Dick's Story:

An adult irreverent horror comedy about the last real man's struggle to survive against a world of female zombies.
The zombie apocalypse brought the world to her knees by killing all of the men, and turning a portion of those corpses into undead women. There is only one man left alive that has even a remote chance at saving humanity, and his friends call him Dick. Dick doesn't know why he is the last man on earth, he just knows it's his duty to let the world know that he was here. Told through a journal format, we learn all about Dick's ups and downs, as well as the detailed slaughter of the undead feminine hoards continually stalking him. Join him as he travels the undead USA, trying to protect what is left of the living women, and not doing a very good job of it.


If you're just starting out, you need to go back to Day One. You can find it here: DAY ONE: MY FRIENDS CALL ME DICK

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Day 3: That night at the Lucky Lick

Day 3:

These logged days are not consecutive. I number them in order so I don’t lose track of where I am in my thoughts, but I don’t want you to think I am taking time out of my already busy schedule of fucking shit up and keeping on the run to sit down and write in this thing every fucking day. I don’t know why it’s so important to me to point that out. Also, there might be some breaks in the entries as I return to running for my life or getting into a scrape with the zombs.
Like last night.
I was in the middle of explaining my version of how things went down in zombie town when I was interrupted by a half dozen shambling half nude hotties. I think they must’ve been the kind of chicks that did that fancy yoga stretching before they went all grey, because they were in amazing condition for a bunch of dead gals. I mean, they were sorta sexy if not for the maggots and the smell. I won’t lie. I know they are dead on the inside, and the outside as well, but holy hell sometimes these zombs are in nearly good enough shape to… well shit, I have been on my own for way too long. I’m getting all excited now. I need to move along in this entry before I have to limp out of here.
Back to the Lucky Lick and the beginning of the end of the world, the details of which are probably gonna leave me with a hard pecker anyways. You’ll get why in just a minute.
So I was waiting out in my truck for Butch when one of those green machines pulls into the parking lot of our rundown, backwater motel from hell. A genuine en-vi-ro-ment-al-ist car. I believe they called them hybrids. I guess because you gotta be high to want a car that has about as much get up and go as a windup toy. Now, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t saying that it wasn’t a great idea. Sure, we were killing the earth and all that junk. I read the paper and watched the news, believe it or not. I guess those little bean burners where supposed to be our way of making up for years of skull fucking Mother Earth with our huge, hard exhaust pipes.
Damn, I’m making myself horny again. Need to cut that shit out.
Speaking of horny, I was distracted by the sassy little vehicle for a moment, when I caught a gander at the sassy little honey behind the wheel. A sweet assed little brunette that couldn’t have been a day over twenty one. She popped the door and stepped out onto the asphalt, tugging at her tiny skirt, but not before I got a good look at the curve of her ass. Big tits, big ass, tiny little waist. Jesus. It was all I could do not to stare. So, I stared. With the fluid, graceful way she strode around her car to get her bag out of the other side, I could tell she was flexible as hell, which got me thinking all kinds of things. Fantasies, as they say. Stuff that involves ropes and pulleys and a couple of days of unrelenting hammering. And regardless of my description, I ain’t talking construction work.
There I sat, staring a hole in her ass and thinking my fantasies, when the little lady takes a look around the parking lot, spies yours truly and heads right on over. I threw a quick glance into the rearview and ran my hand through my hair just to be sure I was presentable. I wasn’t, but that wasn’t gonna stop her from heading my way. Nor was it gonna stop me from flirting with her.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“Well darlin’,” I said. “I’m afraid there’s no excuse for a pretty thing like you. I think you were a deliberate mistake on God’s part. And we all know He don’t make mistakes.” I grinned my best grin.
She rolled those green eyes like they were dice at a back alley craps game. “Jesus, really? Is now the time for such things?”
“Slow your roll, hon,” I said. “I was only being friendly.”
“If you were friendly,” she said. “You would just answer my question.”
“I can’t answer your question.”
She stuck out a lower, plump lip, put her hands on her thick hips and said, “And why the hell not?”
