He pulled down his trousers. His c.o.c.k, much less discriminating than the rest of him, sprang to attention. He turned Kelly's head toward his own and gently shook her.

"Hey, wake up," he whispered. "I need you."

Kelly's eyes fluttered open to see the all too familiar sight. She started to turn away.

"Not tonight, Oz. Leave me be."

Osborne cursed to himself. Always the same with her. Climbing on the bed, he straddled her chest, his all too average sized erection bobbing in a non-threatening manner.

"What's with the shirt? I told you I hate this shirt. You should sleep in the gray one. It's more comfortable and looks better on you."

Kelly turned her head away from the would-be intruder.

"G.o.ddammit, Oz! I said leave me be, and stop telling me what I should wear. I know what I feel comfortable in and it isn't your G.o.d d.a.m.n gray shirt."

Osborne shimmied up a little closer to his goal.

"It's G.o.d d.a.m.ned," he whispered. He could feel her breath tickling his hairs. Yum.

Kelly tried to roll over, but Osborne's knees kept her trapped on her back.

"What?"

"It's 'G.o.d d.a.m.ned,' not G.o.d d.a.m.n. It isn't your G.o.d d.a.m.n white shirt. Lots of people make that mistake, especially when their -"

As Kelly bit down as hard as she could - which was pretty G.o.d d.a.m.ned hard - Osborne screamed.

In fact, she bit clean through. Blood quickly soaked the Egyptian cotton sheets. He rolled off the bed and onto the floor, screaming louder and higher, his groin a riot of agony.

Kelly sat up and spat out a nice chunk of his manhood. It hit the top of his remaining head and bounced onto the floor, landing on last month's issue of Oprah magazine.

"Next time when I say I'm too G.o.d d.a.m.ned tired maybe you'll leave what's left of your G.o.d d.a.m.ned p.r.i.c.k in your G.o.d d.a.m.ned pants."

He started crawling for the door. "You didn't ... say ... you were ... tired," he panted. "You never ..."

"What was that?" Kelly screamed. She spat on the floor again, discharging a fair amount of red tinged saliva. "What did you say?"

Still on hands and knees, Osborne was out the bedroom door and making his way to the stairs, a long dark red skid mark painted in his wake. His screams had died down to a quiet mewling. He still had the presence of mind to note that even in this situation, Kelly was capable of over-reacting.

The stairs were carpeted in the most G.o.d-awful green s.h.a.g imaginable. Why he had let her talk him into that fiasco he couldn't remember. He was halfway down the stairs when he thought about his severed head.

The doctors would need that, wouldn't they? These days people got things reattached all the time.

The thought of turning around and crawling back up the stairs was too much, and he was pretty sure Kelly was not in the mood to behave rationally. In the back of his mind, he took a small satisfaction in hearing sobbing coming from the room.

He'd let the cops deal with it. First things first.

It wasn't until he was at the bottom of the stairs that he thought about calling 911. He sluggishly fished his cell phone out of his shirt pocket. Somehow it hadn't fallen out during all the mayhem.

Must be my lucky day.

It took him a few moments to focus and dial. He'd lost a lot of blood and was having trouble staying awake. The phone kept ringing and ringing. He started thinking that maybe he misdialed when someone answered.

"You have reached the 911 emergency line. All circuits are currently busy. Do not hang up. Someone will be with you shortly. You have reached the 911 ..."

What the f.u.c.k? Since when did 911 have call waiting?

And why use 'currently busy'? If all circuits are busy, then of course they are currently busy. When would people learn the right time and place to use adverbs?

Osborne struggled to his feet, vomited from the pain and nearly collapsed. He lurched over to the front door. He'd get his neighbor to drive him to the hospital. Earlier he'd noticed Mr. Caulkin's car, a hideous yellow VW Bug, parked in the driveway. On the left side of the driveway, for some reason; should have been on the right. Osborne didn't relish the idea of driving up to the emergency room d.i.c.kless and in a yellow Volkswagen bug, but it beat bleeding to death.

He opened the door and took a painful step outside.

His last breathing thought was: What are all these people doing outside?

Chapter 9.

Eating Aleta After Aleta tried to reject his advances, Fred aimlessly walked the streets, heartbroken and disgusted. He knew it was more infatuation than love but he couldn't get the image of her out of his mind, or the taste of her out of his mouth.

