Octopulpy: A Zombie Parody

Pussycat Dolls vs Michael Jackson – “Don’t Cha Wanna Beat It” mash-up…

“Seven of us – a few dozen of them…” Luke muses.

There is an expectant pause. Why is there a certain lack of humorous Pimm’s reference to follow that remark?

And then it dawns on me…

“Six of us,” Carvery corrects him.

“Oh yeah.” Luke sighs. “Forgot about your girlfriend. Sorry, man.”

Of course. Miss Knob-End, the usual air-headed wit on this occasion, is in a wooden box under the deck of Lady Glandula’s gigantic barge. Awaiting any regeneration privileges that might come her way. Or rigor mortis. Whichever arrives first.

“No worries,” Carvery shrugs. “She acts up like it all the time.”

We remain at the apex of the square, or market-place, unwilling to chance another masonry assault from above. The awaiting zombies shift restlessly in the shadows.

“Are these more relatives of yours, Crispin?” Ace Bumgang asks.

“Not mine.” Crispin shakes his head, and then glances a little sheepishly over at our Nigerian cab-driver, Luke. “But ancestors of one of our party, most definitely. The original engineers of the pyramids, you could say…”

“You mean slaves?” I gasp. Both Carvery and Ace thump me, on either arm. “Ow…”

“I could try and talk to them,” Luke suggests.

Crispin looks even more uncomfortable.

“I think you’ll find the, er… introduction protocols are a little different to what you may have experienced, Mr. Lukan,” he says. “Kneeling down and touching your forehead to the ground might be considered inadvisable, for example – unless you want it cemented there permanently.”

“Obvious, in the building trade,” Carvery agrees. “Any opportunity for the competition to make off with your tools, when you’re not looking.”

“Well, what would YOU recommend we do?” I ask him, irritably. “Seeing as you’re the expert on the – stone slab side of things.”

He gives me an assessing glance.

“You’re the one dressed as their psychotic zombie queen leader,” he points out. “Why don’t YOU come up with something?”

I look down at the glittering clockwork hand, tucked safely into the belt of my gown. It merely looks as decorative as the star on a Christmas tree right now. And about as lethal.

“Maybe there’s something helpful in that book,” I shoot back, indicating Mr. Dry Senior’s leather-bound diary, tucked into Carvery’s own waistband. “Or would it take you too long to colour all the pictures in first?”

“I’ve already checked,” he says. “No tits in it.”

“Or tacos,” Ace smirks.

“Friends,” Crispin’s powerful zombie monotone interrupts, before I can make another riposte. “We are not getting anywhere by arguing amongst ourselves. I suggest we send in a distraction.”

As one, we all exchange looks, and turn to look at Homer N. Dry – currently half-disrobed transvestite zombie. Only the ostrich-feather boa remains, from his dressing-up sessions this morning.

“Homer,” Crispin announces, solemnly. “I am giving you permission to enact that little fantasy of yours, which Father always prohibited at dinner-parties.”

Home?” Homer asks, uncertainly. A look of perverse hope flickers fleetingly across his disturbing gray face.

“Yes.” Crispin takes a deep, bracing breath, his own lungs creaking and whistling as he does so. “The one about the ladies of the Villa Negra – and the French Foreign Legion…”

Comprehension sinks in. And a broad, manic, evil grin spreads across Homer’s face.

The very same chilling grin I first saw of his, on the CCTV footage in Crispin’s hi-tech security bunker, last night…

Goooood,” Homer approves, rubbing his ragged hands together, and cracking his knuckles.

*  *  *  *  *

I peek out tentatively, around a pillar.

“Go on, Sarah.” Carvery urges, and I feel the butt of the shotgun nudge me in the spine. “Homer needs an M.C, and you drew the short finger-bone. Don’t leave the creepy little zombie dude hanging.”

The half-hidden Nigerian slave zombies are still loitering menacingly in the shadows. Homer, preening his leftover ostrich-feathers, is waiting patiently just at my shoulder.

“God, all right!” I grumble, and clear my throat.

I take one cautious pace out into the open, worrying that Carvery appears to have the gun trained on my own head – rather than at any potential attackers.

“I expect you’re all wondering why I called this meeting!” I improvise loudly, in my best cut-glass Lady Glandula de Bartheline impression. “Well, er… you’ve all been very loyal, and very hardworking. Putting up all these huge erections that I demand of you, and stuff. I can’t imagine what it must have been like lifting all of this stone, day after day. So, um… I have a little reward for you. A bit of entertainment.”

I step aside, sweeping an arm out, in a gesture of introduction.

“Gentlemen, I give you… uh…” My brain frazzles. Just say anything, Sarah! “All the way from… a galaxy far, far away… the exotic fjords of… somewhere-or-other… Princess… Homer Rottick!”

“Nice,” Carvery mutters.