“Because you haven’t ask me a question.”
The pretty little thing thought about this a moment, touching her finger to her chin in a move that nearly melted the band of my jockey shorts. Then she smiled and stuck out her hand, pushing her small palm right in through my driver’s side window. This also meant she propped her ample bust right against my truck. That made both my truck and me very happy.
“I’m Cassy,” she said.
I shook her hand. “I’m Richard, but my friends call me Dick.”
“Sorry about all of that,” she said as she withdrew her hand, but thankfully left those lovely lady lumps pushed against the door. She yawned. “I’m not usually so easily confused. I’m just tired. I haven’t slept in three days.”
With supreme effort, I ripped my eyes away from her boobs and took another gander at her face. I saw what she meant. The poor thing had dark half circles under her eyes and kept blinking in that sleepy way I usually only see after a long bout of bedroom based activities. Either that or when I start telling a chick all about the joys of maintaining and servicing your own vehicle. Nothing will put a woman to sleep faster than an orgasm save for a detailed description on how to do an oil change.
“What’s kept you up for three days?” I said.
“Driving,” she said. “I needed to get as far away from …” her words trailed off as she reconsidered telling me her whole story. “You know what? Never mind. You probably don’t want to hear about it anyways.”
She was right about that. I would want to hear later, but right then, all I wanted to hear was her screaming my name.
“Well then, Dick,” she said, “do you know where a gal can check in around here? I can’t seem to find the front office.”
It wasn’t that Cassy was stupid. On the contrary, she turned out to be one of the smartest women I knew. It was that the Lucky Lick wasn’t your usual motel. It didn’t have a big vacancy sign or an awning for you to unload your shit under when it rains, or anything except rooms and beds and showers. The office, as it was, rested in room number seven, where the owner lived, worked, and quiet often played with the staff of the Lick.
“It’s kind of a tough question to answer,” I said. “The Lucky Lick ain’t your usual motel. In fact, a gal as nice as you might want to move on and find somewhere else to stay.”
She turned around, looked the place up and down, leaned in like she was listening real close like, then turned back to me. “It’s a brothel. Right?”
I was impressed. “Well, I’ll be damned. Yeah. Sort of. It don’t say that on the tax returns, but that’s a good a word as any.”
“Look, Dick, I don’t really care if they sell black market weapons or illicit drugs or child labor from those rooms. I need one. I need to sleep. And I need it now.” She pushed her boobs over the windowsill, plopping them onto my arm. “Can’t you help me?”
Now, I am a man of many years, more than even I care to admit, which means I have had my line yanked by quite a few women. Enough to know when another one is yanking hard enough to pull my Johnny-boy right off at the root. That said, boobs on my forearm is a great way to get my attention, and keep it. When she pressed her puppies against my arm, well, I couldn’t have turned her down if she’d handed me a gun and told me to go shoot Butch.
Which is ironic, when you think about what happened later. Wait, is that irony? I’m still not sure. I need to find a dictionary and look that fucking word up.
“Cassy,” I said to her impressive breasts, “nothing would give me greater pleasure than to help you secure a room at this fine establishment.”
She smiled, thinking she had won. The truth is, I would’ve helped her if she would’ve just asked politely. Or even rudely. All she did was give me a free grope. And free is always in my price range.
The lovely lady stepped back and gave me enough room to get out of ole Bessie—my pet name for my pickup. My old lady is a ‘86 Ford F-150. At the time she had just under 1200 miles showing because she turned over. Twice. Automatic, which I prefer ‘cause I get lazy when I drive. V8, because I also like to get where I am going fast. The air is busted and the radiator leaks like a pregnant chick with a baby standing on her bladder. Strong transmission, though, and half decent engine. I should know, I rebuilt both. You have to crawl through the passenger’s side to pop the driver’s side lock. Other than that, she spins like a top and got me through a lot of rough spots in life. Before and after the world went to hell.
In case you were wondering, I am still driving her. What can I say? I got a world of vehicles to choose from, but old habits are hard to break. Bessie's been good to me. She's the only friend I have left. 
Shit, never mind all of that. Where was I?
