to whether they were trying to convey their owner to be ecstatic or in mourning. Given one could look past the soul-tormenting morbidity of his detrimental skin condition, which one certainly could not, to determine exactly what he was feeling was a formidable task. Even when sleeping he looked like he might be smiling maniacally or bawling uncontrollably.

He didn’t know why people bothered coming up with all the slanderous stories about him, but he had heard some good ones.

“I never did nothin’ to nobody. Talkin’ about me all nasty. They must know somethin’ I don’t. No good sons’a’bitches!”

Feeling downtrodden with his hands in his pockets, kicking at the gravel, he stopped and thought a new, delightful thought: Maybe I can do something to make their perceptions less false. This thought brought to his face a devilish grin and he said:

“I’ll show those punks a Zombie Man. C’mon over here Bugger. We got some scarin’ to do.”

Creeping up from behind the grungy burnouts, one of whom was displaying his expertise on blunt rolling and giving the other a few pointers after some heavy criticism, Boris and Bugger were careful, keeping their movements slow, low, and quiet. Hidden around a corner, about fifteen feet away from his prey, Boris halted and listened.

“Dude, I don’t think Clinton even got a blowie. It was all just a cover-up so Obama could steal the oil. Have you even seen Zeitgeist?”

Boris was relieved that they were no longer talking about him, but the fact remained: they had to pay for their insolence.

Boris took a deep breath and walked into the alley with Bugger at his side. The two boys carried on with their conversation, not noticing the newcomers. To get their attention, Boris, who did not have much experience deliberately scaring people, coughed politely into his fist. The boys stopped talking, turned around, and looked at the intruding buzzkills, dumbfounded. Boris looked right back at them, slightly confused about what he should do next. After ten silent, awkward seconds, Boris recalled his enemies’ insolence and their having to pay for it, so he shook his arms in the air and ran at them yelling, “Boogaboogabooga!”

The two boys were flabbergasted. They cried out in fright as they fled. As Boris closed in on them, still waving his arms above his head and yelling what he thought to be scary noises, one of the boys fell and curled up into a ball, giving up completely. Boris let the other boy go free and stood there with his hands on his hips, towering over the pathetic bundle of fear quivering beneath him. He felt powerful. Bugger stood beside him, exposing his teeth and growling at the scaredy-cat. Totally in control, with his hate for those who had shown him hate fueling his decisions, Boris pointed at the young man and yelled:

“Sick him, boy!”

When Bugger lunged at the shrieking young man cowering on the ground, the other stoner blindsided the dog with a powerful kick to the body, re-breaking all of his previously broken ribs and breaking for the first time a few more. Without knowing what to do next, Bugger played dead and wished he was. Panicking and sensing his grip on authority slipping, Boris tried to grab the attacker to prevent another kick from being landed on his incapacitated compadre, but he was promptly dealt a devastating haymaker to the chin, sending him to the ground in a bloody heap.

“Nasty, bro! I got his juices on my hand! Sick!”

As the assailant frantically tried to wipe blood and pus from his hand, half afraid he might turn, his fallen friend stood up with regained moxie and stomped on Boris’s and Bugger’s legs a good many times, crunching and grinding their grisly tendons into mush, to ensure they stayed down. And down they stayed.

“I think they’re dead, man. What the fuck?!”

“The Zombie Man never stays dead, dude! His hellhound don’t neither! We gotta go before they resurrect and eat us or some shit!”

The petrified potheads then dashed off at a full sprint covering about a hundred yards, at which point they stopped to wheeze violently, smoke a quick joint, and discuss Jay-Z’s involvement in 9/11.

Crippled and defeated, using only his arms, Boris sluggishly crawled towards Bugger, who was also crippled and defeated. Boris rested his head beside his friend’s on the cold ground. In this fashion he ruminated peacefully on the evening’s happenings, hurting badly.

Chapter VI

In which Boris begs the Butcher

The Butcher smiled. Within the dank recess of his meat emporium’s killing room, pacing on a blood-stained and soon to be blood-soaked floor, he cradled a fully grown pig in his gargantuan arms as he stared deep into its eyes and whispered to it in sweet, nonsensical baby talk. He sang to it the same lullaby he always sang in these situations, and it sounded as good as it never did. The pig oinked softly, happily dreaming and then happily not, lulling in and out of consciousness. The Butcher kissed the beast wetly on the snout, then forcibly shoved a substantial hand into the thing’s mouth, his arm following it in well past the elbow. The muscles of his forearm danced inside the animal’s throat as his fingers searched blindly for its heart, which they soon found, removed, and tossed still beating into the fryer before being licked clean each individually by a bearded mouth and thrust into the pig once more, hunting for something else. They weren’t sure what yet. Whatever they found would most likely be used in some capacity, seeing as the Butcher wasn’t much one to waste.

