She thought about this for a while, this annoying and insulting
little problem that kept growing like a worsening twitch in the eye. Oh
she had the eye all right. She saw all, and was sick of what she saw.
She was sick of Robert, and all the other Roberts who’ve disgraced the
world and those living in it. Or not living, in it.
Her alarm clock was set precisely at 4:30am: Cynthia liked to catch the black sky before it turned different hues of the morning pink because it felt the equivalent of catching criminals before they could disguise themselves into something nice or at least commonplace – the everyday morning pedestrian, marathon runner in-training even, what have you – and run away. She was nit-picky too, in a world-reflecting sense. She liked her coffee black as a vacuous eye – no sugar for her, or God forbid, splenda – because she thought all of humanity had too much sweetness in it that it was lying to itself; if there is any bitterness in the world, it should not be denied but confronted, head-on. She liked her house as a cold as a meat locker – it’s a cold, cruel and unfair world out there, she would always mutter to herself, especially whenever she worked with Robert, whom she loathed with the deepest distaste.
Did Robert know all this about his secretary, Cynthia? Robert, the richest, most influential businessman, who sat with his nose in the air, on the 30th floor of the Manifest Towers? He knew her hands were always cold, and so was her body, her torso, her legs. But, nope. He was as blind as a bat to all this. His blindness will come back to bite him.
And by God, it will bite him hard.
This is what Cynthia did on a daily basis: after getting up, beating dawn in the face with a curled lip as always, she made her way to the bathroom and took a quick cold shower, making sure she scrubbed clean every part of her body. Every inch, every single inch. Next, she brushed her teeth with the latest recommended toothbrush by dentists nationwide. After flossing that is; she must not forget about flossing. When it came time to do her make-up, she suppressed vomit building up inside. Cynthia hated make-up, but was forced to wear it. It was part of the ‘dress code’ at her work. Perhaps part of the ‘dress code’ of society, even. And high-heels, how she abhorred those agonizing devices made to make her feet look ‘pretty.’ Yes, with her toes sticking out through the far end, like how a mischievous kid sticks out his tongue. Yes, with the blood seeping out through the scratched skin at the back of her ankles, red staining the inside of that end of the shoe, creating a dull burgundy fade after a few days.
And yet Cynthia wore these for months upon months upon months to work . . . with Robert.
Ugh. Her face cringed each morning before the waft of his cologne hit her face.
“Good morning, Cynthia,” said Robert, age 31, five feet, eleven inches, dark brown, almost black hair in the mold of Clark Kent’s hair. But Robert was no superman. Sure he had abs of steel and a book of charming pick-up lines up his sleeves, but he was no super hero. He was as vain and arrogant as a superman look-alike could get. His middle name was “Baby, baby, be with me and you won’t regret.” Or was that one of his pick-up lines? Perhaps his middle name was this: “Sexy, but ignorant.” Yes, that must have been it, if you believe middle names to be descriptive lines about a person – down to the essentials. Like the way of the Native Americans, because their epithets are native to them. Robert couldn’t help being, “sexy, but ignorant.” That characterization was indigenous to him, born and living in every one of his genes and emanating out of his body through his body language. His despicable actions . . . with women.
Ugh.
“Cynthia, could you go get me a coffee?” That wasn’t a question. “You know how I like it.” Yes, Cynthia did in fact know how he liked his coffee, unfortunately. And that was expected, after working for him for almost ten years now.
“Do I now?”
“I sure hope so.”
“You sure hope so.”
“Cynthia?”
“Yes Robert?”
“The coffee, now?”
“Yes, Robert.”
Her smile, which had been one hundred percent artificial throughout her brusque conversation with Robert, continued to stay a smile, but one that was sarcastic in color as she left his office to head to the break room.
Moments later Cynthia entered Robert’s office with an espresso and a mint for Robert often liked to have something minty after his morning coffee. As Cynthia placed the cup next to the telephone, a memory jolted her spine, making the espresso spill a little, over the cup and onto the small saucer underneath it. The memory was one she had been trying to repress for several months now. It was one she was ashamed of and hated as much as she hated Robert.
Probably because that memory involved Robert.
The memory took place about nine years after she was employed at Manifest Towers – just recently. Originally, she applied for Robert’s position. Back then, Robert was almost forced to relinquish his job for a more minor one. But no, no, no, that wouldn’t look good for Robert now will it – a man who had good relations with the female secretaries of other businessmen, the higher ups, and therefore had good connections with other companies? But when the head of his company saw that the person replacing him was Cynthia, a powerful woman with much more credentials, qualifications, and honest confidence -- but a woman nonetheless -- they were quick to let him keep his position.