After I got out of the truck, Cassy gave me as much of the once over as I did her, then let out a low whistle of appreciation. As I have said before, I am no stud bull, but I ain’t paper bag ugly either. I’ve spent half of my life in a machine shop, pressing steel plates for auto parts. This left me in good shape. Pair that with my six foot six frame, and good shape always looked good to the ladies. Nothing like a tall, well built machine to get your own motor going.
I tipped my cap to the lady and made my way to room seven to find her a place to spend the night. I nearly, almost, Christ all mighty just about turned on my heel and offered to take her home and give her a far more comfortable place to sleep than this fleabag of a motel. Then I thought better of it. I’m not an animal, after all. Besides, I have been around the block enough to know that if she was driving three night’s straight to get away from something, it was mostly likely a someone. A male someone. As in an angry boyfriend. Or worse, an angry husband. Normally I didn’t let something like that stop me, but on that particular day I still had a fresh healing scar on my right upper arm that reminded me to think twice about such things.
Maybe I’ll tell you about that one someday. Maybe not.
As it was, I made the arrangements with Henrietta, the owner of the Lucky Lick, and helped my new found friend into room twenty four—the grand suite when compared to most of the roach infested motel. I even paid for the thing. Don’t know why. I think I was feeling frisky and hoping for maybe another quick brush of those breasts against my arm. Or hands. Or mouth.
“Here ya go,” I said as I dropped her meager bags onto the only bed in the small room.
“Do I settle up now?” she said. “Or in the morning?”
If I didn’t know better, that sounded like a damned come on. I tried to remember her triple night getaway from God only know’s who. An angry lover wasn’t my idea of a good morning after a good night. “Don’t sweat it. I took care of it for you.”
“That’s nice of you, but I don’t like to owe people.” She grabbed her purse and dug around a few seconds before she bit that plump bottom lip and raised her eyes to me again. “I don’t have any cash. If you can wait I can go and pull out some money for you. Where is an ATM around here?”
“I said don’t sweat it.”
“I insist.”
I headed for the door before she could argue further, and wished her a good night. “Get some sleep, now. Don’t get back on the road until you’ve had at least eight hours. You hear me?”
“I really wished you would let me repay you.”
I turned in place to face her. She was seated on the edge of the bed, wearing just about the prettiest pout I had ever seen on a brunette. “You don’t have any cash anyways, and the nearest ATM is a good ten miles from here and you’re not getting back in that car tonight.”
That was a ballsy lie. What kind of hooker hotel wouldn’t have a cash spot within walking distance? I didn’t think she could work this out, she was so damned tired. She didn’t work it out. She just nodded and thanked me again. I almost left then, but I didn’t. I stood in that damned doorway and despite my inner alarm screaming about her need to run for three days straight, I gave her the cheesiest pickup line in my fairly large collection.
“Unless you can think of another way to repay me?” I said.
At first she looked shocked that I would suggest such a thing. As if sleeping with me was as bad as finding the wrong kind of booger in her booger sandwich. Slowly, ever so slowly, she lost the utter look of horror on her face. She glanced beyond the doorway, to me, to her hands, then back to me.
“What the hell,” she said. “Let’s do it.”
She said something after that, but I stopped listening after what the hell. I stepped back into the room, closed the door and the rest, as they say, is history. We spent the next hour fucking like rabbits before she fell flat out snoring asleep astride me, mid hump. What’s a man to do in that situation? I did what any real man should do. I pulled my cork from her bottle, put her to bed, and went to the shower to finish up that little bit own my own. I won’t have it said of me that I would take advantage of a sleeping beauty, nor waste a good hard on. Sleepier than hell myself after so much exertion, I texted Butch that I was just down the hall in room twenty four whenever he was ready to roll, then curled up nude next to the very naked Cassy and started sawing my own logs.
Now, looking back on it, I feel I should revisit her earlier remark. Let’s do it wasn’t the last thing she said before I jumped her bones faster than a greased pig slipping down a slaughterhouse chute. She said something else that I paid little attention to at the time. Something I wished I had paid more attention. I wonder to this day how different things would’ve been if I had stopped and asked her what in the hell she meant by it. I am fairly sure those few words are what have brought me to this point in my fucked up existence.
What she said was this:
“It’s our last night on earth, anyways.”

