You pathetic humans. Now that this zombie plague has cast you onto the ash heap of history, the stage is set for my mannequin brethren and I to inherit the earth.
The street was approximately 10 feet wide and separated every 50 feet by wrought iron gates. Chris Redfield took a long drag off his cigarette. This street was the scene of many of his nightmares. He would wake up screaming, his head filled with terrifying visions of popular hip-hop artists groping at his genitals. Chris's combat vest bore the inscription "I've spent my time in hell". His camouflage pants had a mysterious stain. The origin of the stain was a mystery as old as time itself. Maybe it was caused by the big bang, or maybe it was just hair gel.
Three zombies staggered around the corner, bright crimson shreds of human flesh hanging from their mouths. Their awkward gait sped up as they spotted Chris. "Are you undead fuckers hungry for something?" Chris said. "How about a rocket-powered knuckle sandwich from fist city!" He shouldered his massive rocket launcher and fired. The rocket hit a barrel of flammable liquid that was sitting in the middle of the street for some inexplicable reason. The resulting blast made all three zombies' heads explode, despite the fact that their bodies bore no visible signs of damage. If this were a John Woo movie, there'd have been an artsy slow motion shot as Chris's still smoldering cigarette butt hit the ground.
The bell on the door rang as Chris entered the boutique. Jill Valentine was modeling a red satin dress in front of a mirror. "What do you think of this dress?" she asked.
"I liked the other one better. Look, we need to get to the police station."
"Well, what would you like to do?"
"Whatever you want. I have no preference."
"Baby, what's wrong?"
"You said we could go to the mall."
"But baby, the mall is overrun with zombies."
"Fine. Never mind then."
"Baby..." Chris pleaded.
The mall food court was deserted. Chris and Jill had the only table - the rest had been piled against the door as a makeshift barricade. The floor was littered with corpses. The twisted expressions on their faces revealed the agony of their final moments. "Why are you mad at me?" Chris said.
"When I asked if you wanted to try on that dress I was just joking." Jill said. "You didn't have to flip out like that."
"Look, we're at the mall. Can't we just try and have a good time?"
"You're right. Let's try and have a good time. Hey look, everyone, we're having a good time!"
"Baby, please. You're making a scene."
Suddenly, a zombie jumped through the window. Two more zombies jumped through the adjacent window. Another zombie jumped through three consecutive windows as it defenestrated out of the mall's window store. "Wow, what a shocking and unexpected turn of events." Chris said. He shot the first zombie with his 9MM hand gun. Its head exploded, splattering the wall with fragments of brain tissue. The second zombie lunged at Chris as he was changing clips. He countered with the North Star Death by Soft Strikes, making the zombie's head instantly explode. He lifted the third zombie over his head and threw it at the fourth a la River City Ransom. Both zombies' heads exploded on impact.
I suspect the reason your race has allowed us to flourish as we have is that you secretly envy our purity, our singular sense of purpose.
"We need to talk about your future." Jill said. "Do you still see yourself fighting the Umbrella corporation ten years from now?"
"I really don't know."
"You'll never achieve self-actualization unless you set some concrete goals for yourself. Read Self Matters by Dr. Phil. I'm begging you."
Suddenly, a T-virus infected lobster crashed through the wall. It was six feet tall and held a rocket launcher in one claw and a giant stainless steel shell cracker in the other.
"Wow, what a shocking and unexpected-"
"Shut up and shoot it!"
Chris fired his gatling gun. The bullets ricocheted off the lobster's rigid outer shell. He fumbled through his pockets for his lighter.
"Quick, give me your can of hair spray!"
Chris lit the jet of hair spray and threw the can. The lobster exploded in a shower of shell fragments and entrails.
"Do you love me?" Jill asked.
"Baby, if loving you is a crime then I throw myself before the mercy of the court... the sexy court."
"Then why won't you get a vagina installed on your chest? I think that'd be hot."
"I just don't- Ow! Stop hitting me on the shoulder. That really hurts."
"Want to hear a funny story? When I was a teenager my dad thought I had a gift for menstrual art, right, so he was constantly pressuring me to paint pictures with my used tampons. I've had low self-esteem ever since."
"That story isn't funny. It's actually pretty horrifying."
"Oh yeah. Well, anyway, you should see The Vagina Monologues. It raises awareness of domestic abuse in third world countries. Did you know that in Pakistan they use red hot fireplace tongs to remove the centipedes from women's vaginas?"
It is we who shall wear the pants of justice and the tube top of victory.
"Do you think it's possible to be a sexy zombie?" Jill said. "Like say we took that zombie over there, tied her down, and gave her a makeover. Would you be attracted to her?"
"Probably not. She's kind of fat."
"We could cut off her arms. Then she wouldn't be fat."
"Yes she would."
"She'd weigh less."
"Yeah, but the rest of her would still be fat."
"Oh God, Chris, I can't take this anymore. I'm sick of hiding from the Umbrella corporation. I'm sick of waking up every morning in some cheap motel with nothing to console me but a bottle of valium and some green herbs. I don't want to be that lonely waitress who cries herself to sleep at night because underneath all that lipstick and eyeliner she's still pure Kentucky tramp; never meant to experience love outside of the backseat fumblings of some high school dropout."
Jill ran out of the room. Chris started to follow her but then hesitated. He sat down and lit a cigarette.
"How did it come to this? We used to be tighter than the old man and his 12-year-old girlfriend in that Robert Heinlein book. Now here I am sitting by myself talking to a dead body."
"Wait, I'm not dead." the bloody, disheveled figure on the floor said. "I'm just seriously wounded. I need medical attention."
"I remember the first night we spent together. We made love like two biomechanical insect drones attuned to the same central hive collective."
"Didn't you hear me? I said I'm alive."
"She extended her slender egg-laying proboscis and I received her embryos."
"Please, I've lost a lot of blood. Do you have any first aid spray?"
Words, Words, Words!
Zack "GAAAAAAAaaaaaa Eeeeeeeee" Parsons here with with an entirely new installment of the serial novel "Untitled Document" designated "Chapter Three" by the overlords of the New World Order.
As the creature within Captain Henry's head slowly died the images, sound, and graphical representations of the other senses fluctuated, cut-out for several seconds at a time, and eventually disappeared entirely. These last snippets indicated that Captain Henry was either barely injured or possessed of immense reserves of willpower. By the time the technicians were sure that Captain Henry had survived the helicopters of the cleanup teams were already heading back to Belize and the timer had been long set on the atomic charge. The technicians huddled together and in hushed tones reassured one another that the atomic blast would surely kill Captain Henry. No man on foot could escape the blast radius even in the hours granted by the time-delay of the pheromone trails
The future of mankind may depend on you informing yourself about this powerful and gripping work of mediocre comedy scifi. By the way, if you have any comments feel free to e-mail me. They have been quite positive so far but I can't imagine there are no people who hate it.
Emma Stone was the most paranoid person I had ever met. In private she wore a full suit of medieval armor at all times, visor down.
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