If you’d like to see ‘The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum’ featured in The Guardian…

The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

If you enjoyed The Zombie Adventures… parody novel, which I blogged here chapter by chapter last year (each post written straight off the top of my crazy head) you can now nominate it to be featured in this new Guardian series

Update: Until the end of July 31st 2013, you can download the eBook from Smashwords in their sitewide promotion for free using the promo code SW100

Menopause in Black: A Zombie Parody

Re-Flex v. Bill Hicks v. George Carlin – Politics of Dancing mash-up…

The darkness after the flash is even darker, outlined in red and green, imprinted with the pattern of the blood vessels in my own eyeballs. The air is still rushing past, our flying rickshaw now soaring unimpeded, as straight as an arrow. And the clockwork hand is dull and lifeless, its power absorbed from the Pterydactyl flames completely spent. The only new sensation is a strange tickling, as if the air is full of downy-soft feathers, or warm snowflakes.

There is a mechanical whir beside me, and I recognise the sound of the Trevor Baylis torch being wound up, before the beam clicks on again.

“Great shot, Fuckwit,” says Carvery, grudgingly. “That was one genocide in a million.”

The torchlight bounces back off hundreds of thousands of little white skeletons, scattered over our blanket on the rickshaw, and hanging as if at roost from the ceiling of the cave. Carvery holds out a hand to catch a tiny bat skull as it drifts by. It is perfect in every detail, clean and as dry as – well, dry as a bone.

Carvery blows on it, and it vanishes into a powder.

Halloween snowflakes, indeed…

We exchange a look, and he gestures at the golden clockwork hand still gripped in my own, with the barrel of the shotgun, still in his.

“I’m saving one cartridge,” he says. “So if you ever point that thing at me, just remember that I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

“She’d probably enjoy that,” Ace Bumgang replies. “It’d be the first time anyone’s blown anything of hers.”

Carvery nods wryly, and hands me my torch back. It’s still warm from his hand, and I get a guilty thrill, recalling that Ace handled it briefly as well.

I wonder how much viable DNA I could recover from either of them touching it? I wish I had an evidence bag, or a surgical swab on me…

“Not far now,” Crispin’s deep voice intones. “Remember – the clockwork hand’s power can be renewed – always.”

“I think I see the light,” Luke confirms.

We stare into the distance, the endless reams of skeletons now starting to thin out a little. Ace clambers back up from the foot of the rickshaw for a better view, brushing white bone dust off his distractingly muscular arms and bare chest.

Oh – what I wouldn’t do for some of that DNA…

“You missed a bit,” Carvery says. “Looks like you’ve done whiz.”

Ace checks the crotch of his Naval uniform trousers, bemused.

“Not that kind of whiz.” Carvery points at his nose. “You got a go-faster speed stripe right there.”

Ace’s brow unfurrows in comprehension, and he rubs his face with the back of his arm.

“If I did snort this stuff,” he says, between wipes, “would I turn into a vampire?”

“You could try, Mr. Bumgang,” Crispin ponders, mildly. “I am sure, after the blast, all traces of rabies and other diseases will have been eradicated.”

Ace shrugs, looks at the remaining white residue on his hands, and tests it out on his tongue.

“What’s it like?” Carvery asks.

“Bit like a fart in an old people’s home.” Ace rubs a finger around his teeth, into his gums. “Menthol and Werther’s, with a hint of coffee and dead thing.”

“Sounds like the secret ingredient for brewing Guinness, that they might be missing in the Six a.m. Lounge,” Carvery remarks.

“What, old people?” I repeat.

“We’ll just tell them to substitute menthol, Werther’s, coffee and dead thing,” Carvery reassures me. “Although knowing Crispin’s Grandpappy, most likely they’re already using dead thing, of one species or another.”

“And old people,” Ace agrees, dusting the last of the powder from his hands. “Speaking of old people and dead things, Homer’s not doing too well down there, Crispin. He keeps trying to pull bits of himself off. And not for fun.”

Crispin immediately crouches down by his brother’s side, to check his current state.

“He still needs medical attention,” he announces, grimly. “We must hope that the Nine a.m. Lounge residents are amenable today…”

“Nine a.m. Lounge?” a strange, muffled voice cries out in alarm.

“Who said that?” Luke yelps.

“I can’t go to the Nine a.m. Lounge!” The almost-familiar voice sounds like it is shouting through… layers and layers of wet carpet…

“Ah, Justin Time,” Crispin greets the stowaway. “What treason have you committed now?”

The disgraced roll of carpet thrashes around in the footwell of the rickshaw, and bursts open, to reveal the whiskered, runaway, bounty-hunters’-most-wanted rickshaw pilot, Mr. Justin Time.

“You left me in the Seven a.m. Lounge!” he practically broils. I’m not sure he’s even close to sober either. “Do you know what they did to me, in their cold stinky little gaol cell?”

“I’m sure you will elucidate us anyway,” Crispin encourages, concentrating on his brother’s position and seeing that he is comfortable.

My heart seems to heave a sigh of empathy. Oh, if only Crispin hadn’t been so keen on the idea of me taking up his job offer… he really is the nicest corpse any woman could wish for…

…If she wasn’t also being constantly distracted by the thought of arrogantly good-looking live male genetics, I remind myself, as Ace wipes his hands clean on my sleeve.

“Don’t,” Carvery mutters. “You’ll only get your hands more dirty. You don’t know where she’s been.”

“They gave me A Nice Cup of Tea,” Justin Time fumes. “And asked if they could contact my wife for me! If my wife ever finds out where I am, I am a dead man! No offence, Mr. Dry… But we are not talking about an unreasonable woman here! We are talking about a homicidal maniac! Have you ever been married to a homicidal maniac?”

The men all shake their heads. Both Carvery and Ace pointedly step away from me, as if denying any such detailed association.

“No,” says Carvery. “But we’ve met Crispin’s mother.”

“Yup,” Ace grimaces.

“I’ve been married, but not to a homicidal maniac,” Luke says, gloomily. “To a sex maniac.” He sighs. “Just not when I was around, sadly.”

“You see?” Justin splutters. “That’s the sort of woman I would be a happy man to be married to! But what do I get? I get the Medusa, the Furie, the Siren, the witch-beast from Hell… and the pasty desk clerk with the badly-made suit at the gaol, is sitting there offering to send a singing telegram to tell her where I am and inform her that I am quite well enough to collect! Hah! To collect my bones and suck out my soul and flay my skin into a sail for her Ship of Doom!”

“Are you sure that you and Crispin aren’t related in some way?” Ace says, quizzically. “Does she ever turn herself into stone at all? Or keep pet zombies in red leather pants with no ass to them?”

“I wish!” Justin Time rages.

“I bet they offered you Marriage Guidance as well, bro,” Luke sympathises. “The elders at my village told me I’d have to sacrifice a white cock to satisfy my old lady. I told them she was getting plenty of that already, from what I’d heard… And not the sort I could afford to sacrifice and get away with.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Time, we are most definitely heading for the Nine a.m. Lounge,” Crispin tells him. “But perhaps you could remain under cover until we have disembarked.”

“This is costing you, Mr. Dry!” Justin snaps. “I want Christmas and New Year off!”

“But you don’t celebrate Christmas and New Year, Mr. Time,” Crispin points out.

“No, but my girlfriend in New York, it a very big thing for her,” the rickshaw pilot wheedles. “She puts on this little frilly negligence with all tinsel and flashing lights in, and a strawberry liquorice rope instead of a…”

“I’m actually starting to like him,” Carvery grins.

“Yeah, me too,” says Ace.

Suddenly, the darkness fades to misty gray. I switch the flashlight off. Instead of bare rock and desiccated skeletal matter, evidence of creepers and other greenery indicates that we are nearing more hospitable depths.

We all shade our eyes, at the first flash of daylight…

The flying carpet decelerates as we burst through the foliage, disturbing unseen birds and animals by the noise of their cries and squalling.

“Stupid rug!” Justin Time dives to grapple with the harness, reining in its enthusiasm for the outside world. “Not above the jungle canopy! This is a war zone!”

“A war zone, Crispin?” I repeat, aghast.

I recall those two strange planes that had flown low over the Eight a.m. Lounge, and what Sandy had told me. Damn! I need that diary, out of Carvery’s pocket…

“You’d barely notice,” Crispin shrugs, but I recognise his look of discomfort. “Most of the folk here just go about their usual business…”

A whistling in the air is punctuated by a rapid succession of thuds, and our rug and blanket bristle with acquired arrows, in a passable porcupine impersonation.

“Dude, your trousers are on fire,” Ace tells Carvery.

“Quick!” I say, leaping at any opportunity to rummage in those pockets. “Take them off…”

Carvery looks down at the burning arrow sticking out of the steel-lined toecap of his boot, at an apologetic angle.

“Why do I get the flaming arrow?” Carvery wants to know, twisting it free and tossing it over the side of the rickshaw, in flagrant disregard for the local ecology.

“…Their usual business being, shall we say, a gung-ho approach to home security,” Crispin finishes. “Mr. Time! We need somewhere safe to land! My brother will not last much longer in the air!”

All of us hunker down as more arrows arc overhead, and I crawl downward, to be with Crispin at Homer’s side.

“What is it?” I ask in a low voice. “Should he be that colour?”

Homer’s deteriorated skin seems to be uniformly weeping a strange, purplish sweat or mucus, accompanied by a smell not unlike a blocked drain. His consumptive belly is distended, as if inflated by a surgical pump.

