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 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,

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