Keep ‘em swinging,


Day 2: Writing shit down is hard

Day 2:

I killed a half dozen dead heads today. Shot the first few, then ended up tearing the arm off one and beating the others to death with it. Some of them get pretty soft and fall apart easy. Good for me. Trust a gal to go to pieces on you when the heat is on, right? 
Writing shit down is hard. Not like living among zombies hard. Or rebuilding a transmission hard. Or trying to pass a mango sized turd hard. But trust me when I say it’s hard. Still, it’s my goal to write in this damned thing as often as I can. I need to tell you, whoever you are, where I came from and describe what is happening in the here and now. I need to explain how the last real man lived and eventually died. I mean I guess I won’t be able to write down the dying parts, unless I have some kind of warning or something. Wow, that sounded pretty stupid when I read it back. I need to learn to filter some of my thoughts.
When I say where I came from, I don’t mean my life story, as in I was born, I went to school, I worked, blah, blah, blah. I mean how I got to this desperate point of writing shit down to keep my mind from going to hell.
I mean where I was when the zombie apocalypse started.
 Before I go any further, I want to clear up any argument concerning my situation. These things that chase me, and growl at me, and bleed all over me, and try to bite me, and drag their guts across the ground and limp on one leg or swipe with one arm or wriggle after me because they ain’t nothing but a torso, are most definitely zombies. Just like on the TV or in the film movies. Now I am no expert on the subject. I didn’t go to Zombie Academy and get my Associates in Applied Zombie Science or nothin’. But I can solidly say that they exhibit all of the signs of zombies. Not ghouls. Not infected. Not even CACs, as some chicks are calling it these days. That stands for Chemically Altered Corpses. What bullshit! Just like a woman to complicate shit with over explanations. Call a spade a spade and a dead bitch a zombie.
In case you were wondering, which you probably weren’t but here it is anyways, some run, some stagger, some crawl, and, as I have already said, some wriggle. It just depends on their state of decomposition. Yes, they are still decomposing, because they are most definitely dead. Undead? Whatever. I watched my best friend die, grow a set of giant knockers, then come back to life and attack me. I have seen quite a few capable ladies taken down by a hoard of her undead sisters. A zombie is a zombie is a zombie. The end.
Where was I? My mind tends to wander now I am on my own a lot. That’s the problem of solitude. Makes you crazy. Sometimes I think I would be better off traveling with another person. Then I meet up with some chick and in about ten seconds she reminds me why I travel alone. Women. You can’t live with ‘em, you can’t keep ‘em from flapping their gums or getting themselves eaten by a traveling pack of zombies.
Where was I when the shit hit the fan? I was waiting in my pickup in the parking lot of the Lucky Lick motel just five miles outside of the ever shrinking town of Assville, USA. Of course it wasn’t really called Assville, but it might as well have been. It was a shitty enough little town to wear that label with pride. I tell you what, though, I have traveled quite a bit in my eagerness to stay alive, sticking to small towns like fat stuck to my ex-wife’s ass, and the one thing I have learned is almost all small towns are exactly alike. They are all Assville, USA. Little shitholes spread out across the great nation of ours. The big cities are far worse, and overrun with zombies so there’s that, but the little towns aren’t much better.
Lucky Lick was a small, intimate little spot. When I say intimate I mean a lot of whores lived there. Not that I ever needed the help of a hired lady. I got nothing against the charms of a working gal. Personally, I preferred my encounters on the free side. I had no trouble there either. I won’t lie, I’m no stud bull, but I never had a problem convincing a chick to slip between my sheets. As my daddy used to say, I got charms.
My best pal Butch, on the other hand, had a face full of ugly and a nervous disposition. He couldn’t ask the waitress for another cup of coffee much less ask her for a quick fuck. I don’t blame him. If I were a woman, and thank God I am not, I wouldn’t given him the time of day much less a second cup of Joe. Even if you paid me too. Which is how I ended up at the Lucky Lick. By paying for it, for Butch.
Ah shit. I heard a groan coming from down the street. I should wrap this entry up and get moving again. Just keep the Lucky Lick in mind and I’ll fill you in tomorrow.