“No bump to the head has caused this,” Crispin tells me, to my private relief. “We need to be near salt water. Mr. Time! Take us to the shoreline!”

“Ohhhh, no!” Justin Time shakes his head and purses his lips. “I’m not going near any open sea! Straight into the jaws of Death for me, that is!”

“What would you rather risk?” Crispin asks him. “A possible chance encounter with your wife? Or a very definite encounter with an adolescent Squidmorph, in need of immediate liquid sustenance?”

I try not to recoil in horror, knowing what Homer means to his brother.

All that time, it wasn’t my own hysteria for once, bringing up thoughts of the dread larval sea-parasite – here it is, festering in the most obvious incubator it could find…

We break cover from the jungle, and the sunlight is too painful at first to reveal our new surroundings.

But as the rickshaw churns up bleached white sand and driftwood, and the salt spray from the surf smacks me in the face like a dissatisfied pizza-delivery customer, I can make a rough guess.

I’m not prepared for the view, as my eyes adjust to the glare.

“Whoa,” Luke gasps.

It is a picture-postcard tropical beach – deserted, almost pristine. Sprouting coconuts are washed up on the damp sand. Emerald-green islands of all shapes and sizes stand like sentinels in the sapphire-blue sea.

Only a forest-fire burning cheerfully perhaps a mile to our right, pumping the perfectly still blue skies full of black smoke, spoils the scenery.

“Hmmm,” Ace remarks. “Smells like Guinness napalm to me.”

“Do not wander far,” Crispin warns, as Luke, Ace and Carvery disembark to explore, and Justin fusses over the rug, plucking out arrows. “These are indeed times of hostility between the Lounges. Nine a.m. is of particular umbrage to many.”

I ignore the others, and help Crispin to lift Homer into a more level position.

“What do we do?” I ask. “What does he need?”

“Nothing, Sarah Bellummm,” Crispin says, taking his brother’s hand and patting it. “We just have to ensure that the first thing the young Squidling sees is the ocean – and that we do not get in its way…”

Homer’s belly starts to squirm and rumble in an unearthly fashion. As I look down, a trickle of black ink appears down his bony thigh, followed by a whiff of battery acid.

“How long does it…” I begin.

There is the sound of a champagne cork popping, and a glistening white streak across the sand.

Far out to sea, a thunderclap records the breaking of the sound barrier – only then followed by the waterspout of an entry-point, on the horizon.

Homer’s belly subsides, like a deflating Whoopee cushion.

“…Wow,” I say, because there doesn’t seem to be anything else suitable.

And then, because Crispin is there, I move to officially check the state of Homer, the patient.

“Careful, Sarah Bellummm,” Crispin warns. “Sometimes there is…”

An insurmountable force throws me backwards off the rickshaw, and I land flat on my back in the very edge of the surf.

Warm slime seems to envelop me, and I blink it away to stare directly into the flat iridescent eyes, and anemone-like pink tentacles, of a newborn Squidmorph parasite.

“…A twin,” Crispin calls out, unnecessarily.

I gulp, as the parasite arches its spine, revealing a scorpion-like tail.

“Hello,” I say, wondering where this ranks in Famous Last Words.

It freezes mid-poise and stares back, then blinks obliquely.

“Hello,” it says, quite clearly. “Mother.”

And shoots from my hands, like a bar of soap in a gym shower.

“I’m not your mother!” I yell.

Only the distant thunderclap answers me.

Great, I think. That’s going to take some explaining, when it comes looking for me in sixteen years’ time…

Alien giving birth scene from ‘Men in Black’ – Enjoy 🙂

More mindless mayhem: The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

Also available for all other devices, and online reading, on Smashwords

Death Face: A Zombie Parody

Yello vs. Death Race – The Race/movie montage mash-up…

The cliff-face approaches with terrifying speed, and our flying rug seems to gird itself for further acceleration, as the gap closes.

“Well, that’s only a million vampire bats per mile,” says Carvery. “In Chiroptera terms, for that size of cave, it’s practically deserted.”

I’m stunned. Carvery can do division – without a calculator? And did he just use the species terminology of the bat family?

“Don’t you mean Desmoda Rotunda?” Ace queries. “I read online that they roost with up to nine other species of bat. That’s potentially ten million Chiropterae per mile over all, with only one in ten being a blood-sucker.”

My mouth is open at this point, which in less than a minute, might be inadvisable.

“Ace – you can read?” I repeat, disbelieving. “In Latin?!

“Remind me of this conversation, if I ever agree to join these two for a dudes’ night out on the town,” Luke says aside to me. “That kind of careless talk can close a woman’s legs, before she’s even had so much as a sniff of the Rohypnol.”

“There is room for speculation about the exact number of vampires in the cave,” Crispin concedes. “Considering particularly that it is pitch black in there.”

And with that, the pitch black engulfs us, like a giant, stinking shroud of tar. My mouth, still agog, snaps shut just in time.

The air vibrates with the flutter of membranous wings, in every direction. As one, we all dive under the tattered blanket, which had previously held us captive.

“Can’t this thing go any faster?” Luke demands.

“You are joking, I hope?” I say, the sour wind stripping tears from my eyes, like a cheese-grater against my face. “How long until we reach the Nine a.m. Lounge, Crispin?”

There is a distinctly surprised silence.

“Nine a.m., Sarah Bellummm,” he replies. “Of course.”

Of course. Stupid stupid girl…

The rolled-up rugs beneath us press deeper into my spine with the gravitational forces, as the lead rug pulling our flying rickshaw cranks up another gear.

But that implies that we’re going over five thousand miles an hour… assuming he means, Nine a.m. today…

Something bounces off my knee, and I hear Homer squawk indignantly.

“Did you feel that?” I hiss, desperately. “They’re dive-bombing us!”

Yesss,” Crispin agrees. “Stay under cover…”

The squawk is echoed, deeper and hollowly, somewhere behind us – and repeated twice more.

“They aren’t the only ones,” Ace points out. “Sarah – pass me the torch.”

I hand over the Trevor Baylis, and Ace points it briefly into our slipstream.

“Here they come,” he reports.

“What?” Luke asks. “The bats?”

“Nope.” Ace passes the torch to Carvery, who takes a look in turn. “Three zombie Pterydactyls on our six. Big ones.”

Braaaiiiiinnnssss,” Homer moans, clamping both hands over his frayed ears.

“They’re not going to get your brains, Homer,” Carvery says calmly, putting the torch between his teeth and re-loading the shotgun again. “If they’re fast enough to catch up, they’re fast enough for target practice.”

I risk a look over the seat-rail, and see the formation of three giant winged pursuers, against the dim light of the distant cave entrance behind us.

The view is suddenly blocked by a frenzy of fluttering, and an evil, snub-nosed snout with beady eyes appears over the railing. Before I can even gasp, a needle-lined yawn lunges directly for my face…

“Fuck off,” Carvery grunts, and with a crunchy squeak, the hungry critter disintegrates messily under the butt of the shotgun. “She’s ugly enough already, without a vampire bat beard.”

“Thank you,” I remember to say, after what seems like quite a few moments of waiting for the shock to wear off.

“Don’t mention it,” he remarks, turning the gun around to point the muzzle outwards, over the back of the seat. “I mean it. If you ever mention it to anyone, I’ll kill you. And Miss Fuck-Tart, your housemate.”

Oh yes. Why do I keep forgetting about her?

Idly, I wonder if she’s starting to smell, and if anyone back on the Great Barge in the Five a.m. Lounge has noticed…

The leading Pterydactyl opens its beak in another yammering, jabbering caw – and then belches flame.

The blast of heat almost cooks my tongue onto the roof of my already terror-dried mouth.
In the afterglow, frazzled bats shower from the air, trailing smoke, like dud fireworks dropping out of the sky.

“My God, they’re armed,” Luke whispers.

“And fully operational,” Crispin acknowledges. “Their teeth have turned to flint after so many centuries undead – and they make a spark by agitating them, which ignites the methane created by the bats in the cave. It protects them from the blood-sucking, burns off excess gas before it can reach critical underground levels, forms a light-source for them to hunt by, cooks their prey, and also de-louses them in the process. It’s really quite fascinating.”

A second Pterydactyl clacks its jaws a few times, and sears the cave wall with another billow of incendiary fumigation.

“Remind me never to go out on the pull with him either,” Luke adds.

“Maybe they fancy a bit of fast food?” Ace suggests, as a third flame almost passes right in front of us, covering our blanket with lumps of squeaking, furry charcoal.

“Burger van’s closed,” says Carvery, and takes a shot at the nearest Pterydactyl, to the left.

A gaping hole appears in one wing, and it pinwheels out of control, bouncing off the walls and disappearing under an avalanche of peckish, bloodthirsty bats.

Meanwhile, another flaming belch from the middle pursuer lightly singes one of our rolled-up rugs on the back of the rickshaw, which promptly starts crying.

“I’m pretty sure floor coverings shouldn’t soil themselves,” Ace comments, and tries to switch places with me. “Sarah, you can have the wet patch.”

I hear the sobbing emerging more loudly as I shuffle reluctantly along the bench. I try a conciliatory pat or two.

“There, there,” I murmur, meaninglessly.

How do you reassure a captive flying carpet?

Another fireball explodes overhead. A flaming bat plummets from the roof, straight through the hole in the middle of our blanket. Homer screams.

“Why do I smell Crispy Chicken Balls?” asks Luke.