Homer swirls past me into the empty market square, trailing feather boa, like a rhythmic gymnast. I hear the collective intake of zombie breath, as he pirouettes into the centre of the pavement.

Any minute now, I’m thinking. Any minute now – we’re all going to be eaten alive…

“Oooh, I hope they don’t notice that…” Luke remarks, right by my ear, sounding equally concerned. “He has a big wang for a dead white fella.”

“Must be a family thing,” I agree, instantly more worried, as Homer performs a cartwheel.

“That doesn’t sound like a virgin at all, Sarah,” Carvery points out, nastily.

“What?” I snap, wondering why I’m now thinking about Madonna, and elevators. “Why are you hanging around gawking? I thought you had a part in this plan too?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Carvery grins. “C’mon, Ace, let’s go shift some stuff.”

The two of them head off, on their own determined mission.

Crispin has taken out a small pair of opera-glasses, and is scanning the shadows. Some of the strange zombies are starting to move forward slowly into the open, attracted by the bizarre spectacle of burlesque gyrations, performed by Homer N. Dry.

“Any sign of the carpet-salesman?” I ask Crispin, hopefully.

“Not yet,” Crispin admits. “I think I will need a better vantage-point. The two of you stay here, and keep an eye on my poor brother. Well – having the time of his life for now, at least…”

While Crispin hurries away also, Luke and I watch the dancing Dry brother, with our own mixture of deep concern and horrified fascination.

I feel like exactly like Rachel did, on Friends

“Oh, God – I can’t not look at it…” I quote. My fingers, covering my face, are fighting each other to hide in my mouth.

“They are getting very close,” Luke confirms. Homer tickles the end of a zombie’s nose with a long feather. “They are going to notice quite soon that he has the wrong qualifications for this sort of lady-dancing.”

“Perhaps they’ve noticed already?” I whisper. “And they aren’t bothered?”

On the far side of the square, in the shade of another pillar, I spot Carvery and Ace – levering up a large paving-slab. My heart thumps in sympathy. I crane my neck to try and spot Crispin.

Where on Earth has he got to…??

“Can you see Crispin at all?” I ask Luke.

“Maybe he’s scarpered,” Luke says grimly, after looking fruitlessly around. “Maybe we were ALL his distraction.”

In the middle of the square, Homer continues his grotesque ballet – the strangest, gangliest, deadest Sugar-Plum Zombie Fairy I have ever seen…

“We should take the clockwork hand, and run,” Luke suggests. “Give it to me.”

“What?” I gasp in shock, as he makes a failed grab for my belt. “No!”

“Crispin has gone!” he insists. “We have to save ourselves!”

“NO!” I shout again, louder than I intended. I stumble backwards, trying to evade his attempts to snatch the precious clockwork hand. “He’ll be back! He wouldn’t abandon us…”

Suddenly one of the zombies in the market square gives a roar, and we all look around – to see the tallest, thinnest zombie standing over Homer – pointing accusingly.

“Oh, shit…” I mutter.

“Told you,” Luke reminds me. “It’s just not normal for a white dude to be flaunting THAT about.”

Homer twirls coquettishly, trailing ostrich-feather boa – which inexplicably speeds up, until it cracks like a whip…

…And the head of the tallest zombie pops straight off, bounces – and rolls right over to my feet, underneath the long gown belonging to Crispin Dry’s mother.

As I snatch up my skirts and leap aside with a scream, I see it give a much more approving grin…

Palace siege scene from James Bond ‘Octopussy’ (en Francais) – Enjoy 🙂

More mindless mayhem: The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

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

Body of Condiments: A Zombie Parody

Remix of Depeche Mode, by Reaps007 on Youtube…

I got to grips with the rules of the blindfold touch game eventually. It was the object that Crispin Dry was drawing on me with that I was supposed to guess, not the Thing he was drawing. That made it much easier, to my vast relief.

So obviously the first object was an ice cube. The second was also easy – I’ve handled enough human scalps in my time at University to recognise the tickle of tanned hide and hair. The third was harder – I hazarded an Ugli fruit, a cauliflower floret, a sock full of marbles, a stitched leather catcher’s mitt, and even an artichoke, before giving up. I was kicking myself when Crispin told me it was a shrunken human head. I should have known that one.

The fourth object was another easy guess, but it was the noise that gave it away. I felt the dig of something sharp clustered against my belly, through my Pizza Heaven work fleece, and the soft feathery tickle against my bare arm. There was an unmistakable crooning sound, followed by an uncertain cluck.

“A live chicken,” I announce, triumphantly. I hear Crispin’s echoing undead chuckle.

“I see I will have to be more creative, Sarah Bellummm,” he says, in his now-familiar zombie moan.

Still blindfolded, I hear him moving things around on the tray. I wonder if there’s any danger of that drink appearing any time soon. Typical male. They invite you in for a coffee, and it turns out they have no coffee in the house after all, just a waxworks dungeon and a complete box-set of Playboy Mansion.

