Hello! Guest Blogger Jim Pascoe here.
I'm not new to blogging, but most of the time on my site, jimpascoe.com, I'm either promoting my writing or declaring that I'm the prime minister of Iraq ... sadly, a post I have vacated. I'll try to capture the Celianess of this site.
I know! I'll use code names!
So Gab and I are moving our stuff from the Flophouse (first code name) to the Loft, carrying suitcases and boxes of baby clothes from the car down Los Angeles Street. When who comes a' walkin' down the sidewalk?
Not Keanu Reeves (not a code name). No, it was Melvin (code name).
Melvin is a zombie. As in un-fucking-dead.
No. I'm serious. This guy -- I mean Melvin -- was slowly making his way down the pavement, but everything about him: his bandaged calf, his awkward gait, his cloudy eyes, his open mouth ... dude, this was a for-real, 100%, just-like-they-used-to-make-them-in-the-movies ZOMBIE.
It was actually Gabrielle who first pointed out his true zombie nature. She was like, "that guy, Melvin, is a zombie."
It was just like the zombie apocolypse but with hundreds less zombies and no cool quarentine signs wildposted everywhere.
I thought about shooting Melvin in the head. Then I thought, Melvin, I don't know you. And you're a freakin' zombie. Let's make a deal. You don't eat my brains, and I won't splatter you head open in the middle of the street. Just keep stumbling away from me, and you'll be okay in my book.
Tonight, there was no sign of Melvin. Was I hallucinating last night? Or is he still out there somewhere, a couple broken steps farther into oblivion?