“It’s just Homer, saving himself the trouble of going for the full operation,” says Ace, and crawls downward to try and beat out any remaining flames. “Pass the wet rug, I’ll see if I can damp it down.”

Gratefully, I roll the sodden carpet towards the foot of the rickshaw, which hisses as it traverses the groaning Homer.

Carvery fires again, but the Pterydactyls are learning, and take evasive manoeuvres.

Braaaiiiinnnssss,” Homer pleads. “Sarah BraaaiiinnnsssGoooood…”

“I think Homer wants to eat your brains, Sarah,” Ace reports back.

“Don’t see why not,” says Carvery. “It won’t exactly spoil his dinner later.”

“I think my brother means, you should use your brains, Sarah Bellummm,” Crispin says, quietly. “Trust your feelings…”

Use my brains? I boggle, momentarily. All my feelings are currently telling me, is I’m starting to recall that I was rather violently air-sick on this rickshaw earlier… and the similar self-control by the captive rugs isn’t helping…

“Heads up, Carvery!” Luke shouts.

Carvery swings the shotgun like a club, slamming an enormous bat into the wall, and to the voracious mercy of its own kind.

“You have to watch the bats, Sarah Bellummm,” Crispin guides me. “They are a hive. They work as a unit, if you observe…”

I strain my eyes into the darkness ahead of us. There seems to be a swirling ahead, a gyroscopic sensation in the air – a corruption of the horizon… a tilting…

My eyes adjust to the vortex of skin and fur awaiting us, deeper into the cave.

“Oh my God,” I breathe, “They’re going to try and flip us over…”

It’s a whirlpool of wings and teeth, creating a deadly torsional slipstream. And as I stare in horror – under the blanket, something runs straight up my leg.

“Baaa…” I begin to scream, but it is already skittering past my chest, and to my utter shock, clamps over my mouth.

My second thought is even worse than ‘Bat’.


But there is no battery-acid odour, no larval tentacle looping around my neck… and as my mind frantically tries to reconnect with the petrified paralysis in my limbs, I see the glinting, and recognise the scrape of warm metal against my lips and teeth.

The clockwork hand!

I peel it away from my face and stare at it, while Carvery drops back down onto the bench to re-load.

“These are the last of my cartridges,” he says.

I barely hear him, my thoughts racing.

How did I make this thing work before? I remember getting angry – something about a curtain tassel…


“I am a virgin!” I shout, gripping the clockwork device in both hands, like a .44 Magnum.

“You’re going to die a virgin,” Carvery nods sagely, still slotting in cartridges.

I let his words go over my head, and sit up. More bravely, I try to raise myself higher, up on my knees. I point the golden clockwork hand into the deadly darkness ahead of us, at the danger as yet unseen by the others…

“I am a virgin!” I yell, more deliberately. “And I am not afraid to use this!”

“God, Sarah – get a room,” Ace groans, still somewhere further down. “No, Homer, I’m not going to look after it for you. You get your own pockets…”

Why won’t it activate?

“Come on!” I urge. “What do you want from me?”

“Have faith, Sarah Bellummm,” Crispin says, soothingly.

The vicious vortex of conspiring, co-operative Chiropterae gets closer – closer…

A shriek from one of the last two Pterydactyls behind me freezes my blood, and I feel its intake of breath at the nape of my neck, hear the clicking of its flinty teeth as starts to summon a spark…

…And suddenly everything seems to slow down. We are still hurtling along the tunnel, still surrounded by whirling bloodthirsty bats – but my mind is now at the eye of the storm, seeing everything, thinking clearly…

…I drop back on my haunches, and raise the clockwork hand high above my head.

The fireball erupts, and every gemstone on the clockwork hand lights up, again akin to a disco-ball. Instead of turning into a flying rickshaw barbecue, the flames shrink as rapidly as they exploded, sucked into the unknown potential of the clockwork device.

Carvery shoots the startled Pterydactyl, and it takes a direct hit to the sternum, barrelling into its remaining wingman, sending them both crashing into the depths of the cave.

I point the clockwork hand in front of us, hoping now for a miracle.

“Go ahead,” Crispin whispers. “Make my day.”

“Ummm…” I murmur.

The pinky and index finger of the clockwork hand uncurl, and pause, as if awaiting instructions.

It can’t possibly be that obvious…

I clear my throat. The stones in the clockwork hand are glowing malevolently red, like lit-up fire-opals. The roar of the circling bats is almost deafening.

The rickshaw starts to tilt and struggles to right itself, lopsided by the angular updraft.

“Fire?” I suggest, timidly.

And then it seems that the world explodes, as everything at the end of my arms flashes a blinding, brilliant white…

And of course, the Death Star final destruction, Star Wars: A New Hope – Enjoy 🙂

More mindless mayhem: The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

Also available for all other devices, and online reading, on Smashwords

Mediastinum Impossible: A Zombie Parody

Jay-Z vs. Limp Bizkit – 99 Problems/Nookie mash-up

Several things seem to happen at once. Luke and I both scream, but due to our manacles attaching us to the walls, go nowhere other than to dangle from our chains, while the tiled floor rapidly recedes downward. Carvery drops the chainsaw, favouring to retain the gun in his other hand, and grabs the edge of the toilet bowl to halt his fall, and the metal bunk upon which Homer is still unconscious merely tilts a little, apparently bolted to the tiled surface as well.

“If that’s the Well of Our Souls down there…” Carvery begins.

“Don’t remind me,” I say through gritted teeth, twirling on the end of my one restrained arm. “What are they up to now?”

I look up. There seems to be a commotion in the square.

“I don’t think that little incident was our captors’ fault,” Luke replies. “They’re not happy either…”

To my concern, I see Ace Bumgang being prodded around sharply with sword-points on the glass ceiling above our heads. He skips out of the way, and glancing down at us past his feet, stamps a few times on the glass.

“Look away,” Carvery says, hitching up the shotgun again. “Time for that escape attempt…”

I close my eyes just before he fires, picking up the hint just in time. Chips of glass spray down onto our heads, and a huge crack shoots widthways in turn. Ace does a back-flip from a standing jump, and as he lands, feet together, on the spot above the metal bunk, the great fracture feathers outward abruptly, and he punches through.

His Caterpillar work boots just miss the zombie Homer’s face, scraping his gray ears on either side, as he lands astride him.

Two unwary bystanders from the citadel square plummet by, in the centre of the room – shrieking piteously and scrabbling the air for non-existent handholds.

They seem to continue falling for a very long time…

I gulp.

“What now?” I ask. Other angry city-dwellers are waving their swords at us from the perimeter of the bottomless room above. “Do we have a plan? Are we going up or down?”

“I think the only way we’ll be going up is as dog meat paste,” Ace remarks, and Luke yelps as a cutlass-point nicks his knuckles, still clamped in their restraints. “They think you’ve got voodoo, Luke. Now would be a good time for the old hocus-pocus, if you’ve got any.”

“Do I look like Mister Dynamo to you?” Luke splutters.

“Well, you are wearing a hoody,” Carvery points out.

“And you played Old Harry with the security guards at the University campus all right,” I say, encouragingly. “Do it again.”

“That’s just a load of old tricks and nonsense,” Luke sighs. “Nothing beats the use of good old-fashioned force.”

Unexpectedly, the mechanical grinding groan echoes around us again – and Homer’s bunk, still attached to the wall with no floor, crawls inwards once more.

“What the fuck?” I cry. “We’re STILL getting crushed in this stupid crazy room?”

“Best it’ll do now is scrape us off the walls,” Carvery agrees. “Except Luke, of course. He’s facing it, so he’s definitely getting squished. Unless his secret magic wand that he’s not telling us about works in his favour, of course.”

“Man, if my magic wand could stop that wall, my wife would never have kicked me out of the house forty years ago,” Luke grumbles. “I would be President of Nigeria now, not a taxi-driver for drunk medical students.”

“Oh, God,” I sob. “Where’s a Flying Carpet when you need one…?”

Of course!

I try to remember. What had Justin Time done to summon the flying rickshaw?

“Sarah,” Carvery warns, as I whistle a few bars experimentally. “This is no time to play Name That Tune.”

“I disagree,” Ace counters. “Let me guess… is it Don’t Fear The Reaper?

As the bunk carrying Homer and Ace approaches a few more inches inwards, with an unsteady wobble, all I can do is hope that I was right.

But didn’t it take a while to respond? Like, the distance between two Lounges… with another lump in my throat, I recall there was another apparently bottomless fall involved back then as well…

“Where’s Crispin?” I ask Ace. “What have they done with him?”

“I wouldn’t worry,” says Ace, wryly. “From what I could tell, all this was his idea.”


“Do you remember that spy movie? The re-make, with that short celebrity cult guy with all the sunglasses and teeth. Hanging around in rooms where they don’t have security cameras installed. The opening scene. I think it’s what they call a Mole Op. Weeding out the bad guys from your own team.”

“What?!” I repeat. “He can’t think that! Haven’t we all been trying to help…?”

The three guys exchange looks.

“Well, forgive me for saying, but Luke’s a Nigerian jewel thief compensating for the fact he can’t satisfy a woman long enough to keep a roof over his head,” Ace continues. “And Carvery has been leaving big dents in anything female crossing our path since we started. Madam Dingdong didn’t need a tip after we went to her Sauna And Spa, put it that way. And I basically humiliated the zombie guy’s mother. Apparently it’s rude not to give a four thousand-year-old zombie queen a seeing-to when she’s asked nicely, and I should have spiked my own drink and taken one for the team instead of the other way around. Who knew, right?”

