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JustChou
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Name: Justin "Wolverine"
Birthday: 4/8/1986
Gender: Male
Interests: taekwondo, working on cars, motorcycles, racing and motorsports of all kinds, partying, watching and making films, dancing, singing, politics, speaking and debate, photography, meeting people and talking to strangers
Message: message me
Member Since:
2/2/2003
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| I had a nice evening today. Phong and Sandy came over and Phong told me lots of nice stories about his trip to South America. I went to bed tired, but content.
I was woken up 30 minutes later by a drunk call from my ex-girlfriend,
Aileen Ritchie.
She informed me that she was supposed to go out to a bar with her girlfriend in search of some "fresh meat."
But she didn't.
Instead, she told me that she had gone to her other ex-boyfriend's apartment, where she she was very drunk and surrounded by horny guys.
I politely ended the phone call with her, and realized that I was reeling from the pain of receiving such a call. Over the past three weeks, I have had an exceptionally hard time getting over her. Thus, instead of a quiet night's sleep, all I can think of is "fresh meat" and drunk, horny guys all over a woman who I once loved very dearly.
In the face of such spite, I wrote her an admittedly spiteful text message:
"Thanks for ruining my evening. I hope you're quite pleased with yourself. Good luck finding that fresh meat."
Only to be surprised by this response:
"That's pretty cruel. Gee thanks."
That's the way it is with Aileen...she's always the victim, never the perpetrator. | | |
| Continued from chapter 2.5:
"Limping through the back door, he dipped into his supply of
courage and found but a few drops. Suddenly, in a flash of brightly
colored cloth, black hair, and silver metal, a frying pan flew in an
arc towards him. It caught Rex on the left temple, and he instantly
saw the room rotate and move upwards to meet him. There stood the
pretty girl that had been sitting behind him, wielding the pan
triumphantly. As he was descending it occurred to him briefly that in
the instants before it happened, he had been groaning, limping, and
covered in smeared blood, mud, and black bile..."
-
blink. blink blink.
Blue.
Blink Blink. Turn.
Blue and red.
Rex squinted his eyes to try to gain focus. Is that the hazmat symbol? He squinted his eyes further, and barely made out the scythe-like pincers of the hazardous materials logo on the box to his right. Rex was laying on his right side, curled up on a cot, surrounded by a tent made of blue tarp-like material. The portable tent was about the size of a bedroom, with various medical and containment devices standing about lifelessly.
"Finally." Rex heard a voice over his left shoulder. Groaning, he rolled over onto his left to see a tired policeman standing up from where he'd been sitting on a folding chair. His utility belt creaked slightly as he rose to his feet.
"Quick, say something coherent so that I know your brain hasn't turned to mush from that zombie juice," he said, peering down at Rex and sticking his thumbs in his belt.
Rex looked for words, furrowing his eyebrow as he tried to think of something profound that would sum up his entire humanity, something that would prove that every sector of his brain was working fine.
"uhh...I think I'm good." Well, so much for that, he thought.
"Yeah, looks like you'll be just fine." The policeman replied.
"Where am I?" Rex croaked, sitting up in the cot. His body felt like it'd been thrown into a cement mixer and dropped on itself for about twenty minutes.
"Temporary medical and hazardous materials tent. Patients with interactions with the undead are never admitted to hospitals for fear of cross contamination, so this is SOP. Doc outside says you're good to go." He said, matter of factly. He gestured towards Rex's things in the corner of the room: backpack, books, motorcycle jacket and boots. "Unfortunately, we had to burn your clothes, but we did manage to save the boots."
Rex stared at his things, thinking about what happened. The last thing he could recall was a bright flash of color before getting dropped by a kitchen utensil. He reached up to his left temple, and smarted as his finger brushed up against the patch of black and blue. He smiled to himself weakly, recalling that he'd been mistaken for a zombie himself. Saved a man's life, defeated two zombies mostly unscathed, and this was all that he had to show for it. He wondered if perhaps she'd take him out to dinner or something for his troubles.
"Where's that girl?" He asked the officer, who seemed to be waiting for Rex to get up so that he could leave.