Eventually he found himself in some breather's backyard, leaning against the trunk of a large weeping willow. Its long whip-like branches hid him from the breather's home a few dozen yards away. Waiting for darkness to fall, he kept replaying in his mind's eye the final encounter with Aleta.

He gently smashed his head against the willow trunk.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thought.

"Braaaainnnsss ..." he moaned.

I am without a doubt the sorriest excuse for a zombie anyone's ever seen. Mooning over a woman like some high-school Romeo.

He looked at the note in his hand and immediately felt like an even bigger idiot. It was written in crayon because he found it easier to hold than a pen. His hand-eye coordination wasn't what it used to be. Even so, it took him half the day to finish and it looked like the work of an eight-year-old suffering Ritalin withdrawal.

He doubted anyone other than himself would even be able to make out the words. Not that he was planning on publishing. Like all poets, however, in his dead heart of hearts, Fred wrote for an audience.

What was I thinking? I'm a monster. I eat living flesh and brains. And I've got no prospects. He knew he wasn't exactly Brad Pitt when he was alive, and shambling around in mortified flesh for the past few months hadn't scored him any points in the romance department.

He stopped battering the tree. Bits of bark had embedded themselves into his forehead, but he was too depressed to care.

I had to be an idiot to think she'd ever be interested in me. Zombies do not fall in love, a.s.shole.

He looked at the note in his hands, still readable in the fading light.

A bird can't swim, and a fish won't fly, he thought. And a zombie's gotta do what a zombie's gotta do.

Fred crushed the paper in his hands and let it fall to the ground. Parting the curtain of willow fronds, he made his way to the back of the breather's house just as the sun set.

Eating Aleta By Fred - last name forgotten Unlife is funny.

In my mind, we sit together on a quiet bench, in an abandoned street, in the dead of night.

I do not drag you, broken and bleeding heart still beating, to the seclusion of the alley in the shadow of a dumpster.

In my mind, I spoke the same confession made by countless lovers; only wanting to drink you in, hungry for your touch.

I do not ignore the screams I've heard countless times before, or hunger for your flesh.

I do not feast on you as you push against me.

In my mind, you warm to me, you really get me, appreciate the little things about me unable to keep me out of your thoughts and pleasant daydreams.

I do not tear into you, my sweet Aleta, taking from you little things, here and there.

I do not shamble from the dumpster with the thought of you on my lips, and a bit of you in my teeth.

In my mind ...

Chapter 10.

Jenny's Journal Stapled to the forehead of a male, approximately thirty-five years of age, Asian descent. Both hands severed and found near body.

Jenny's Journal, Sept 4 Timothy Foxwood, the self-righteous p.r.i.c.k and president of the Shadyfarms Condo a.s.sociation, was over yesterday afternoon with a pet.i.tion signed by almost every owner, stating that Mom was not permitted to have any pets henceforth. Can you believe it actually said 'henceforth'? Poor Sparky's barely stopped smoking and now this. I can't prove anything of course, but I'm certain this was in retaliation for the hamster incident of '97 which, aside from a ruined table shot at the Johnson wedding, resulted in almost no property damage or injury. I'm sure it was Mom's refusal to pay the dry cleaning bill or replacement cost of the wedding cake that stuck in Sarah Johnson's craw. She's the bride's mother and everyone knows she's been knocking boots with Foxwood these last several months.

So, a new pet is out and Mom is still beside herself. She just lies in bed all day and watches that stupid Fox News. Stories about people attacking each other, graves turning up empty, blah, blah, blah. What's next, a two-hour special on how Kazoo and his invisible aliens built the pyramids? Poor Mom won't even let me leave to get groceries. Looks like another meal of 'strange meat' sandwiches. I'm going crazy here.

Okay, that's it for now, Journal. I'll try to write more tomorrow, although if this keeps up my next entry may be in crayon and written on a rubber wall.

Ttyl

Chapter 11.

Visiting Day Car Ride Jon glared at the rearview mirror. He was in no mood today for this bulls.h.i.t. His neck was killing him. Whenever he turned his head he was rewarded with sharp pains down his left shoulder and arm. On top of that he was sporting a thumping bad headache, and the cause of it slouched in the Toyota's back seat.

In the world of headaches, Jeffrey was what was known as a carrier.

The little stinker was multi-tasking by managing to look angry, bored and focused at the same time, all while keeping his eyes glued to his Nintendo DS. After a few seconds of blessed silence he sensed it was time to repeat his mantra.

