Too wide, as it turns out.
Henry Thundersson charged into our offices two days ago and barricaded the doors “to keep the crazies out.” Since then, he has drunk approximately sixty bottles of homemade cockroach tequila, used my wall for knife-throwing practice, and broken up our receptionist’s desk for emergency firewood. When we pointed out that the damn desk was made of metal, all he said was “Everythin’ burns when it gets hot enough. Everythin’.”
I’ll be honest: I think Thundersson is full of shit. He claims to be an accomplished monster hunter and extreme survivalist—and he has the scars for it—but I haven’t been able to verify any of his insane stories, even after exhaustive research. (Gavin means he looked up Thundersson on Wikipedia and didn’t find anything –Ed.) Unfortunately, my editor seems to like the guy and wants to give him a shot at an article.
So, welcome to the first edition of Thundersson’s Last Stand: what to do when you’re cornered by unspeakable horrors, as dictated by a drunken lunatic. God help you if you’re ever in a situation desperate enough to consider taking his advice.
Are you recordin’? Right. What do you want me to talk about?
Zombies? You’re obsessed, chum. There’s worse out there than cannibals and walkin’ corpses! You should read up on the Tzitzimimeh, star demons of the Aztec people. Legends say they’ll chew the sun to pieces and feast on the human race! Gobble up our peeled skin like cold cuts! Zombies should be the least of your…
…okay, all right. Get me four hand-rolled Turkish cigarettes and one of the blue bottles from my pack. This won’t take long. Ready?
You’re stuck in an alley. Out of bullets, and cornered by the undead. What do you do?
No use weepin’ or beggin’ for your life. It’ll just make you salty, and zombies are immune to pity. No! Your best bet is to strip down. Get completely nude.
Makes sense when you think about it. You’ve probably been wearin’ those clothes for weeks. Marinatin’ in them, like sweet teriyaki long pork! If you wanna escape, lose that savory wrappin’. The less handholds, the better!
Now, even naked, we males are easy to grab onto. You ladies out there have the edge in the underwear department, and if it’s true that the dead are captivated by the same stuff they loved in life, more’n half the horde will be paralyzed by the sensuous heavin’ of your chestal regions. That’s a damn good start.
So, you’re naked. You’re cornered. Whaddya do? You run right through ‘em! Jump! Scramble! Tell jokes! Shout and sing! Hell, throw firecrackers and do a backflip! The zombie brain is ill-equipped to handle sensory overload. They won’t bite what they don’t understand.
And look at it like this. Even if they pull you to the ground and take their meal, you have an advantage when you stand back up with a hunger for the livin’. Again, especially if you’re female. I’ve been chased by many nude women in my time, and I haven’t always been able to pull the trigger before they got into bitin’ range.
“But Thundersson,” you might say. “This strategy will not work for me, for I am not like other men. Puttin’ it delicately, my trousers conceal a mighty specimen. I may stun a few of those undead men when I leap and spin through their ranks, but they’ll have hold of me soon enough.”
Bad news, chum. There is no escape for the likes of us. It’s the price we pay for the hundreds of dazed lovers in our wake. Go down smilin’! You’ve made the world a better place.
So, there you have it. Stop recordin’. I need to go sit on the roof and eat some deer jerky. Clear my head.
Henry Thundersson is a monster hunter and self-described maximum survivalist. He has no e-mail address, but wishes it to be known that if you write him a letter and leave it nailed to your door, he will find it.
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