"Oh that sweet thing?" He replied, smiling knowingly, "She left about 10 minutes ago. Left you a note though, I think she put it in your jacket. The gentleman was still a little too shocked to write."
Five minutes later, Rex climbed onto his motorcycle wearing only his helmet, gloves, jacket, boots, and hospital gown. The sky was getting dark, and he knew that it'd be a cold ride home. Remember the note, he took his gloves off and fished a folded piece of paper out from his pocket. In nice, flowing handwriting was the following:
"I'm so sorry about hitting you! Not exactly the best way to thank you for saving my boyfriend's life. We'll buy you a very nice dinner sometime, we are forever in your debt. Josie and Frank." Her phone number was scrawled underneath.
"Eh." Rex said underneath his helmet. Not only was the dude he saved her boyfriend, but a nice dinner? No, "we owe you a life debt, now here's a new motorcycle/ferrari?" Or "Mr. Frank, I'm leaving you because you can't defend yourself from zombies, and Mr. Rex, allow me to kiss the massive head wound that I inflicted all better?"
Rex just smiled to himself and shrugged. So it goes.
| | |
| This was supposed to be part two of two, but I don't have that much time to write so I'll just post this up. Anticipate the final part of this chapter on Tuesday or Wednesday.
Earlier this chapter...
"As the zombie fell, Rex fell with it, facedown, with his kicking
leg near its head and the zombie's rotted, unmanacured toes growing
larger in his vision. It briefly occured to him that those toes were
quite large, and that they were connected to very large feet that were
connected to a very large zombie. Like, the zombie of a two hundred
lb. dude. Like, the zombie of a two hundred lb. dude that he was about
to be wrestling with. Briefly he thought that it'd be nice if Duke
were there to football kick the zombie in the head, just as he'd done
to the jabroni that tackled and tried to choke out Rex at that last
party..."
Rex placed his arms in front of him in a proper falling triangle, but given the speed of the descent still managed to bash his nose against his assailant's right shin. Reeling in pain, he repeatedly tried to yank his left leg free of the zombie's grip. Don't bite my foot don't bite my foot don't bite my foot. His mind raced as he tried to figure out what to do.
"HWRAAAAR!" The zombie screamed as it bit down onto the side of his left foot.
Nothing. The zombie's blackened and cracked teeth were no match for his leather racing boot. Sensing another opportunity, he yanked his left leg once more. Disembodied teeth flew forth chased by a geyser of black blood. Without time to gag, Rex quickly pulled his legs up to his body, and sat on the zombie's thigh, straddling the leg. Hoping that joint locks worked on the undead, he reached forward, grabbed the top of the foot with his left hand, snaked his right arm under the leg and grabbed his left wrist with his right hand and torqued the figure-four lock as hard as he could. The ankle gave way with a sickening snap, and the zombie screamed once more, this time with more anguish.
Rex pushed off of his legs and into a roll, rising onto his feet and facing the rising zombie. It stood up to about chest level before putting too much weight on his broken ankle, and falling forward. As he fell, Rex launched his right up as hard and fast as he could, catching the zombie square in the nose, caving in the front of its face and snapping its head back hard enough to break its neck. It fell once more, defeated, and laid completely motionless. Rex knew it was done...contrary to popular belief, zombies are too stupid to play dead.
Groaning, he stumbled up towards the patio, his right knee smarting as he placed weight on it. Must have been bruised on the zombie's face. It was alright, Rex just had to chill out until the calvary arrive. Just as he made it past where he was sitting, he heard a tremendous crashing sound coming from behind the counter inside the cafe.
"Fuuuuuuuuck..." he said groaned slowly and loudly, wondering how he'd continue fighting with his busted knee. He didn't have long to decide, the crashing sounds seemed to be getting more hurried. Limping through the back door, he dipped into his supply of courage and found but a few drops. Suddenly, in a flash of brightly colored cloth, black hair, and silver metal, a frying pan flew in an arc towards him. It caught Rex on the left temple, and he instantly saw the room rotate and move upwards to meet him. There stood the pretty girl that had been sitting behind him, wielding the pan triumphantly. As he was descending it occurred to him briefly that in the instants before it happened, he had been groaning, limping, and covered in smeared blood, mud, and black bile...