I can’t believe it. I must be desensitized from living around all these psychopaths and abusers.

“All sounds perfectly normal to me,” I grumble at the wall, which I’m currently facing on the end of my wrist-chain, at the back of the sink.

“Yeah, zombies have morals and ethics, what a bummer that turned out to be.” Out of the corner of my eye, Ace sits sideways across Homer’s stomach and swings his feet over the precipice, evidently unconcerned about about potential squid hatchlings. “And you – well, you summoned Atum, so of course they’re going to be pissed at that.”

“Atum?” I exclaim, nose still to greasy ceramic tile. “I had nothing to do with that great mythical monster turning up!”

“They don’t see it that way. What they see is a male-DNA-motivated obsessive female virgin, who works with dead bodies. According to them, that makes you a necromancer.”

“Necrophiliac,” Carvery corrects him. “Nothing romantic about it, buddy.”

“And Atum – well, basically, he’s… er…”

“The spirit of the first gamete,” Luke interjects, in sombre tones. “I warned you, Sarah Bellum – be careful what you wish for.”

“Great.” Carvery is nodding, as red-faced, I rotate on the end of my chain to face into the shrinking room once more. “First, I thought it was bad enough being trapped in a room with a hormone-riddled idiot necrophiliac. Now it turns out, it’s a hormone-riddled, sperm-jacking idiot necrophiliac, who’s haunted by the gigantic vengeful manifestation of the first ever spermatozoa.”

“Yeah,” Ace says, sourly. “That’s the last time I knock one out to internet snuff porn.”

“I told, you, Ace – that stuff’ll give you nightmares,” Carvery tells him. “Sometimes while you’re awake. Making you do stuff that you’ll want to deny later.”

“If you want to know what denial is, it’s a big river that you should be floating down, in a large padlocked packing-case,” I snap at him.

“Oh, I’m just as pissed off as you are,” he remarks. “I’m hanging by one arm from a toilet in an underground torture-chamber, on the basis of some speculation by superstitious zombies, and the failure of a taxi driver with persistent erectile dysfunction to come up with a miracle.”

“That’s what she said,” Ace and Luke both agree at once.

I heave a sigh.

“Well,” I begin, annoyed that I’m twisting back around again to face the wall, “we do have what they want. We’ve got the clockwork hand – even though it’s not doing much other than scratching my ankle at the moment. We’ve got a copy of Mr. Dry Senior’s diary. Do you think they’d let us fall to our deaths?”

We all look up at the threat from above. Hmmm. It does appear that most of the prodding with swords and shouting is for appearances’ sake.

Luke tests his chains, which squeak against their metal rings in the wall.

“Carvery Slaughter,” he says at last. “How good is your aim, with that shotgun?”

Oh. Shit

Mission Impossible (1996) fan trailer – enjoy 🙂

More mindless mayhem: The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

Also available for all other devices, and online reading, on Smashwords

ParaNodule: A(nother) Zombie Parody…

White Zombie vs. Billy Idol – White Wedding Zombie mash-up…

“Cut us free,” Luke suggests.

For a moment, I actually wonder if there’s a Squidmorph concealing itself in my own lower intestine. Everything below the waist threatens to explosively migrate, as Carvery looks from the chainsaw in his hand to my arm chained up at the back of the sink, speculatively.

“I think I might be able to amputate your arm at the ear,” he agrees.

“Er, let’s not rush things,” I squeak, hurriedly. Why isn’t the clockwork hand helping us?! Stupid thing, running and hiding up my trouser leg like that… “What plan do we have?”

Carvery sighs, bored once more, and goes back to sit on the edge of the lavatory

“If you cut us down, we might be able to brace that moving wall between us,” Luke continues, nodding towards the metal bunk and the unconscious zombie Homer N. Dry against the – presently static – deadly tiled wall, opposite him.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I worry, squinting up at the dank glass ceiling, where the dwellers of the Eight a.m. Lounge are still watching our predicament from the town square above. I’m sure I see some cash exchanging hands as well, and as I seek out and find Ace Bumgang looking down on us from overhead as well, I notice something else. “I have a feeling any cutting that happens down here as an escape plan, is going to be replayed out there as well. They’ve got Ace at sword-point!”

Carvery and Luke look up to confirm. Yes – Ace’s hands are now bound roughly with rope. He’s a prisoner as much as we are, and as his captors see us looking, they make threatening motions with various knives and cutlasses towards him.

“So?” Carvery grunts. “Less dead weight for us.”

The plumbing gurgles again, and this time seems to come from the toilet.

“God – flush, man!” Luke groans.

“Wasn’t me.” Carvery raises his feet and swings his legs. “Maybe this wall moves as well…”

But instead of a grinding of invisible cogs and the traversing of deadly chamber-ware menacingly into the room, there is another gurgle, and a splosh. A fountain of acrid water spurts out of the bowl between Carvery’s legs, and bubbles across the slimy floor.

“Eeeww!” Carvery jumps up. “They have some crack cowboy plumbing in here.” He hisses as he tries to brush the water from his trousers. “Ow…”

“What?” Luke asks.

“I think they’ve overdone the Toilet Duck.” Carvery wipes his hand on the wall. “It’s burning through my trouser-leg.”

Alarmed, I look at the pool of water trickling over the tiles, as it creeps towards me.

It’s black. It smells of battery acid. And it’s fizzing

“The plumbing in here must lead to to the Well of Our Souls,” I whisper. “Carvery – that’s not Toilet Duck. It’s Squidmorph ink!”

“What do we do?” Luke moans, rattling his chains hopelessly.

“Whatever you do,” I begin, “don’t let it…”

A massive tentacle whips out of the bowl, showering the interior of the cell with burning droplets – and whips straight around Carvery’s ankle, turning him upside down and shaking him.

“Don’t let it what?” he jokes, as his head is bounced repeatedly off the disgusting floor. “Ow… ow… ow…”

“Don’t let it…”

“…GET HOLD OF THE CHAINSAW!” Luke shrieks for me.

The chainsaw, on cue, flies out of Carvery’s hand as he is pounded deliberately against the wall, and spins wildly across the tiles. It hits the wall close to Luke, and with a squeal he snatches both feet up off the floor, grateful at least for now that he is suspended higher up the wall on his manacles.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Carvery snaps, as the tentacle drops him unceremoniously and flails around instead to find the escaped weapon. He leaps back onto the hooked appendage, trying to hinder its attempt to arm itself further. “Bad calamari!”

“Luke!” I shout. “The chainsaw – see if you can slide it over here…”

“You’re crazy!” Luke squeaks.

I reach out encouragingly with my free hand.

“If I can get free, we can beat it,” I say, beckoning. “Just nudge it over this way. And, er, try not to switch it on. Or this escape attempt will be over very quickly…”

Luke nods, and with one eye on the ongoing battle between Carvery and the tentacle, stretches out carefully with one foot.

“Yes!” I urge, patting the floor in front of me. “Over here…”

Luke times his soccer touch perfectly. The perfect speed, the perfect curve, the perfect amount of spin…

…And the tentacle, with a whip-crack, detaches Carvery violently, sending him flying backwards onto the bunk on top of the unconscious Homer, and barrels towards me like an express train…

My hand closes around empty air – as inexplicably, the chainsaw rears up above my head. With a flick of its hooks the giant tentacle switches on the whirring blade, with a roar…

I close my eyes.

The second roar echoes around the cell, and I’m suddenly swamped in a coating of tepid, sticky, oozing, suffocating slime.

Oh, God – I’m like the bad magician’s glamorous assistant. Sawn in half… drowning in my own entrails!


But surely I shouldn’t be able to cry out? Or to still feel that stabbing in my ankle, from the tenacious golden clockwork hand, hiding up my trouser-leg?

I open one eye, tentatively. Just in time to see Carvery walking over to flush the toilet.

The last remnants of scaly, blubbery skin vanish down the pan. Carvery turns back to look at me, and I see Mrs. Frittata’s shotgun in his other hand.

“Gun must have dried out properly,” he remarks. “Just in time.”

“You had the gun on you all along?” I exclaim, shaking now more with rage than with fear and revulsion. “Where were you hiding it?”

“Down my pants,” he scoffs. “Right behind my knob.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” I snap. “Knowing that you can conceal an offensive weapon behind the one you already have.”

Even while retaliating, I’m aware of consciously trying not to picture the implied scale of the aforementioned deadly Carvery Slaughter attachment… Stupid traitorous hormones!!

We all look up. Some more cash is grudgingly exchanging owners above us in the street, but Ace is still upright. Thank God…

Homer’s bed grinds another three inches inwards, across the floor.

“I don’t understand,” I whimper. “We’ve got the diary – we’ve got the clockwork hand. What are they waiting for? Why are they torturing us?”

“I think they’re still waiting for the heathen magic,” Carvery reminds us. “Sure you don’t have any voodoo on you, Luke? They‘ve even provided you with a half-dead zombie to start you off.”

“They’re crazy!” Luke yelps. “You’re all crazy…”

I start to get pins-and-needles in my ankle, at the location of the clockwork hand. And as the wall inches closer inwards again, evidently working now over shorter consecutive periods – like the road-markings approaching the end of a freeway – the tingling starts to heat up. It feels as though a candle has been lit under my foot.

“I don’t know about you,” I mutter, “but something hoodoo is happening down here…”

The tiles on the floor around me start to click rhythmically, and seem to slide against one another like a picture-puzzle. The walls bulge, organically this time.

