Creature Wars, Part 1

MacAllister said:

The pancake house. That's zombie turf. Nothing I like better than stomping zombies, but I was already late. "Late." Get it? Still, I could see the incorrigible walking dead milling around through the fogged-up windows.

Click to expand...

That one-armed sodsucker Mike-on-a-spike tried to impress his bulemic ghoul friend by pulling out his tongue to lick his plate. The way she writhed about, crossing her legs until her blotted skin smoldered left me hankering for some farm-fresh Catholic girls.

I sat behind one of the larger tombstones and giggled, my scythe held tight. I waited patiently for one of the idiot zombies to leave the pancake house and come my way.

Meanwhile, in the secret crypt below the cemetary, Alucard and Dracula were arm wrestling; it may have seemed an exercise in triviality, but all watching knew it to be a silent, hostile ritual, wherein the winner spent the next hundred years courting the Vampire Queen, Gory-Lori. A ring of neophytes watched in horror, secretly hoping that Dracula would win. They knew that if Alucard were the Vampire King, it would begin a reign of tyranny that would consume them.

###

A dark, robed figure sank his spoon into a tub of Bunny Tracks Ice cream, watching the quiet duel through his crystal ball. Alucard had to win, he knew, or Dracula would betray his secret. If word spread that he, Orlando Bloom, was the Necromancer, there would be dire consequences indeed.

With a wet thunk, Dracula drove Alucard's fist through the stone slab. The vampire underlings began to hiss our their queer cheer. Bloom knew it wouldn't be long. He snapped his fingers, and began softly chanting to the Dark God, Tal-Boggath. He channeled power from the depths of the hole where his soul should have been--and something began to stir in the bowels of the graveyard.

###

"Do you smell that?" Gory-Lori asked, interrupting the cheers.
The victory grin melted off of Dracula's face. "Yes," he said, his Transylvanian drawl curling the word, "I do. Zombies."


Edit:

Oh dear. I think thats a bit more than two sentences. I flunk myself.

(Note to self; read rules more closely next time.)

MacAllister said:

Meanwhile, though, I'm sittin' on my *ss in a rainy graveyard above, and I've got no friggin' clue about the coming war between Dracula and Orlando Bloom. I've got a mac-alicious wantin' to go bust some zombie head, though. I can see 'em, indistinct shapes, really boogeyin' down inside Briol's Lakeview Cemetary and Pancake House, enjoying death while the sun is asleep.

Click to expand...

Why is it always I who has to find out who leaks the bloody stories. The coming duel between Dracula and Orlando Bloom has been circulating longer than I’ve been trying to pass as human. Between the Bridge Trolls and Charlie on a Harley, I’m lucky to be at this soggy graveyard at all. It’s all Dawno’s fault!

I heard one of the zombies let out a loud burp and I gathered myself for a head shot with my trusty scythe. He wondered over by my hiding place and woosh, off went his head, blood flew in lovely arcs. He lay on the wet grass twitching like a beheaded chicken. Giggling, I licked his blood off my hands and went to find a new hiding place. God, I hate zombies, they give the undead a bad name.

I hunkered down just below one of the fogged-up windows of Birol's Lakeview Cemetery and Pancake House, trying to ignore the intensifying scent of limburger cheese and Bunny Tracks Ice Cream. Inside, it seemed Orlando's camp was having a hard time reaching a quagmire concerning what action to take against Dracula's crew. Or was that quorum? Big words confuse me.

I listened to them for a while debating, until I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned, and saw the creature whom they call Orlando Bloom, yes, Orlando Bloom himself, looking straight down at me, smiling coarsely while licking his lips. "I like you, and I think I'll call you Frank." He turned so that I noticed his pack of zombies all drooling in anticipation behind him, and then he cried out, "Who wants to Spank Frank first?" I crawled out from under the window and picked up my scythe and leaf blower, and decided to battle all those damn zombies who wanted to spank me, though the bigger question was how to escape that Orlando dude.

The first one up to bat had fists the size of beer kegs, tapped and ready to party. He staggered over, his head resting under one arm, one remaining eye glaring all dead and stupified. "You'th mine, footh," he slurred through a disfigured mouth. I grinned then cut one loud enough to rouse my limburger-wafting cohorts into action, and peel the paint off of the pancake house. With both of my greasy hands going Boggs on the scythe I prepped for action.

I heard activity over by the pancake house. I grabbed my bloody scythe and left my hiding place, snaking closer to check out the action. Was that Orlando Bloom getting ready to clock the crap out of some guy under the window? He had a pack of his rotting buddies with him. I grinned at the thought of parting zombie head from zombie body.

A buzzing sound grew louder from the distance; Reporter James O'Victim tried to ignore it at first. But soon it was just too loud. He turned his gaze upward, away from the shambling figures in the graveyard. Lightning flashed, giving him a brief view of what flew overhead: "Good lord," he said, turning his camera upward, "Zombies in Parachutes!"

Bartholomew said:

"Good lord," he said, turning his camera upward, "Zombies in Parachutes!"

Click to expand...

Their feet hit the ground with sickening squishy sounds. As the undead fumbled with their harnesses, they began to chant their unholy battle-cry.


"VOTE FOR DAWNO! VOTE FOR DAWNO! VOTE FOR DAWNO!"

James O'Victim growled, "This is all Dawno's fault!"

Meanwhile...

My posse, the Cee Gee's, slid out of their festering holds. Their strength, their raw savage aroma like fermented Dorritos brought tears to my eyes as they swarmed out in their gold lamay jumpsuits and size 10 boy's underoos. I was uh-uh-uh-uh stayin' alive, stayin' alive. This party was on!

On the other hand, in order to get a franchise on the merchandise, I needed to survive. The place was a quagmire of blood - but what was really annoying was all those incorrigible burps every time they took a bite out of one another. Not to mention the ensuing stench of tuna-breath. Scythe, my arse - what I really needed was a Glock. Even a Feeble Sock Puppet could lance a skull at fifty paces with one of those...

Btw - what exactly am I doing?

And just when I thought my glock-less a$$ was done for, in marches a platoon of bazooka-toting werewolves. Rotted pieces of zombie anatomy began flying in all directions, exponentially leveling the playing field for the vamps.

I stopped and leaned on my scythe and laughed my a$$ off at the sight of all those rotting morons being blown to pieces by the pack of werewolves. I hate werewolves too but sometimes they can be handy.

After awhile, my stomach rumbled like an old Chevy Charger ten seconds from throwing a rod. It couldn't be helped seeing how those raving furballs were gobbling up the decompoed meat and licking the zombies' brittle bones with long, wet strokes of their mottled tongues - how come they get all of the fun?