TO BE CONTINUED....
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| Tahitian vanilla chai. Rex had no idea where Tahiti is, but he silently thanked all of its founders and residents for the hard work and innovation they put into making the beautiful drink that was sitting in the yellow mug in front of him. Tea, sugar, cream, and love all mixed together into a blissful concoction that comforted him in the slightly chilly lakefront breeze. Wonderful. He breathed in through his nose, and back out through the mouth, looking for the slight head rush that always came with deep breaths of cool air. Nothing like a weekend getaway to get some work done and enjoy the tranquil outdoor patio of a quiet lakeside coffeeshop.
His was one of four tables assembled in a circle on the patio, and he
sat sideways so that he could see the lake out of the left side of his
eye. There was one unoccupied table between him and the water, and two
more behind him. Thumbing the wheel on his music player, he cued up some gentle blues to enhance the mood even more. Two hours of work down, maybe one more before jumping on the bike and heading home, he thought. Slightly squinting his eyes, he arched his back forward to crack it, then moved his neck side by side to relieve some tension there as well. As he turned across his left shoulder, he caught a glimpse of a pretty young lady with long black hair and thin, sharp eyebrows, who had sat down in the same direction as him in the table behind him, and was looking attentively at what looked like some schoolwork. He briefly entertained the thought of going to talk to her, but as he did, she looked up and caught his eye. He snapped back around with a jerk, and pretended to be very interested in the next song on his mp3 player. Nice, round eyes, he thought, as he grinned to himself sheepishly and went back to his work. But not today. Don't spoil the mood now. Don't be an idiot now. Work now.
About five minutes later, he was startled as the long-haired girl brushed past his arm and into his table, knocking his chai over. Undaunted, she scrambled around the table and ran inside the café.
"Excuse me miss," Rex called digsustedly as he stood up and waved his hand at his spilt chai. "You knocked over my ch-"
"AHHHHHH!" His call for beverage justice was interrupted by a scream at the waterfront. Rex snapped his head to the left quickly, and was stunned by what he saw.
"What the fuck-?" he said out loud, his voice quivering as he felt the need to shiver, cower, and vomit all at once. There on the waterfront, about 15 yards from where he now stood, was a man in his 30's. He was wearing a red flannel shirt, and below that shirt there were a pair of rolled up khakis. Below the khakis were his muddy legs and a pair of arms. Attached to the arms was just about the ugliest goddamn thing Rex'd ever seen. Its skin was a ghastly grey with blotches of green and blue-purple, and it had boils and sores all over. Also, where one of its eyes were there was a festering wound and a hole that looked like a golf ball had been driven into its head. It wasn't the first zombie he'd seen in person, but Rex was almost certain it was the ugliest. It was trying its hardest to pull the poor man into the water, and the man was holding on desperately to a small root and clawing at the sand and dirt to save himself from certain doom.
Rex snapped his head to the left and right to see if there was any help. Finding that there was no nobody, he sensed the moral imperative and sprinted towards the man. He briefly considered the tradeoff of the heavy motorcycle boots he was wearing. They would protect his foot from the hardest kick he could deliver, but their limited range of motion would also prevent him from being able to deliver the hardest kick he could. Oh well, he thought, just as he reached the lakeside, planted his left foot, and fired a right roundhouse kick into the zombie's head. To his great surprise, it exploded like a rotting cantelope, its pieces ploping into the water.
"Did you know that zombies, because they don't have to breathe, can wander around underwater? The water speeds up the decomposition, but occasionally they've been known to go up on the shore and attack humans." Something in the water must've softened the bone, he thought, as he remembered the words of his friend Duke just as the arms went limp and the man sprinted back up to the patio. Rex looked down at his right boot, which was now covered in water, water-softened bone and grey flesh. Just was he was doing this, a black shape wandered across the right side of his vision and a cold, clamy hand attempted to grab the right side of his face. It just barely grazed his right eye as he flinched to the left and turned out of the way, running up towards the patio. The second zombie stumbled towards him, letting out a fearsome but waterlogged roar.