“Dude,” Carvery remarks. “There’s a weird light shining out of the toilet…”

Before he finishes speaking, the room revolves ninety degrees.

The light gets brighter, gradually outshining the daylight from above. The onlookers in the citadel square overhead back away, covering their eyes.

“Fuck!” Carvery suddenly exclaims, still looking into the toilet-bowl, like a lightweight freshman on his first Rag Week night out. “It blinked!”

Luke’s shaking stops. As he breathes out calmly and the light in his own eyes changes, it is apparent that perhaps he does have a little knowledge of the occult…

“It’s a scrying bowl,” he states quietly. “It’s Atum. He’s keeping his Eye on us. And on the clockwork hand – and on the little book.”

“From the toilet?” I can’t stop myself from scoffing. “If he’s the most all-powerful god of all creation, surely he’d find somewhere better to watch us from?”

“Careful what you wish for, Sarah Bellum,” Luke warns.

And the entire floor suddenly drops away, beneath us…

Toilet scene from ‘ParaNorman’ – a must-see, zombie-fan family fun! 🙂

More mindless mayhem: The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

Also available for all other devices, and online reading, on Smashwords

Fermat’s Womb: A Zombie Parody

Britney vs. Bloodhound Gang – Unusual Uhn Tiss mash-up…

“It’s a trick,” Luke gasps, before I can open my mouth to protest. “They still want the information on the clockwork hand. He’s here to deal with Homer – or any alien squid-monster that pops out – if it looks like there’s any chance I can tell them what they want first.”

Carvery just grins.

“One possibility,” he agrees. “What do you think, Sarah?”

I pull ineffectually on the chain securing my arm behind the dirty sink.

“I think you’d jump at any chance to be the only armed man in a room with two restrained prisoners and an unconscious zombie,” I reply. “It’d give you the opportunity to live up to your name, Carvery Slaughter.”

“Could be, could be,” he nods, turning the page of the tiny diary. “Could be all of the above. Where did you get this copy of Mr. Dry Senior’s diary?”

“That was given to me to look after!” I hiss through gritted teeth, half-truthfully this time. “And you shouldn’t be reading it – as usual…”

“It’s all in code anyway,” he shrugs. “Code and little drawings. Like he was playing Draw My Thing online. On his own, in a little notebook. Or Hangman. Anyway, you missed one. I might be down here to defend Homer, in case you two manage to get loose.”

“Still sounds like a win-win for Carvery,” I grouch.

“Well, unless you’ve got anything on either of you that beats a chainsaw, it’s not exactly an evenly weighted contest, is it?” Carvery sighs, and sounds almost bored. “They could have let me down here unarmed and I’d still have the upper hand, no pun intended. I think they gave me the chainsaw just because they like a bit of theatrics. Plus it deters any onlookers considering a bit of treason after breakfast.”

Luke starts to twitch. It’s slight at first, but gradually becomes more spastic and uncontrolled. I wonder if he’s being bitten.

“Are you okay?” I gulp, wondering about the size of fleas or body-lice that might be encountered down here.

“Maybe he got the Ex-Lax treatment after all,” Carvery remarks. “You might want to turn your head away, in that case. And maybe tuck your feet in.”

“Let me out!” is all Luke screams. “It’s not what you think!”

“Maybe he’s got a Squidmorph too,” Carvery suggests. “Keep your legs crossed, Sarah. It might look for somewhere new to hide after getting flushed out prematurely…”

“Why are we chained up anyway?” I ask suddenly, as something occurs to me. “In a completely inaccessible underground room, beneath a glass floor in the public square above, with everyone watching? Surely there’d be no need to chain us up – unless it’s ‘torture by withholding use of nearby toilet’…”

Carvery looks down between his own legs at the offending piece of bathroom furniture, which he is currently employing as occasional seating in our stinking, subterranean tiled cell.

“Maybe there’s a way out, is what I’m saying,” I continue. “Maybe they’ve had people escape before.”

“Maybe it’s fear of whatever imaginary magic they think Luke himself is withholding,” Carvery replies, nodding towards the spasmodic Mr. Lukan. “He doesn’t look too happy now. I can picture them placing bets on something exploding out of him fairly shortly, laxative or no laxative.”

The worrying silence seems a bit more hollow for a moment, and I’m sure a sense a distant rumble. Like an earthquake.

“Did you feel that?” I ask. “I’m sure the Earth just moved.”

“Sarah, I’m nowhere near you,” Carvery grumbles. “Control yourself, for God’s sake.”

Before a retort comes to mind, there is another judder, closer this time. It has a mechanical edge to it.

And then a horrible fingernail-on-slate noise – and Homer’s metal bunk scrapes two inches inwards into the room.

“That wall just moved!” I exclaim.

The scraping sound is still echoing away as Carvery gets to his feet, crosses the cell, and crouches to inspect the floor under the steel bed.

“There are scratch marks here,” he reports, after a moment’s dark silence. I can see his eyes follow the direction of the scoring, across the width of the room. “It looks like it’s been moved before…”

“It’s their Joker,” Luke pants, rejoining the conversation from his current delirium.”Or their ace – whatever you want to call it. If the zombie fails – or the squid-monster – or the psychopath in the room – the room itself is the final device…”

“Ah,” Carvery muses. “And there was I, thinking that being stuck in a room with a hormone-riddled idiot necrophiliac was going to be the definition of Hell. And what an incredible smell you’ve discovered down here, Sarah? I can see that not improving, over the next hour or so…”

The distant rumble vibrates along the plumbing again.

“We have to do something!” I cry, trying to suppress some very real hysteria now creeping up on me. “And God – what’s wrong with him??”

Luke is shaking again, and suddenly lets out a stifled scream – this time with no words.

Carvery clicks his tongue disapprovingly.

“That’s what happens when you don’t breathe through the contractions, dude,” he warns. “Take your time, and let the suspect chocolate-flavoured medicine do the hard work for you…”

“I think he’s really sick!” I interrupt, but a new scraping sound joins in – this time a metallic, hurried skittering noise over the tiles. “Oh, no – what’s that now?!”

“Where?” Carvery asks, reaching for the chainsaw.

“Something’s running around on the floor…” I begin, and the noise increases in volume.

And then I scream in turn – as something hard and unyielding snaps around my ankle like a clamp!

“It’s got me! It’s got me!” I shriek, kicking out at first, not brave enough to reach down with my free hand – not wanting to risk losing that as well.

“Great!” Carvery enthuses, cheerfully. “Which bit of you do you want cut off?”

But it doesn’t feel like a Squidmorph tentacle. Not this time. Homer is still supine on the metal bunk. Luke is shuddering on the end of his manacles, his violent spasms now reduced to a trembling shiver, as if from non-existent cold.

The Thing seems to latch itself shut around my right leg.

“I can’t see what it is,” I moan.

“Pull your trouser-leg up, Dumbass,” Carvery says, leaning down to look – chainsaw at the ready.

Shaking in fear, I tweak the sweat-drenched fabric up a little. And something glitters…

“Cover it up,” Carvery snaps. “Quick. Before they see it.”

“Why?” I squeal, dropping the fabric from my fingertips at once. “What is it?”

“Well, it’s not an electronic tag,” he grins, tapping his own ankle in indication and winking. “Looks like Luke was hiding the clockwork hand on him all along.”

“Like I said,” Luke manages to whisper. “It doesn’t belong – to anyone. It chooses you.”

What? What does he mean?

“It’s chosen you, Sarah,” he adds, rolling his bloodshot eyes towards me.

“Maybe it knows you were meant to be looking after it.” Carvery squints up at the glass ceiling. “I wonder if Crispin guessed that too, and threw you in here for that reason?”

“I was planted in here?” I conclude, shocked. “To get the clockwork hand back?”

The metal bunk scrapes further inwards on the tiled floor, with another mechanical groan. Homer stirs flatulently and mutters again, in his convalescent slumber.

There is a sudden whiff of battery acid in the fetid air…

“I don’t think they’re going to let us off that easily,” Carvery grins.

Fermat’s Room, trailer – Enjoy 🙂

More mindless mayhem: The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

Also available for all other devices, and online reading, on Smashwords

Casabladder: A Zombie Parody

Star Wars vs. Yolanda Be Cool – We No Speak Cantina mash-up

Presently, Sandy emerges from the surgery, and his face is as grave as a four-by-eight hole in the ground.

“Homer has had quite a booboo on the old noggin!” he announces. “My brother A’Bandaiid is doing his best, but he needs stronger medicine, to reduce the risk of water-on-the-brain. I will have to go to the Caruncula, in the Spice Market. Miss Bellum – you will do me the honour of accompanying me there!”

“I will?” I ask, nonplussed.

“Your companions Mr. Bumgang and Mr. Slaughter will guard the camels, and my fine cousin Crispin will stay with his brother,” Sandy explains. “It may be necessary – Crispin has been researching a cure, you know,” he adds, confidentially.

Yes – that I most certainly know…

I look at Crispin, who turns his face away from me, and stalks inside the surgery without a word.

My heart sinks, bootwards. Still not talking to me, then… only the welcome emergence of Ace and Carvery in turn halts my dejectedly blood-pumping organ on its descent.

“You heard the gossip in the surgery?” Sandy asks them, and they nod. “Good men. Keep those eyes peeled! Come, Miss Bellum!”