"Why do I have to go?" he whined. "We just went last week."

Jon gripped the steering wheel a little harder and squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment, causing another small agony of pain to travel down his arm. He winced and relaxed his grip.

Please let it be a heart attack.

It was a two hour drive without traffic to Mother Mary's Nursing Home, G.o.d willing, and he did not want to spend it arguing with an eleven-year-old brat.

Jon shot a glance at Lori. She remained oblivious to the outside world, her face buried in a People magazine. Jon grimaced. Like mother, like son. She wasn't bad looking for forty-something. She had beautiful thick black hair, and he didn't give a s.h.i.t if it was natural or dyed. She had a nice rack, although without the help of Wonderbra they sagged a bit. She thought her skin was her best feature, but his vote went to her a.s.s. He had to admit she had nice skin, though. It was pale and vampire-smooth.

Between the pain in his neck and the pain in the a.s.s, he felt extra raw today. They'd been on the road for less than twenty minutes and he already sported a coffee-stain on his new dress shirt, white of course - a result of bashing the d.a.m.ned Tom-Tom against the dashboard. It seemed every place Jon Tanner wanted to go in life was outside of satellite coverage.

He rolled his shoulders trying to appease his neck, and turned on the radio hoping to drown out Jeffrey's relentless b.i.t.c.hing. Neither his neck nor his stepson was having any of it.

The hot story on the radio was the ma.s.sacre in Corksville, a p.i.s.sant little town somewhere in western Pennsylvania. Dozens murdered ... senseless violence similar to the incident in Comfort, Colorado ... blah, blah, blah. Jon switched to an Oldies R&R station. He didn't need some airwave dips.h.i.t telling him there were f.u.c.ked up people in the world. On WRTH Freddie Mercury had come back from the dead, hallelujah! "All dead, all dead, but I should not grieve. In time it comes to everyone..."

"... Why do I have to go every week? I hate it there. Everyone smells like pee."

Lori didn't bother looking up from her magazine.

"It was almost two months ago, and you're going again because it's her birthday. She's eighty today and she wants to see her favorite grandson."

Jon stole another glance at Lori and for just a second he had the strongest urge to lean over and smack her a good one on the back of the head. That would get her to look up from her G.o.dd.a.m.ned rag. Instead he took a deep breath and stared daggers at the road.

Ahead, a hitchhiker shambled down the road. Even from a distance Jon could tell he was high or drunk or something. He kept wandering into the street and then serpentining back and forth. Without thinking Jon gave the car a little more gas.

"I'm her only grandson and she never remembers my name or who I am. Last time she even forgot to put her teeth in. She was gumming an apple the whole time we were there. She's gross."

Jon couldn't help smiling at that. Penny did smell like pee and she was gross. Truth be told, that whole place gave him the w.i.l.l.i.e.s. He knew that if Jeffrey wasn't here, he'd be saying much the same thing about now. G.o.d knows he could think of better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon.

What really burned his tacos was that Lori felt the same way. She loved her mother, sure. But the primary motivators for today's visit were Guilt, Shame and Obligation. Love was a distant fourth.

The hitchhiker took a step into the road and Jon swerved around and past him, tires squealing in protest. He caught a glimpse of the slack-jawed hippie as he sped past. He had a cardboard sign hanging around his neck with the words 'NEW JERSEY' written in bold black marker.

"Probably stoned out of his mind," Jon murmured. Lori gave an "ummm" of agreement without looking up. Jeffrey, proving he was indeed his mother's son, never looked up from his game.

Engrossed in his game, Jeffrey was taking a rare break from his b.i.t.c.hing. Jon sent a prayer of thanks to the makers of Nintendo. G.o.d bless extended battery life. With luck the kid would spend the rest of the trip trying to catch some friggin' Pokemon or guiding Tony Hawk through the world's most dangerous skating park or some other brain-rotting bulls.h.i.t.

Stop 'N Go A short while later, Jon pulled into an Exxon station. Lori's car was a little too small for him and after being crammed behind the wheel for two hours he had to stretch his legs and back.

He got out of the car and rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder in the small hope of relieving his neck pain. Disappointed with the lack of bone-cracking relief, he walked over to the pump and swiped his credit card. Theirs was the only car on either of the two islands. The Stop 'n Go, although lit and sporting a neon Open sign, was empty.

Inside the car Jeffrey rolled down the window.