Rex quickly surveyed the patio, looking for a weapon, with his right eye squinted in pain. Seeing nothing obvious, he grabbed a chair, spun around, and hurled it at the zombie, where it hit its legs, bounced off, and fell. The gray mass of undead stupidity looked down at the chair that was now sitting in its path. Any other time, this may have looked comical, but all Rex saw was an opportunity. He ran towards the stationary opponent. Left leg first. Then right leg. Left leg. Right leg. Left leg bend, and launch, right leg up. As he flew and twisted over the fallen chair, he thrusted out with a left back kick, catching the zombie square in the chest with a satisfying thud. The zombie fell backwards, but as he did Rex noticed that it had grabbed his leg firmly. As the zombie fell, Rex fell with it, facedown, with his kicking leg near its head and the zombie's rotted, unmanacured toes growing larger in his vision. It briefly occured to him that those toes were quite large, and that they were connected to very large feet that were connected to a very large zombie. Like, the zombie of a two hundred lb. dude. Like, the zombie of a two hundred lb. dude that he was about to be wrestling with. Briefly he thought that it'd be nice if Duke were there to football kick the zombie in the head, just as he'd done to the jabroni that tackled and tried to choke out Rex at that last party...
TO BE CONTINUED.
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| Rex stepped through the threshold, transitioning from the dark, humid atmosphere of the cantina and into the yellow, bleaching morning sun. Squinting in the light, he thanked his good graces; the light was oppressively bright, but not too hot. He looked back over his right shoulder, making no effort to identify the vague shapes moving about on the dance floor. Sighing, he silently cursed himself once more for having lost his credit card. He knew that there would be no credits lost, and that a new one would be issued soon, but there was a certain feeling of failure that he just could not shake, a sense that he had in some way lost a little bit more control over his life, a sense that the little piece of plastic was supposed to be important to him and somehow the alcohol had gotten between him and a top priority. Fuck.
Rex walked across the dusty parking lot and towards where his bike was parked. Briefly it occurred to him that the chain was too loose, and that the bike needed an oil change. And a speedometer. And front turn signals. Fuck. The annoyance rubbed at him like a pair of new jeans before being broken in. Following the disappointment of losing the card and the shoddy state of his mount, a little sliver of loneliness crept into his mind. He looked back towards the bar and held his glance for slightly too long, furrowing his eyebrows at the thought that he really had no good reason to be upset, and that there were plenty of beautiful women inside who were still willing to give him some of their attention. This was the second time in a row that he was leaving a fun, social event with sorrow. A cursory self-inspection of his soul revealed little more than confusion...surely it wasn't the woman he had parted ways with more than a month ago, it had been so clear that there was no future in that relationship. He thought for a second that he just missed the feeling of being close to someone, of being touched. Furrowing his eyebrows again he shook his head as if to shake the feelings out.
"I'm not alone, I wish I was, 'cause then I'd know I was down because I couldn't find a friend around to love me like they do right now...they do right now." - Something's Missing - John Mayer Trio
No...nothing's missing. Friends, check. Money, check. Opposite sex, check. Motorcycle, check. Fuck. He deftly moved his right hand to the key that he'd stuck in the ignition, turning it on and thumbing the starter button. The bike roared to life as he blipped the throttle quickly to get the bike ticking over. Looking down at the glossy blue tank, he stared at his reflection briefly, wondering what the fuck he was going to do with himself, where he was going to find fulfillment. Gotta stop being so fucking emo, that's what has to happen, he thought to himself.
The bike idled in the sun, gently asking him to throw a leg over and let the wind and torque clear his mind. He looked into his bags; he had enough work to do to keep him occupied for a very long time without having to worry about the phantom pains in his heart. Man gotta get out of this fucking rut. Stop being so emo. Stop being confused and start riding, motherfucker.
Kickstand up. Clutch in. First gear down. Clutch slowly out. Throttle slowly on.
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