Oh – the gossip…

“What is happening here?” I ask, scampering to keep up with Asum al Dj’eBraah – I mean, Sandy’s longer stride. “You haven’t told me what this gossip is – only something about thieves…”

“Treason, Miss Bellum!” Sandy hisses, in a stage whisper. He takes an impossibly unpredictable route through the dusty labyrinth of streets, as if following an inner compass, twisting and turning until I feel like a Whirling Dervish. “But we cannot talk here. The walls have earwigs, as you say!”

I nod. I’ve seen enough wildlife already today not to doubt that in the slightest. Any ‘earwigs’ being casually (or mistakenly) referred to, most probably occupy that context with maximum presence and ferocity.

“The Caruncula is a safe meeting-place,” he continues. “Here, people from all over come to buy and barter goods, in exchange for a quiet corner and a bar tab.”

We cross a square to a white pillared façade, above which – out-of-place, it seems – is a neon sign, reading Casabladder.

Sandy points at the signwriting. “My brother, the owner, also calls it The Wee House. From the Scots, you understand. Be careful, though! Mercenaries visit, and sometimes have scores to settle.”

We go through the arched doorway. The layout is open-plan, the bar in the centre and potted plants all around, with a pianist and woodwind players on a podium to our right. But what could easily be an elegant corner of The Ritz or Savoy Hotel is rendered seedy by the buzz of the eclectic clientele – arguing, bartering, dealing and partaking in every corner.

“I am sick of diamonds!” I hear a rotund man grumble, as he tosses something bright and shiny back across the table at his unfortunate zombie companion – who looks starved, wearing only rags with his lopsided turban. “Everybody brings diamonds. Nothing but cheap mistress-magnets. Show me something new…”

Distracted by the impromptu sideshow, I walk straight into a wall of scented linen robes.

“Of all the elbow-joints in all of the dive bars in the world, you have to walk into mine?” a voice exclaims.

“Sarah Bellum,” Sandy says, catching my arm as the man turns, drawing himself up to an impressive six foot six height, examining the damage done to his robe by the spilled Champagne. “This is my brother, the owner of Casabladder. May I present to you B’Dah B’Dim al Dj‘eBraah – but the customers know him as Cottoneye Joe.”

B’Dah B’Dim – or Cottoneye Joe – looks down at me, his eyes glittering like polished granite.

“So this is Sarah Bellummm,” he rumbles, and I feel it right down to my curling toes. He beckons to the bartender. “A Sloe Gin Sling for the lady! And another bottle of Champagne.”

“My brother, we need medicine,” Sandy tells him – although a Sloe Gin Sling is more like something I’ve definitely felt was missing in the last three hours. “Homer has had an accident in the Well of Our Souls.”

“That Well of Our Souls is a liability,” grunts Cottoneye Joe. He nods to an armed attendant, who hurries away. “Remind me again why we do not dynamite it?”

“Someone did, remember?” Sandy hisses, in a low voice. “And someone else was not pleased!”

I wonder if that was what caused the underwater rock-fall we had to negotiate our way through… and who might not be pleased…? But before I can expand on those thoughts, the largest, frostiest, most delicious-looking Sloe Gin Sling is placed on the bar in front of me.

Oh, my – never mind the Well of Our Souls, I’d walk across broken glass, hot coals and any number of even hotter corpses to get to one of those…

“Miss Bellummm,” Cottoneye Joe says courteously, passing it into my eager hands. He gives Sandy a filled Champagne glass, before raising his own, in salute. “To my many guests.”

“Here is looking at your kids!” Sandy toasts me effervescently, before drinking.

“Er…” I cough slightly, my mouth desert-dry – but a gulp from the Gin Sling is wonderful. “Thank you.”

“Play something special for my brothers!” Cottoneye Joe hails the band. “Play ‘Sign O’The Times’…”

Strange choice, I think, as the band strikes up anew, with the eponymous hit by sex-thimble Prince. Rather melancholy… but the clientele seem to indulge their host, and merely nod and smile benevolently at him, raising glasses in turn, or adopting distantly introspective expressions of empathy.

How very curious…

Cottoneye Joe’s attendant returns, with a case. He opens it upon the bar. Sandy and his taller brother inspect the contents.

I peer over Sandy’s shoulder. It contains many small brown glass bottles and vials.

“Gizzard of Vulture?” Cottoneye Joe suggests. “Sweetbreads of Mongoose?”

“Something a little stronger, I fear!” Sandy concedes. “It is the water on the brain we need to divert. And a tonic for the kidneys, perhaps…”

“Hmmm.” Cottoneye Joe’s deep rumble curls my toes again, and I knock back another huge slug of Gin Sling to try and unwind. “A dose of Tree-Frog Venom? Mixed with Tongue of Vampire Bat, perhaps…?”

They are discussing medicines, I guess. The drink seems to be bypassing my brain and heading straight for my lower limbs, and I find myself sinking into a seat at a small table.

My thoughts return reluctantly to Crispin, waiting for the medicines with Homer at the surgery. Damn. How did I upset him? I mentioned Mr. Wheelie-Bin at the body farm, that was all – and he acted as though he was jealous! All we were doing was discussing his job offer to me – and he thought I was turning it down on the grounds of his being dead – and I tried to give him a compliment… He took it completely the wrong way…

The band plays on.

Some say a man ain’t happy truly, until a man truly dies, oh why?

But if he believes he has so much to offer – how can he be threatened by the thought of my talking to a rapidly-liquefying corpse in a plastic wheelie-bin? Crispin can’t have any real insecurities, surely?

I let out a morose sigh, and a shadow falls across my table.

“Sarah Bellum,” a stranger’s voice jolts me from my musings. “I was just here hoping to see your boss.”

“My boss?” I repeat. “It’s too late to see my boss. Pizza Heaven doesn’t re-open until noon.”

The voice chuckles, and its owner seats himself opposite, uninvited. I can’t tell if he is a zombie or otherwise. What I can see of his face through his turban and headdress is badly scarred, and the skin of his hands has a green tinge, mottled with purple papillomas.

“You don’t fool me, Miss Bellum,” he warns. “I know you are here with Crispin Dry. If you give me what he owes, perhaps I will forget the fact.”

What? I’m horrified. Crispin has unpaid debts?!

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, as coolly as I can muster. I wish Sandy or Cottoneye Joe would turn and see my little predicament. Even more, I wish Ace and Carvery were here, instead of camel-herding. They love any excuse for a bar-brawl. “I’m a delivery-girl for Pizza Heaven, and I have no idea what or who you’re referring to.”

“Don’t play games with me, Miss Bellum,” the stranger continues. “You are a secretary for Crispin Dry at Dry Goods Inc, and a traitor. More fast-food delivery boys and girls have disappeared before you than you can possibly imagine…”

A traitor?? What the Hell?

“The more you try to convince me, Mister Scary Weird Green Guy,” I tell him, trying to raise my voice a little to attract attention, “the more your words will slip straight over my head.”

Finally – Sandy turns and sees the stranger sitting across from me, and reacts. And what a reaction!

With a roar of rage, Sandy draws his scimitar – and with a dull thud, the stranger’s head bounces off the table – and rolls onto the floor…

A terrible silence rolls out across the bar.

“Nothing to see here,” Cottoneye Joe announces, and waves to the band to continue playing. He claps his hands to signal the staff. “Clean-up at table seven!”

An opening scene from ‘Casablanca’ with Humphrey Bogart – Enjoy 🙂

More mindless mayhem: The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

Also available for all other devices, and online reading, on Smashwords

The Uvula Strikes Back: A Zombie Parody

The Beastie Boys vs. Bob Marley – Could You Be Intergalactic mash-up…

“What took you so long?” Ace asks, when I catch up with the others.

The underwater cavern could be described as ‘forbidding’ – only it’s more than forbidding. It’s the full Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted notice, Jesus-is-Watching-You sign, and restraining order.

That’s how forbidding it is.

I can already sense my brain-stem drafting out its Diminished Responsibility plea for the condition that this diving-suit will be returned in.

“I slipped,” I explain, knowing that I’m not even in the neighbourhood of the truth, let alone close to it. “And, er – I dropped my harpoon gun…”

An explosion in the water between us causes similar in my trousers, as the weapon being discussed – in this case, Crispin Dry’s harpoon gun – fires at something behind me. I turn to face a giant, yawning, vicelike claw, lined with exoskeletal barbs.

It freezes in its apparently ready stance to snap around my neck, and then abruptly withdraws into a cloud of sand and bubbles.

“Rock Scorpion,” says Crispin, over the radio. “We must keep moving.”

Heading deeper into the tunnel, we climb over a jagged outcrop of white limestone stalagmites. I look upwards, half expecting to see similar stalactites overhead… but the cave is so vast, the ceiling is hidden in darkness, and drifting ocean silt.

“Are you sure the Sea Centipede who dug this tunnel is dead?” Carvery Slaughter asks, voicing something I was wondering about myself.

“Fairly certain,” Crispin replies. “She was not too bothered about us clambering over her teeth just now, so if we survive the journey all the way along the alimentary canal to the other end, I think we can safely assume that ‘dead’ is her current state.”

“Really?” Carvery points his harpoon at the nearest wall, and fires. It goes fairly deep, sending up dark shards of old rotted carcass into the almost stagnant seawater. “Guess so.”

“What’s an alimentary canal?” Ace asks. “Do we have to get on another barge? Because the last one kind of did me enough damage for today.”

