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 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,

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