Here’s a little Halloween story for all the strange people who keep coming back to read my blog. This story is dedicated to old and new friends from the beautiful city of Portland, Oregon. May you all survive the zombie apocalypse. Happy Halloween!
Zombies of Portland
The zombies shuffled into the dark and dusty meeting hall, moaning and groaning as they found their seats. Three sharp raps from a gavel failed to get their attention.
A female zombie wearing too much eyeliner dropped the gavel on the lectern, then clapped her hands. “Attention, please! The meeting is about to start.”
The zombies stopped moaning and looked to the dais.
“Thank you all for coming. My name is Saffron, and I called this meeting to inform you of something you already know. We are being discriminated against. I’ve been kicked out of the basement that I was renting for only three hundred dollars a month, including utilities. I was ejected from my favorite bar just for being a zombie. And now I’ve been refused admittance to the University of Portland—“
“—try Portland State. They’ll take anyone,” a heckler yelled, causing the crowd to erupt in laughter.
“This is serious! This is my life we’re talking about. And your lives. Hasn’t anything like this happened to you?”
“I thought this meeting was about brains,” called out a flannel-clad male zombie.
“Well, it kinda like, is,” Saffron mumbled. “The fact is – all our problems come back to our diets. Us eating people? That’s why they don’t like us. That’s why they’re discriminating against us. All because of our dietetic lifestyle.”
The crowd of zombies nodded and one stood up. “Yeah, it ain’t fair. My buddy? He ain’t a zombie, but he does eat meat. He got told he smelled funny and his girlfriend dumped him for eating things that had a face. It ain’t right.”
Saffron sighed again. “That’s not quite what I’m talking about. I’m more concerned with our image. And the first and most important thing we have to do is…stop eating brains.”
The crowd fell silent. A tattooed female zombie stood up. “So, what are we supposed to eat then?”
“That’s no problem,” Saffron replied. “There’s a store downtown that specializes in soy brain matter. They have offered to step up production if we can guarantee plenty of customers. They even have kosher brains.”
The zombies sat in silence, most too stunned to respond. One zombie, with numerous piercings in his rotting flesh, yelled out that recent studies had shown that soy was bad for breast health. His neighbors, recovering from their shock, muttered their agreement.
Saffron brandished a flyer. “I have a pile of these to give out. I want you all to immediately forgo the eating of live brains and start frequenting this store. Maybe then I’ll be able to pursue my Master’s in Feminist Theories and Interpretations of Zombie Folklore in the Pacific North-West.”
A disabled zombie wheeled herself forward. “I’m lactose intolerant—“
“—and what does that have to do with anything?” Saffron asked.
“You’re kidding, right? Do you know how hard it is to find brain in this town that hasn’t been poisoned by a lifetime of guzzling lattes? I need brains that have been nowhere near a cow. Does this store have them?
“I only eat organic,” another zombie interjected.
His neighbor turned to him. “Me, too! The best organic brains are down at the Farmer’s Market. All those healthy eaters? Damn fine brains, they have. No toxins, you know.”
“Ooh!” squealed another. “And down at Powell’s? Those lovely people-who-live-in- bookstore brains?” He kissed his bunched fingers. “Lean and juicy and well-read. So delicious!”
The zombies started moaning again, as Saffron banged her gavel furiously.
“Guys, this is not helping! If we are to become accepted members of our community we need to—”
A huge biker zombie smacked Saffron over the head with her gavel. “Fellow zombies,” he roared. “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s just take this city! We’ll call it The Zombie Republic. Zombies all over the country, nay, the world will join us here. We shall rule!”
“Great idea, Karl,” one called out. “But I’m Buddhist. Can I be excused from the general carnage? Otherwise I support you fully.”
“Certainly,” Karl replied. “So, what’s our first step?”
“Let’s get the politicians,” one roared. “Corrupt brains, fat on the lifeblood of the workers! Let’s eat them! They’ll taste just like foie gras.”
“Excellent idea,” said Karl, kicking Saffron off the dais with a biker boot to her ass. “To the bikes, comrades!
The crowd erupted in cheers and, moaning and groaning, they stumbled off towards the bike racks. The Zombie Apocalypse had come to Portland, Oregon.
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This story was inspired by the late, great Warren Zevon. Miss you, dude.