“Nah, you don’t need a barge on an alimentary canal,” Carvery tells him. “It’s a misnomer. Not so much like a real canal – more like a flume.”

“What, one you ride on a rubber ring?” says Ace.

“If we spot one on the way, you’re welcome to it,” I mutter under my breath, but forget that they can hear me over the radio.

“I wouldn’t try it, if I were you,” Carvery replies to Ace, ignoring me. “It’s over-rated.”

“I’ll let you ride shotgun,” Ace suggests.

Carvery seems to ponder.

“Not my cup of tea,” he says at last. “And anyway – judging by the size of this mother, it’d be like throwing a couple of Tic-Tacs down a well.”

We continue to pick our way carefully through the darkness, the only illumination being from the lights built into our own diving helmets.

Another giant Rock Scorpion lunges out into our path, and this time I get a better view as it swings for Homer. The segmented carapace is black with yellow underneath, spotted like a leopard, and those giant claws are highlighted with angry red Go-Faster stripes. It reminds me of an old Formula One, John Player Special-sponsored Decepticon Transformer.

Ace’s harpoon flies into its side, and sticks in the join between head armour and thorax. It immediately turns back, scrabbling to try and dislodge the piercing, and forgetting about Homer N. Dry – who minces onward happily.

How can he still walk like that underwater, in that dirty great diving-suit? It must be the added buoyancy… I feel as though as I’m doing a Pingu impression, myself…

“See that light ahead?” Crispin announces, and we all strain to see anything through the murk. “The exit is about another hundred yards or so, and we will find ourselves at the bottom of the subterranean dock, for the Eight a.m. Lounge.”

It sounds hopeful, and we put in a renewed effort. I’m relieved to see Carvery and Ace re-cocking their harpoon guns, just in case.

I wonder about that mysterious creature who rescued me back on the cliff-face, stealing my own harpoon gun in exchange. What would a man with a fishtail want with a harpoon gun? Surely if there were any danger to him underwater, he could just turn his tail into legs and run away up the beach somewhere?

Or maybe they don’t do that in this reality… perhaps Disney made it up…

“Watch it,” Ace’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “I just stepped in something squishy.”

I look down, the beams of my head-lights sparkling off the sand and dirt swirling up from the sediment. The floor has taken on a bobbled appearance under the muck, like a huge puff-patchwork quilt.

“It was one of these blobby things,” Ace continues, kicking his foot into another. It breaks open, like a deflating balloon, and releases inky black liquid and greenish slime into the water. “Maybe the giant centipede had a big peptic ulcer problem.”

“I hope so,” Carvery remarks. “Because otherwise it looks like we’ve taken a wrong turn at the buffet car, and found where they’re hiding the caviare.”

The Empire Strikes Back: Mynock Cave Scene (original) – Enjoy 🙂

More mindless mayhem: The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

Also available for all other devices, and online reading, on Smashwords

The Men Who Stare At Glutes: A Zombie Parody

Rammstein vs Lady Gaga: Du Hast/Telephone mash-up…

“What do we do now, Crispin?” I ask, my voice by now only marginally less hysterical than the Sinclair C-5 concept.

“We disembark,” Crispin announces. “Quite rapidly…”

None of us need to be told twice. In fact, I think being told the once was pushing it.

We scramble out hurriedly over the restrained and thrashing rugs – while in the true spirit of battle, our pilot Mr. Time reaches for the sky, and surrenders.

Parlez!” he cries, lapsing into the language of longevity.

“Crispin,” I pant, as we scurry away, along the battlements of the enormous fort. “Those bounty hunters – they all have…”

“Yes, clockwork hands,” he agrees. “I know.”

“But they are…” I look down at my own hands, flexing them. “Attached!”

“That does not mean they have more power than the original,” he replies. “Although they might outnumber it…”

We follow his lead to a grand archway set into the rooftop gatehouse, barricaded by more guards, and a portcullis. I’m expecting more hard negotiations – but our approach is punctuated by a shout, from high above.

“Crispin!” hails the high-pitched, crackly-as-old-wallpaper voice. “And Ho-o-o-merrr… What do I owe this pleasure?”

“Yes, yes,” Crispin calls out to the unseen speaker, sheepishly, as we draw to a halt. “Hello – Grandpappy…”

“Grand-what?” Ace asks, as Carvery snorts.

“My father’s father,” Crispin coughs. “Higham Dry Senior.”

Higham Dry! Is this who the stillborn Dry sibling in the pickle jar was named after?

A wisp of cloud above the battlements moves, and we spot a pigtailed, white-haired ancient old man, in black and emerald green dragon-embroidered robes, leaning over the parapet squinting at us.

“What-what-what?!” Higham Dry Senior repeats, taking in our group. “So many guests! Is it my birthday?”

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re not well-known for remembering family birthdays, Crispin?” Carvery smirks.

“You interrupt my experiments!” Higham Dry cackles. “But I be right down…”

He ducks down and disappears momentarily, and reappears again with a fat hen in one hand, and a cannonball in the other.

“Now – which one will hit the ground first?” he announces, and we leap aside – as the cannonball and chicken both sail over the brickwork.

It’s a close one. Mainly because the hen is chained to the cannonball, by one leg.

“Stupid chicken,” says Crispin’s grandfather, shaking his head sadly. “If she learn to fly faster, then maybe she beat cannonball. Okey-dokey – here I come…”

And he steps off the ledge. My reward for screaming, is another cuff around the ear from Carvery, and a wince from Ace Bumgang, who is still clutching his bleeding arm.

But Higham Dry Senior merely drifts gently to the ground, his robes inflated around him like a Disney-esque parachute.

And looks mightily pleased with himself too – I can see where Homer gets his self-confidence from…

“You see any Jedi Master do that?” he asks, sniggering. “Maybe – but I don’t watch all of the series. Sooooo… you like my experiment? Chicken wasn’t always fixed to cannonball, but too many chickens just fly away. Did you know they can fly? Who knew, right? But one day, I will find a chicken who can move faster than a cannonball. Then that be really fast food, no? Come downstairs. We make chicken soup.”

“Your grandfather…” Ace begins quietly, as the portcullis raises for us. “Is he a zombie too, or just really old?”

“Oh, he passed away many years ago.” Crispin taps himself on the sternum. “It’s all clockwork in there. Have you ever seen Sucker Punch? Kind of like the soldiers in that movie. Only harder to kill.” He sighs. “It’s not like Mother hasn’t tried…”

“Oh, you been to see the Lady Glandula de Bartheline?” Higham Dry Senior’s hearing evidently hasn’t deteriorated a jot. He leads the way down some stone stairs, illuminated by candle-lit wrought-iron chandeliers. “Blood-sucking harlot. How is she these days?”

“Much the same, Grandpappy,” Crispin admits.

“Yay,” Ace seconds him, sorely.

“Slept her way out of the primordial ooze, she did.” Higham Dry Senior’s carved bone walking-stick clatters along the stone floor ahead of us, at quite a respectable pace. “Jumping from body to body like a secretary at staff Christmas party. She still hanging onto the last one? It run out of entropy quite soon, I think.”

“Spending most of her time dormant, yes,” Crispin confirms.

“I thought it very quiet around here lately. Nice and peaceful.” Higham Dry nods. “But when she find a new one she likes, you wait. It be all boiling oil and crocodiles and embalming people alive again.”

We find ourselves in a vast galley kitchen, designed evidently to serve the mountainous fort. You could have fitted Silverstone race track in it quite comfortably.

I glance at Ace to see if I can gauge his attitude regarding the subject of indoor drag-racing possibly crossing his thoughts, but his I-am-not-the-Stig poker-face is as inscrutable as ever.

I imagine what other secrets those dreamy brown eyes might also be hiding, and sigh…

…A billy goat trots past us along the longest granite worktop I have ever seen, breaking wind happily, while chefs with cleavers try to catch up with it.

“Oh, what a shame, goat escape from bathtub again,” Higham Dry Senior sympathises. “We have a new chef from foreign place, I don’t know where – I think maybe Basildon? Chef Reggae Reggae. He promise us recipe for goat curry. We been trying to marinade this goat in Guinness for three weeks already, but it drink it all every time, then run away. So we stuck with chicken soup for now. And the barracks very upset, all Guinness gone, they trying to make their own in the laundry. Not good. They blow it up nearly every day, trying to figure out secret ingredient. But as a result, we now know how to make napalm, so something good come of it.”

“How do you catch the goat?” I ask.

“We wait for it to fall asleep with big hangover, then just follow smell,” Higham Dry Senior shrugs. “Simple… All of you, come with me. You all look very peaky. Need chicken soup.”

I realise, as the cooking smells in the cavernous kitchen envelop us, that I haven’t eaten since Crispin’s strangely erotic food game, when I arrived at his mansion last night – and my stomach rumbles disturbingly. Yes. Food would certainly be welcome…

“I’m full,” says Carvery, picking his teeth, and finding what appears to be a fingernail, extracting it thoughtfully. It gives me an unpleasant lurch in my own gut. “Zombie Nando’s.”

“Don’t know if I’m up for eating anything yet,” Ace grumbles. “Not since Sarah puked on me as well.”

“Everyone feel better after soup,” Higham Dry assures us, and hands the failed speed-chicken and cannonball to one of the chefs. “Oooh, look who joining us for breakfast… just in time too! We go to dining-room…”

I look around to see the miserable flying rickshaw pilot, Justin Time, being hustled in by the three scarily larger-than-life, faceless bounty hunters. Higham Dry Senior gestures for them to follow as well.