He didn’t believe in paying another man to do a job he could easily do himself and he definitely didn’t want anyone under the impression that he was just a meat middleman. Hell no. He was equal parts slaughterer and salesman, and his killing room was where the meat he sold was harvested. He had brought doom to many a species of beast in that room. Pigs. Chickens. Rabbits. Possums. Deer. Cows. He had once slayed a bucking bronco with a sledgehammer just to see what it would taste like fried. This death-loving, angry-browed, foul-smelling behemoth of a man who never wore a shirt not covered in blood stains was the sole owner and operator of A Meat Shop, his aptly named place of business.

The sun had barely risen and Boris was already having a bad day, as was the norm. Dumpster diving halfheartedly, he was having trouble committing himself wholly to his craft. Perusing particularly putrid perishables peeved him as he peered across the parking lot at a portly person publicly punishing a pan-fried pork chop on a patio. He or she looks well-fed, Boris reflected as he wasn’t. Boris gazed on as the pork-chop was greedily wolfed down. He had never eaten a cut of meat like that before, but if he had, he imagined it would have been an agreeable occurrence. As he enviously watched the globular guy or girl put away the platter with gusto, Boris slid into a meat-induced hunger trance. Visions of succulent steaks swirled in his mind, occupying his full attention. His eyes stopped focusing on actuality as deeply realistic daydreams of pot roast brought to his nose pungent smells he had never known but somehow loved. Vividly hallucinating, he stood there smiling and moaning with an almost sexual desire, starry-eyed, salivating, craving tender meats.

A car horn sliced through the air and Boris’s regrettable reality thudded back into place. His senses adjusted to his surroundings. Dizzily finding himself inside a dumpster, he let go of the garbage that was clenched in his hands. Wading waist deep in waste, a wave of want washed over his being. He needed to get his hands on a nice steak.

Discontinuing his dig in the filth, Boris jumped out of the dumpster with a calling. He briskly walked around the corner where Bugger was taking a nap in the shade. Bending down and petting the dog’s hairless, lumpy back, he pictured the two of them sharing a filet. He would find a way to make it happen. Walking off a ways so Bugger could sleep, Boris looked up into the sky and contemplated praying, but decided against it. It had never helped him before. Resolute in his aim but unsure how to proceed, he looked down and saw between his feet a twenty dollar bill. He picked it up and looked at the crumpled, rectangular piece of fabric in awe. He held in his hands more money than he had ever seen. He thought of the things he could do with it. He could buy something. Or he could make a purchase. Both ideas were alien. His body jolted as he was struck with a sudden revelation. He could buy meats.

Within the red brick walls of A Meat Shop, the Butcher was busy strangling a lamb to death with his bare hands. Outside of them, just across the street, Boris was cozily concealed inside a trashcan, examining the slaughterhouse through the slit under the can’s lid. He was apprehensive; he had encountered the Butcher before. Once, in his younger, braver days, Boris had gotten caught fishing for scraps in the dumpster behind A Meat Shop and been bludgeoned badly by a buffalo femur. Since then he had kept his distance. He knew he should continue to do so, but he was hungrier than he was scared of the Butcher. And he was terrified of the Butcher.

Observing the scene from his tasteless hideout, Boris used every brain cell he had on his person trying to think of a course of action in which he would accomplish his goal and not get pulverized in the process, but he came up with nothing. He knew only one thing: he couldn’t enter A Meat Shop looking the way he did. The Butcher would surely recognize and probably attack him, which could prove fatal. Boris also took into consideration the general sense of panic his being seen in public would without a doubt give rise to. The acceptability of his appearance was at the lowest trough yet in its wavelength, which was really more of a downward slope seeing as it had never experienced an upswing and was relatively steady in its descent. Every square inch of him was either blistered, scarred, gangrenous, greenish, warty, chapped, or blemished in some other way. In any case, all of him was thoroughly yucky. To squirm is the correctest, elective, selectable action permissible in reaction to his septic epidermis. Boris was confident that anyone who saw him enter the place would be responsible enough to call the police or the health inspector.

A light bulb flashed brilliantly in his head before blinking on and off a few times and burning out, but Boris decided to go with it anyway. He did not know very much about his target, but he did know very little. Boris had heard somewhere that the Butcher was a bit of a racist. This, coupled with the need to keep his own identity a secret, was the basis for his plan. With some reluctance, he slithered clumsily out of the trashcan and went off to gather the necessary materials. After half a day of dumpster diving, he discovered and donned a dirty, previously-white bed sheet he hoped would resemble a Ku Klux Klan uniform. And with that his plan was in action.

Wearing the unfashionable getup, he walked into A Meat Shop with his newly found money held high and declared:

“I’ll take twenty dollars of meat, please.”

But the Butcher, who was a surprisingly despicable man in terms of his personal views on civil rights and would have been proud to feed a fellow advocate of Klankraft at no charge, refused to serve him on grounds of confusion.

“No deal.”

In the Butcher’s defense, the bed sheet was very dirty and tattered and made a poor costume. It didn’t even come to a point atop Boris’s head. Hardly any blacks would have found it offensive.

The Butcher grumbled in a low, gravelly voice, “Just what in the hell are you supposed to be?”

“Well, actually, I–”

“Scratch that. I don’t wanna know. Just get out my shop, maggot.”

