woods later.
John had a clear view down the street now and the first float would pass shortly. “ I’m hungry for brains like hungry hungry hippo .” Belched the groan.
“Do they ever think of anything else?” John asked nobody in particular, putting an arm around Kerry.
Shannon smiled, “I must say dad, you’re taking this very well, considering they’re moving right by our front door.”
John shrugged, “there’s nothing wrong with having pride in your own people.”
The first float arrived, displaying the banner ‘Dead Cuisine,’ where a bunch of scantily dressed morts flaunted the brains they ate. Blood oozed from their mouths as they took large mouthfuls of the highly valued mort delicacy. Surely the brains belonged to pigs or sheep or something. The dead were becoming more and more powerful in America but thankfully the day still hadn’t arrived where they could demand human brains simply because it was their ‘culture.’ The way things were going, it wouldn’t surprise John if that day was just around the corner. He chuckled to himself at the absurdity of the thought – Surely not!
“ If you don't bring back my mutha fuckin’ hos o’ my mutha fuckin’ brains, you can fo’get ‘bout Christmas zombie, cause you ain't gon’ even see New Years .” John thought he heard that correct, though he couldn’t be sure. Didn’t New Years follow Christmas?
The next float carried several flags of the dead which fluttered proudly in the wind. The float rumbled by, emblazoned with ‘Dead History.’
“This should be good.” John said, not even attempting to mask his sarcasm.
Shannon smiled, which brought comfort to John. Thankfully, her experience with the dead had enabled her to see the light. But John felt a great pity for all those other poor human girls who had yet to realize they’d been manipulated by the media and popular culture into exalting the dead to a status, at least in their heads, to a level far greater than they deserved, a level greater than their own people. John had come to realize his daughter, due to a lack of confidence and self-esteem had been crying out for attention. John would ensure Shannon stayed on the right path from now on – She had so much to live for.
The float, which also had a long line of the dead stumbling alongside it, contained numerous giant blow-up images of paintings by Vincent van Gogh.
“What? I don’t get it.” John said.
Finn perked up, “we learned in school dad, van Gogh only became appreciated after he died.”
John’s eyes narrowed, “what? And they’re taking credit for that?” Wasn’t he technically living while he carried out his work? If the dead could take credit for human achievements in such spurious ways, what else could they conceivably take credit for?
The convoy continued for at least an hour with each float separated by up to a hundred marching morts in costumes, most chomping on some animal appendage as they stuttered by. The largest and grandest of all floats was dedicated to Grover Starks, the mort who refused to give up his seat on the bus and had thus began a civil rights campaign for the dead within the media. Ever since that damn incident, public opinion had moved more and more toward further integrating the dead into human society, always at the expense of humans, instead of maybe giving them their own country or state within America where they could thrive by themselves and have the culture and life they wanted without human interference. To John, that would have made much more sense.
“Look, there he is.” Finn pointed to Grover Starks on the float, sitting on a giant throne, surrounded by female humans who fawned over him. One young human, probably no more than seventeen, fed the legendary mort what could only be gastrointestinal tract while another young human pressed her crotch against his side. It was a sickening display of public whoredom just because the mort happened to be famous.
“ Young, zombie,
John had a clear view down the street now and the first float would pass shortly. “ I’m hungry for brains like hungry hungry hippo .” Belched the groan.
“Do they ever think of anything else?” John asked nobody in particular, putting an arm around Kerry.
Shannon smiled, “I must say dad, you’re taking this very well, considering they’re moving right by our front door.”
John shrugged, “there’s nothing wrong with having pride in your own people.”
The first float arrived, displaying the banner ‘Dead Cuisine,’ where a bunch of scantily dressed morts flaunted the brains they ate. Blood oozed from their mouths as they took large mouthfuls of the highly valued mort delicacy. Surely the brains belonged to pigs or sheep or something. The dead were becoming more and more powerful in America but thankfully the day still hadn’t arrived where they could demand human brains simply because it was their ‘culture.’ The way things were going, it wouldn’t surprise John if that day was just around the corner. He chuckled to himself at the absurdity of the thought – Surely not!
“ If you don't bring back my mutha fuckin’ hos o’ my mutha fuckin’ brains, you can fo’get ‘bout Christmas zombie, cause you ain't gon’ even see New Years .” John thought he heard that correct, though he couldn’t be sure. Didn’t New Years follow Christmas?
The next float carried several flags of the dead which fluttered proudly in the wind. The float rumbled by, emblazoned with ‘Dead History.’
“This should be good.” John said, not even attempting to mask his sarcasm.
Shannon smiled, which brought comfort to John. Thankfully, her experience with the dead had enabled her to see the light. But John felt a great pity for all those other poor human girls who had yet to realize they’d been manipulated by the media and popular culture into exalting the dead to a status, at least in their heads, to a level far greater than they deserved, a level greater than their own people. John had come to realize his daughter, due to a lack of confidence and self-esteem had been crying out for attention. John would ensure Shannon stayed on the right path from now on – She had so much to live for.
The float, which also had a long line of the dead stumbling alongside it, contained numerous giant blow-up images of paintings by Vincent van Gogh.
“What? I don’t get it.” John said.
Finn perked up, “we learned in school dad, van Gogh only became appreciated after he died.”
John’s eyes narrowed, “what? And they’re taking credit for that?” Wasn’t he technically living while he carried out his work? If the dead could take credit for human achievements in such spurious ways, what else could they conceivably take credit for?
The convoy continued for at least an hour with each float separated by up to a hundred marching morts in costumes, most chomping on some animal appendage as they stuttered by. The largest and grandest of all floats was dedicated to Grover Starks, the mort who refused to give up his seat on the bus and had thus began a civil rights campaign for the dead within the media. Ever since that damn incident, public opinion had moved more and more toward further integrating the dead into human society, always at the expense of humans, instead of maybe giving them their own country or state within America where they could thrive by themselves and have the culture and life they wanted without human interference. To John, that would have made much more sense.
“Look, there he is.” Finn pointed to Grover Starks on the float, sitting on a giant throne, surrounded by female humans who fawned over him. One young human, probably no more than seventeen, fed the legendary mort what could only be gastrointestinal tract while another young human pressed her crotch against his side. It was a sickening display of public whoredom just because the mort happened to be famous.
“ Young, zombie,
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