The dining-room, a short walk from the kitchen, is another vast room, its vaulted ceiling supported by many pillars. Twin candle-sconces on every pillar give the impression of each having glowing eyes, watching all proceedings in this particular room.

Higham Dry hobbles rapidly to a throne-like chair at the head table, and two guards mysteriously appear at his sides. It is evident by the change in atmosphere that we don’t have permission to sit yet.

So we hover nervously, while Justin Time is deposited in a prostrate heap, sobbing, on the carpet-runner in front of him.

“He was stealing those flying rugs himself, as you suspected, Lord,” the first bounty hunter rumbles, in his unearthly deep voice. “And holding them to ransom.”

“Ooohh,” Higham Dry smiles, nodding his elderly glee and rubbing his hands together, which crack like a bag of walnuts under a lump-hammer. “You very naughty boy, Mr. Time! What I do with you, eh?”

“Be merciful, Lord!” Justin Time cries, his mouth full of thankfully less sapient carpet. “I was testing our security measures – an example of where improvements might be needed…”

“Hmmm, where have I heard that before…?” Higham Dry Senior ponders. “What was that film with the also very naughty children… Oh yes, Mission Without Permission! I don’t fall for your weak excuses this time, Mr. Justin Time. I think maybe I show YOU an example, of my Jedi mind powers…”

“No…” Justin Time pleads. “Not that… anything but the mind tricks, Lord…”

“You!” Higham Dry Senior points suddenly, with a tremulously wizened forefinger. “Yes, you, the Calvin Klein poster-boy, with the shotgun. You are under my spell, you hear me?”

Carvery looks over his shoulder, just in case there is another gunman in the room, and then shrugs.

Higham Dry points to the biggest guard, on his left.

“Kill this man.”

Carvery shrugs again, and blows the guard’s head off.

“Ooh.” Higham Dry rattles the finger in his ear. “That was loud!”

“Doesn’t prove anything.” Ace, Crispin and I all state the obvious.

“And you!” The old man points at Homer. “You, now, are under my spell… Now dance! Like a sexy concubine!”

Homer shrugs in turn, and pirouettes away around the pillars, shedding his last ostrich feathers – giving it his all.

“Oh, God,” Ace mutters. “This is going to be a long morning…”

Trailer for ‘The Men Who Stare At Goats’ – enjoy 🙂

More mindless mayhem: The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

Also available for all other devices, and online reading, on Smashwords

Big Trouble in Receptaculum Chyli: A Zombie Parody

3-way Simple Minds vs Art of Noise vs Frankie Goes to Hollywood mash-up…

Homer and Carvery haul themselves up the sides of the flying rickshaw to perch on the back of our passenger seat, on top of those other lashed-down, struggling rolled-up rugs. A few of them give indignant grunts or squeaks, as the two plonk themselves down heartily.

I immediately flinch, as Carvery’s knees clamp around my shoulders.

“No seatbelts,” he excuses himself. “Maybe I should hold onto your hair as well.”

I try to make myself as small and inaccessible as I can, on the padded leather bench.

“Did you get bitten?” I ask, although it’s not the first thing on my mind. Damn my traitorous hormones again…!


And he spits out what turns out to be a ragged gray ear, right onto my lap.

“I can imagine why not,” I mutter, trying to shake off the piece of discarded zombie.

Any undead saliva meeting Carvery Slaughter would only make his bloodstream cleaner, for one thing…

Homer – our transvestite exotic zombie dancer – is looking very pleased with himself, fluffing up his remaining ostrich-feathers. I feel as though some sort of artistic award or tribute is due for his life-saving performance just now, and hand him the bouquet of dead flowers, which had found me as we flew over the square. He is unashamedly thrilled, simpering dreadfully and fanning his own face with his free hand, as if overcome with emotion. Bless him…

We pass through early-morning ribbons of cloud, the harnessed flying carpet skilfully directed by our strange pilot, Mr. Justin Time. He is quietly focused on his task, but at one point raises an arm and waves.

Stretching my neck to see over the side, past Ace Bumgang, I just catch a glimpse of another flying shape in the distance, heading back the way we came – but I can’t make out what it is.

Ace suddenly turns in his seat, and punches Carvery on the quadricep.

“That’s for shooting me,” he says, still nursing the nick in his arm, licking the blood off.

“I was aiming for Sarah,” Carvery grins. “Sorry, dude.”

“We are almost there,” Crispin interrupts, his creaking zombie voice a balm to my suppressed anger, as usual. “The Six a.m. Lounge is often quite busy, and some of its denizens and regular clientele are the private sort, who may be suspicious of strangers. We must proceed with caution.”

My heart sinks. So it doesn’t sound like we’re back at Crispin’s brownsign mansion yet…

As we dip below the clouds, the sun disappears, and we find ourselves skimming over darkened, rain-soaked streets. Not the dry dusty sandstone of the Five a.m. Lounge – and less architecturally magnificent, consisting of a higgledy-piggledy of corrugated iron shacks, strange tenements, rainbow-illuminated storefronts, and many small temples of differing size and denomination. Ordinary rickshaws bob along the muddy cobbles, and every street seems to feature rows of bunting-festooned market-stalls, right on the doorsteps of the regular shops, businesses and houses. People just seem to exist right on top of one another here…

Scrawny dogs and tiny children with pot-bellies wander around loose, unattended. As I stare in horror, I notice a small boy with his mongrel terrier tethered on a piece of string, both happily pooping in the gutter.

It’s like something off Rough Guides Uncut…

“That is our destination.” Crispin points, and on a hill overlooking the bizarre town, stretching from horizon to horizon on either side, a huge stone fort appears out of the low-lying, gunmetal-gray clouds. Every arrow-slot is illuminated, and the distant flying dots of other airborne vessels arrive and depart from its roof, in a stream of early-morning industriousness.

“Remember what I said about caution,” Crispin re-iterates, as we dip over the walls of the fort. “There are people here who would suck out your soul, and rape it in front of you.”

“Cool,” says Carvery. “Get to put my feet up and watch for once.”

“Yeah,” Ace agrees, grudgingly. “Wouldn’t be the first time I got sperm-jacked in my sleep.”

“It’d be all right for Sarah.” Carvery scruffs my long hair, which immediately tries to stand perpendicular, in shock. “She doesn’t have a soul. They’d be poking around hopelessly lost in there for ever. Like chucking a toothpick down the Thames.”

“I imagine it’s somewhat like finding out some weirdo has whacked off while reading my diary!” I bristle, meaningfully.

“Sarah, it’d be like wanking on my Nan’s shopping list,” Carvery sighs, shaking his head. “Even my taxation accounts are sexier than your diary.”

The rickshaw comes to a bumpy halt on an illuminated runway, on the roof of the fort. We seem to be in a queue of similar arrivals. Helmeted guards are moving along the flanks, speaking to drivers, and scratching notes on slate tablets.

“Identification?” the approaching guard says to Justin Time, peering at us out of the corner of his faceplate.

“Tell your mother, she needs to move her stuff out of my brother’s caravan!” says Justin.

Er – not the way I was ever taught to speak to men in uniform. We all listen, in deathly silence.

“What have you brought today?” the official continues benignly, apparently immune to our pilot’s Tourette’s Syndrome.

We all let out our trapped breath.

“I want the bounty on these rugs,” snaps Justin, slapping one of the rolls of carpet behind him, which squeals for pity. “The ones that those slave boys were stealing to impress rich girls with. I have a dozen of them to return.”

“And your passengers?” the guard continues. “Identification?”

“You don’t need to see their identification,” Justin Time scoffs. “These aren’t the virgins you’re looking for.”

My heart seems to contract to the size of a hazelnut, in fear. Not again…

“Ah – Mr. Dry!” the guard suddenly exclaims, and pushes up his faceplate, greeting Crispin with a much less intimidating smile. “I did not see you there… are these people all with you?”

Before Crispin can reply, a crack of thunder explodes overhead, followed by a prong of forked lightning. It strikes down a cluster of guards, scattering them like ten-pins.

“Uh-oh,” Mr. Time gulps. He reaches out and prods our own gawping guard, with his little rug-driving whip. “Hurry up, Dumb-Ass! Let us through – I am a businessman, you know!”

A second fork of lightning grounds itself on the roof of the fort, and remains there, sizzling and sending up sparks from the stonework.

The dark cloud above swirls around its vertical axis, in the same way the river had swirled earlier before revealing Atum the sea-god, in the Five a.m. Lounge…

But this time, no gigantic leviathan appears.

Instead, three bat-like shapes descend, like ragged firemen sliding down a station pole. They land with thunderclaps onto the roof, and fold their gauntleted arms, faces half-hidden behind chain-mail and coolie-hats.

At least a third larger than the average man here, they tower menacingly as they stand beside the lightning fork, which reflects off their armour in flashes of ultramarine light.

“Who are they?” I hiss.

“Bounty hunters,” Crispin whispers back.

The middle one takes one pace forward, his head turning slowly – until his sight rests on our little flying rickshaw.

“Justin Time…” the tall bounty-hunter rumbles, in a voice like the quaking of continents. “Thief…”

And the three newcomers all raise their arms, to point at our equally quaking driver.

I know immediately where I’ve seen those twinkly glinting blue lights before…


…They ALL have clockwork hands…

Fan edit tribute to ‘Big Trouble in Little China’ – Enjoy 🙂

More mindless mayhem: The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

Also available for all other devices, and online reading, on Smashwords