“Please, sir. All I ask of you is twenty dollars of meat.”

Boris extended the twenty into the air with both arms as a sign of good faith. Even his hands were covered by cloth as he held the cash. The only part of him that could be seen under the bed sheet were his beady, desperate eyes through two ripped holes.

Visibly annoyed, the Butcher flexed the arms he had crossed in front of his massive chest as he stared disdainfully at the disheveled crackpot who was waving money around and making odd requests. In his unique choice of apparel, the vagrant looked like a ghost without a house to haunt. The Phantom Hobo. The Butcher didn’t have time for this. He had a rambunctious pack of wolves in his killing room and he was anxious to try out his new broadsword.

“I told you to get out. I’m not gonna say it again.”

“I have money. Please, sir. I just wan–“

The Butcher had had enough. He snatched up a 72 ounce rib eye (bone in), jumped swiftly over the counter, and swung the flaccid steak with lethal force at the intruder’s head. The gigantic slab of meat wiggled in a wide arc with increasing speed and smashed into Boris’s face, breaking his nose and bloodying his mouth. Boris flew back, his feet just inches above the tiles. The way the bed sheet flapped as he hovered made him look like a real ghost, but instead of passing through the wall, his body slammed into it and he fell to the floor, nearly unconscious.

The Butcher walked over to the crumpled nuisance and slapped it around with the rib eye a little more. He then ripped the filthy cloth off its almost lifeless body.

“You! I remember you. You’re that little zombie boy.”

Blood leaked from Boris’s mouth and ran down his corroding face as he smiled up at the hulking death bringer and weakly croaked:

“It’s Zombie Man.”

The Butcher cocked the steak back behind his head and brought it down like a hammer. A wet whistle preceded a SMACK! Our hero, feeling fairly flattened, saw the Butcher move to ready a second blow, which both he and the Butcher knew would put him down for good, so he latched on to the juicy weapon tightly. The Butcher chuckled and easily lifted the steak in front of himself with one arm and Boris came up with it. Grabbing on to the steak fiercely, biting into it to improve his grip, Boris rose until the two were eye to eye. The brute looked at the rabid madman curiously for a few seconds. He didn’t know if he was more annoyed or amused with the pest.

“You’re a hungry little fucker, ain’tcha?”

The Butcher shook the giant piece of meat, but he could not free it from the hungry creature. Being jerked back and forth, enduring whiplash, Boris frantically clung to the steak with both arms and his teeth. The room wobbled around him as he hung on. His teeth sank farther into the meat and he hugged it with all of his strength. He felt weak, but he had never been so strong. He was going to bring the steak back to Bugger.

The Butcher laughed heartily as he shook and shook the dead flesh being clutched by seemingly dead flesh.

“You know what? I’m impressed. You can have it. It’s no good to me now.”

Holding the mishmash of meat and miscreant in front of him like a dirty diaper, the Butcher walked outside and threw the whole mess overhand towards the street. Boris watched the whole world whirl by before – Wham! Landing hard on his ass, still hugging the steak, he sat there stupidly. It was then clear to him just how big the hunk of meat was. It was as big as his torso and covered him like a beef blanket. He sat there longer, studying the thing incredulously. His entirety hurt, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t believe it. He had steak. His plan had worked perfectly.

Bugger had not moved all day. He was still asleep, relaxing in the cool breeze tunneling lightly down the alley. Boris found him lying there and smiled down at his best friend. He nudged the sleeping dog with his foot.

“Got us some real food, boy. We’re gonna be doin’ some good eatin’ tonight.”

Bugger woke with a start. What had resembled road kill seconds before was now full of life and excitedly running circles around its caretaker, the Guardian of Garbage. Even with his grievous injuries, Boris could not stop his heart from warming at the sight of his buddy. The duo sat down on the concrete, preparing for dinner. Boris did his best to cook the huge steak with a BIC lighter he had found on the ground, but the small, hand-held flame only charred the outside of it in grayish spots, leaving the center completely raw. Finding the eatin’ as good as it was likely to get, the main course was served. Boris gnawed gently on one end of it while Bugger tore himself off a large piece and swallowed it whole. Boris had lost some teeth from the meat beating, making it difficult for him to eat, but he was relieved. For the first time in a long time, he was focused not on surviving, but on enjoying himself, which he wasn’t. He was miserable. His mouth was so busted up he could hardly chew. But Boris could see how happy he had made Bugger, and that made it all a little easier to swallow.

[gbhbl]

EP Review: Wasted Death - Ugly As Hell II: Uglier Than Hell (APF Records)

Even more ugliness from Wasted Death. Sign us up.

Gutter punk metal band, Wasted Death will release their sophomore EP ‘Ugly As Hell II – Uglier Than Hell’ on the 13th August 2021 via APF Records. Landing just four months after their debut EP Ugly as Hell (released by APF Records on 9th April), Charlie Davis says: We reckon we’ve done it again on Ugly As Hell II: Uglier As Hell. The strings are all tuned to the same note, the drums are…