I jump out of my skin, as the next sensation I feel is a mechanical vibration against my hip. My sudden movement seems to startle Crispin also, because I hear something metallic clatter on the tray.

“What is the matter, Sarah?” he asks.

“It’s okay, it’s just my mobile phone,” I say, feeling the rhythmic buzz a second time.

I squirm around to reach my pocket, and prop myself up on my elbow, pulling the blindfold up to see the number. Caller ID informs me that it’s Cramps University Hospital. Yes!

“It’s the hospital,” I tell him, and he looks disappointed. “They’ve promised me an autopsy session if a suitable research donor is found… maybe there is a fresh one in that has the right paperwork.”

“You must answer, by all means,” he says, and replaces the forceps regretfully on the tray.

He picks up a hi-ball glass instead, containing an iced pink liquid garnished with mint and lime, and I hold my free hand out eagerly to accept it as I press Connect. Ooohh – Sloe Gin Sling! My favourite…

“Hello?” I say into the phone, and take a huge gulp of Gin Sling before the sting of alcohol on my tongue reminds me that I’m not allowed into the morgue under the influence. Damn! I hope I have breath mints on me.

“Sarah, it’s me,” says Miss Blah-blah-blah, my housemate.

“Hello – what are you doing calling me, hombre?” I ask. “I’m working, I hope you realise.”

“Sarah, I’m in Cramps hospital. My boyfriend didn’t believe me when I said I had the termination today. He came round and we had a fight. We started to have make-up sex but then he said he was still angry with me, and bit my thumb off. They’re going to try and reattach it. I’m in the Emergency Room now, will you come and sit with me? I’ll make sure you get paid for the rest of your shift.”

“Oh, you mean now?” I grumble. “I’m with a customer…”

“I will take you wherever you need to go, Sarah Bellummmm,” says the perfect zombie gentleman beside me, deftly tidying the tray.

I nod, and swallow the rest of the Sloe Gin Sling. Phew. I could use a few more of those.

“I’d really appreciate it, Sarah…” Dumb-Ass whines in my ear, over the phone.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll see what I can do,” I say, and hang up. “That girl gives retards a bad name. I need to get to the hospital. She’s had another bedroom mishap with that delightful human butcher she calls a boyfriend.”

“We must go immediately,” Crispin nods, getting to his feet and offering his gray-skinned hand to help me up. “I will take you in the Cadillac.”

I allow him to lead on, wondering hopefully if that means there will be more cocktails to look forward to on our return… At least now I don’t need to worry about the breath mints.

*  *  *  *  *

We enter the hospital via the rear transport entrance on the lower ground floor, and make our way to the elevators that will take us up to the Accident & Emergency department at the front. Two porters and a nurse pass us, wheeling a cadaver wrapped in white sheets on a trolley, and I hear a low guttural sound from my delectable zombie companion. It hotwires my adrenal glands directly to my heart rate.

“Is it the smell?” I whisper, wondering what has caused his reaction.

“The rigor,” he murmurs. The elevator doors open in front of us. “This way.”

We head into the elevator, and the doors close, sealing us alone together in the bare metal cell. I press the button, and the lift grinds into life.

The atmosphere is suddenly electric.

“What is it?” I squeak, aware that his eyes are drilling holes into me.

“I cannot go out in public like this,” he tells me.


“You should have said,” I complain, my heart now sinking. “Why did you offer to come? You could have stayed behind, out of sight…”

“No – not like that…” He flaps his hands a little awkwardly, reminding me of a forlorn Edward Scissorhands. “The hospital – that corpse – it is too much…”

What could he mean? I stare bewildered into his jet-black eyes, willing him to open up to me. He casts his eyes hopelessly down at himself.

“I have a Zomboner,” he admits.

“What?” I look down at his fly, horrified, and hurriedly look away again. “Is that all? Er, I mean, not in that way, I mean to say – it’s very impressive, in fact – but what I actually mean – why don’t you just style it, dude?”

“It is my first,” he says, wretchedly. “Since passing… I would hate for it to fall off…”

I close my eyes and heave a sigh. All that mental rehearsal (with frankfurters in coat pockets while thinking about Ace Bumgang) is going to come in handy now, I tell myself.

“I’m an expert in handling dead bodies, at any stage,” I tell him, summoning up all of my confidence. “And I haven’t lost an extremity yet. You will just have to trust me.”

He looks imploringly and awkwardly at me.

“We can kiss,” I suggest, in barely a whisper. “If it will make you feel better at the time…”

He turns slowly towards me. For some reason I wonder, at the back of my mind, if those breath mints would help me now…

The original above (slightly censored). Warning: Contains Madonna, bless her 🙂

More mindless mayhem: The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

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