Fifty Shades Of Sparkling Vampires With Dragon Tattoos That Play Starvation Games by Lacy Maran Page A
Authors: Lacy Maran
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hotel room dresser. He then got up and moved to the phone,
looking to do what he did best--outsource his own
rescue.
There would be no 911 call though. No
reprieve. No escape. Marge was too frisky of a Zombie for that. And
she hadn't had a bite since tearing open a corporate lawyer down
the hall.
Marge lunged at Carlton, but the
slippery son of a bitch stayed out of her grasp. Carlton backed
himself into the corner, seemingly signing his own death warrant.
But while Marge saw lunch, Carlton saw his chance at freedom. Marge
took another lunge at Carlton, but this time he grabbed the lamp
from the night stand and cracked Marge on the head with it. The
Zombie Maid dropped to the ground, defeated.
And as Carlton saw Marge twitching
before finally succumbing to her head wound, he got cocky. "Don't
you know who I am?" he boasted. "Never mess with a CEO,
bitch."
Carlton was completely full of himself.
Like he'd just completed a hostile takeover. Like he was more than
just a shark in a suit. But with all his gusto, Carlton forgot that
he left the door to his room open.
Looking up at a room full of Zombified
Hotel Employees that had let themselves in from the hallway,
Carlton realized the time for bluster was over. It was time to
pray. But the undead didn't believe in mercy. They only cared about
their next meal. The only question was, how would they split
Carlton's body twenty ways?
The Zombies cornered the CEO. He could
smell the latest kill on their breath. And for once, the tycoon
started to sweat through his suit. But it was no matter. One Zombie
after another lunged at Carlton, knocking him over, making him easy
prey. The undead then had themselves a buffet, grabbing fresh meat
off the bone. The pain was excruciating. There was nothing worse
than watching yourself being eaten alive. Plus, the Zombies were in
no hurry. After all, there were a lot of mouths to feed. And they
were going to savor every bite.
*********
It was the biggest bloodbath Wall
Street had ever seen. An absolute massacre. And after months of
being ignored by the filthy rich tycoons, the ninety-nine percent
were finally heard. It was a rabid revenge. A tasty triumph. A
headhunters Heaven. It was a day that wouldn't be soon forgotten. A
day the apocalypse toppled tycoons. A day when the Zombie
Protestors didn't just Occupy Wall St, they ate it
alive.
The End.
Zombies Eat Hollywood
"Don't you know who I am?" Brent
Williams barked, issuing the douche bag call to arms.
Everyone in Hollywood knew who Brent
was. The guy was box office royalty. The man with the million
dollar abs. The only guy in the world that could star in a movie
about 14th Century French Unicycling and have it rake in the dough.
And he had a fan base more rabid than a pack of methed out
werewolves.
But while the adoring public couldn't
get enough of their favorite hunk, Hollywood got to see the dark
side of their dashing dickwad. His million dollar demands, his
unquenchable addiction to blow, an ego that couldn't fit into his
double decker trailer.
Jim Baker got the brunt of the abuse.
He was the coffee bitch. The gofer. The intern. Only a sadistic
hell hole like Hollywood worked someone like a goat with dick for
pay to show for it. And it only took five minutes on the job for
Jim to realize if Hollywood was a Cleveland Steamer, he was the
chest being pooped on.
But things were different that day on
the set of "Vampire Amish Versus Aliens." The apocalypse had come
to Hollywood for real. But for Jim, it seemed just like any other
day. Waking up at four a.m. to the sound of the neighborhood
tweaker teething for his next fix just outside his window. Rushing
out of his hipster infested apartment complex on the way to soul
crushing traffic. Arriving on the studio lot to an avalanche of
problems with a belly only half full of ramen noodles and 98 cent
store energy drinks.
But unlike the nerve rattling onslaught
of obscenities that usually greeted Jim in the production office,
he was
looking to do what he did best--outsource his own
rescue.
There would be no 911 call though. No
reprieve. No escape. Marge was too frisky of a Zombie for that. And
she hadn't had a bite since tearing open a corporate lawyer down
the hall.
Marge lunged at Carlton, but the
slippery son of a bitch stayed out of her grasp. Carlton backed
himself into the corner, seemingly signing his own death warrant.
But while Marge saw lunch, Carlton saw his chance at freedom. Marge
took another lunge at Carlton, but this time he grabbed the lamp
from the night stand and cracked Marge on the head with it. The
Zombie Maid dropped to the ground, defeated.
And as Carlton saw Marge twitching
before finally succumbing to her head wound, he got cocky. "Don't
you know who I am?" he boasted. "Never mess with a CEO,
bitch."
Carlton was completely full of himself.
Like he'd just completed a hostile takeover. Like he was more than
just a shark in a suit. But with all his gusto, Carlton forgot that
he left the door to his room open.
Looking up at a room full of Zombified
Hotel Employees that had let themselves in from the hallway,
Carlton realized the time for bluster was over. It was time to
pray. But the undead didn't believe in mercy. They only cared about
their next meal. The only question was, how would they split
Carlton's body twenty ways?
The Zombies cornered the CEO. He could
smell the latest kill on their breath. And for once, the tycoon
started to sweat through his suit. But it was no matter. One Zombie
after another lunged at Carlton, knocking him over, making him easy
prey. The undead then had themselves a buffet, grabbing fresh meat
off the bone. The pain was excruciating. There was nothing worse
than watching yourself being eaten alive. Plus, the Zombies were in
no hurry. After all, there were a lot of mouths to feed. And they
were going to savor every bite.
*********
It was the biggest bloodbath Wall
Street had ever seen. An absolute massacre. And after months of
being ignored by the filthy rich tycoons, the ninety-nine percent
were finally heard. It was a rabid revenge. A tasty triumph. A
headhunters Heaven. It was a day that wouldn't be soon forgotten. A
day the apocalypse toppled tycoons. A day when the Zombie
Protestors didn't just Occupy Wall St, they ate it
alive.
The End.
Zombies Eat Hollywood
"Don't you know who I am?" Brent
Williams barked, issuing the douche bag call to arms.
Everyone in Hollywood knew who Brent
was. The guy was box office royalty. The man with the million
dollar abs. The only guy in the world that could star in a movie
about 14th Century French Unicycling and have it rake in the dough.
And he had a fan base more rabid than a pack of methed out
werewolves.
But while the adoring public couldn't
get enough of their favorite hunk, Hollywood got to see the dark
side of their dashing dickwad. His million dollar demands, his
unquenchable addiction to blow, an ego that couldn't fit into his
double decker trailer.
Jim Baker got the brunt of the abuse.
He was the coffee bitch. The gofer. The intern. Only a sadistic
hell hole like Hollywood worked someone like a goat with dick for
pay to show for it. And it only took five minutes on the job for
Jim to realize if Hollywood was a Cleveland Steamer, he was the
chest being pooped on.
But things were different that day on
the set of "Vampire Amish Versus Aliens." The apocalypse had come
to Hollywood for real. But for Jim, it seemed just like any other
day. Waking up at four a.m. to the sound of the neighborhood
tweaker teething for his next fix just outside his window. Rushing
out of his hipster infested apartment complex on the way to soul
crushing traffic. Arriving on the studio lot to an avalanche of
problems with a belly only half full of ramen noodles and 98 cent
store energy drinks.
But unlike the nerve rattling onslaught
of obscenities that usually greeted Jim in the production office,
he was
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