Keep ‘em swinging,

Day 1: My friends call me Dick

Day 1:

I remember the first zombie I killed.
She was a whore named Kitty with the kind of tits so tight you just know they are gonna pop if you squeeze ‘em too hard. I plugged her in the left nipple at first, then landed a blow that nearly took of her right arm. She kept coming, as women always do when they deal with me, before I remembered something I had seen on the TV. That’s when I planted my money shot right between those undead eyes. She went down much faster than she did a few hours earlier when I waved a fifty at her and told her to get to work. Headshot. Just like in the movies.
I guess I should explain that I don’t mean whore in a degrading way. Kitty was a hooker, as in I paid her for a fuck. Not my fuck, of course. I don’t pay. I never had too. I hired her to do Butch, a friend of mine. Of course, Butch is dead now. I had to kill him too, poor guy. In the end, he grew a pair of tits much, much bigger than Kitty’s. Thought he was going to suffocate me with them before I put him down. Is that irony? I’m not sure.
I guess I should also explain what in the hell I am doing putting all of this to paper. Seeing as how I am the last man alive, it’s not like anyone is going to read it. The living women I have run into since the end of the world don’t seem interested in what I have to say. I can’t imagine why. I am a god damned conversational goldmine. But no, they never want to talk. Of course, I am not really interested in what they have to say, so it’s win-win there.
Overall, I guess I am keeping this journal because I don’t want the world to forget we were here. Men, I mean. Now that the whole world seems to be made up of the fairer sex, I want to remind those ladies left that masculinity used to be a real thing. So, if you’re some young woman that has found this journal and I am just dust in the wind, allow me to let you know that I was here.
A dyed in the wool, junk swinging man was here.
My friends call me Dick. At least, back when I had friends.  Since the virus killed almost all of mankind, and most of womankind too, I haven’t had much in the way of friends. I don’t claim to know what happened. I just know it happened fast and hard. Normally, I am all about fast and hard, but this was a bit of a bastard way to end the world. I hope whoever set off this little chain of events is rotting in hell, be they man or woman or man turned woman.
That might need a bit of explaining too. 
As far as I understand it, the virus killed every living man on the face of the earth. Except me. No one knows why. They think it’s got something to do with my high sperm count or my naturally occurring massive amounts of testosterone. Now before you start rolling your fucking eyes and saying yeah right, I only know all of this because my ex and I tried to have a baby a few years back with no luck, but when we went to our doctors, it turned out her water works didn’t work at all. I got god damned balls of steel, according to my doc back home.
Home. Now there is a laugh and a half. There is no such thing as home now. There is only running and surviving. Which isn’t as bad as it sounds. At least I don’t gotta work for the man anymore. No punching the clock. No morning commute. No alimony. No court appearances for drunk and disorderly conduct. No fun bar fights over who was next in line for the pool table. No watching the game with the guys. No chicken wings and cold beer. No… no I ain’t having a little pity party on paper. This journal isn’t going to be filled with my feelings. Feelings are bullshit! There is only here and now and staying alive is that here and now.
Back to the virus.
You see, the plague didn’t just kill all of the men. It killed about three fourths of them. The other fourth it … changed. Into women. Undead women. That’s right. The zombie virus turned a fourth of all perfectly alive swinging dicks into zombie vaginas. Those men grew breasts too. Big 'uns. These zombie fake women started killing and infecting what was left of the real women, which in turn made even more zombie women. What a mess. It all happened so fast. In like a week the world went from fine, to what the hell is that noise, to shit hit the fan, to all said and done. Who knew we were hanging by such a thin thread of humanity?
Now we got a world with no men and you know what? It’s falling apart, of course.
If I had to guess, which I don’t but I am going to anyways, I think the virus was started by some big pharmaceutical company that was working on a sex change drug. I know it sounds like a wild guess, but you didn’t see your best fucking friend grow a pair of killer knockers that nearly choked the life out of you. That and I may have had a head’s up from a sexy little doctor lady that may have told me a bit of info about all of this. 
More on her later.
I guess I am done with my first entry. I will try to keep these things light. Well, as light as a post apocalyptic battle of the sexes can be.

Keep ‘em swinging,