Cynthia, instead, was given the position of his secretary. That’s when her loathing intensified. Her loathing for how the world worked.
However, the memory took place nine years after her employment commenced. It was during a cold, winter night when a horny Robert occupied his office. Everyone else had left work to go home. It was already ten o’clock in the evening, oh but of course. He found himself unable to get any work done. No worries, he thought. I’ll let Cynthia do the leg work, or better yet, give me a reason for distraction.
Cynthia had entered his office with the recovered files he had asked for when he showed signs of friskiness. Unfortunately for Cynthia, that night was one in which she was vulnerable. Having been alone for the past nine years, she was throbbing to the touch of Robert, or anyone else, really. She was split in half that night in Robert’s office: one side of her was the regular Cynthia, with her guard of a wall standing erect, casting a proud shadow from Robert’s desk lamp; and the other side, a much softer side, was in need of attention and intimacy, no matter how forced it was.
On the desk. The papers falling off, coating the floor with white, like the snow outside, covering the ground. Much to busy in gratification to answer the ringing telephone. It rang and rang and rang, until his wife left a message, saying she missed him and could not wait until he got home to be with her.
For it was, indeed, ten o’clock at night.
Later on in Cynthia’s apartment, Cynthia, alone, crawled herself into a ball under the sheets and cried herself to sleep. Her alarm clock, set at 4:30am still, watched her, pitilessly. That was the only time she cried in her entire life, save for the time someone told her she sounded like a man when she was fourteen years old.
Tense words lashed out under their breaths the next day at work.
“That will never happen again, Robert. I’m warning you.”
“Oh, but why? You had fun didn’t you?” He began to caress her elbow.
She tugged away from him. “You have a wife; I can blackmail you.”
“But why would you do that? You would get hell from her. Plus, you would lose your job, now wouldn’t you?” His hand began to reach for her elbow once more.
And again, she tugged away.
Open jobs were sparse at the time, and she knew she had to keep her job to pay her rent, her bills, everything. It’s a cold, cruel and unfair world out there, she muttered to herself, leaving his office to get his morning espresso.
But on this morning, after that jolt of a memory finished sparking the inside folds of her brain, Cynthia promised herself that she would get justice. It was going to be a late night, just like that wintery night in the memory. But things would run differently.
His office door was often kept closed. As Cynthia was carrying important folders for him to look over, she walked down the hall, her eyes steadily set on the line of light underneath his door. Already from seven in the evening to eleven, she had done numerous tedious jobs for him, getting him important documents, looking up information from various sources, making important phone calls. Robert, she could tell, only pretended to do work. Whenever she took a quick, furtive glance over to him, she saw his eyes diverted to the mirror on his desk. He loved looking at himself, admiring his own hair, his face and how it seemed to complement his neck and chest. Occasional chest hair popping out for sex appeal. And white, straight teeth too. His insensitive eyes, good for glossing but not for caring.
And when he called for something, he was annoying as ever. He yelled out demandingly, “Cynthia, oh Cynthia! Cynthia, did you make copies of the reports you made yet? I need them now!” Through his closed door, his voice traversed the hallway, uselessly.
For Cynthia did not respond to him this time.
“Cynthia! I need those damn reports! Come here, lady! I’m not playing games, sweet thing!”
No response.
His desk lamp flickered, then turned off. Alone in the dark, Robert used the light from his phone to substitute a flashlight. Even so, this dim light could only light up a limited space. He made his way to the door, bumping his knee on one of his chairs, causing him to curse in the name of Cynthia. Once he opened the door, a stuffy blackness descended.
“Cynthia? Cynthia, enough with these games. Come here right now. If this is about the whole . . . incident . . . you’re not treating it with professionalism. I remind you that I have the power to fire you. I know you don’t want that.”
Silence.
“Cynthia! Cynthia?” His echo rang through the darkness until it was interrupted by a moan. It was to his right. Quickly, he shone his cell phone light in that direction . . . in the direction of the break room.
His heart beat pounded with each step closer to the break room whose door was only slightly open. Making his way in, he shone his light hesitantly looking. Could Cynthia be in there, hurt and therefore moaning? Or could it be something darker?
The moan sounded again, this time louder and deeper in pitch. It was not Cynthia’s voice. Could not have been. It came from behind the garbage can – something or someone was crouching there. Robert began to question if it was even a human voice, and quickly started stepping backwards toward the door again. Pellets of sweat dripped from his head as fear raised hell inside of him. He got to the door, but someone had locked it. Robert banged on the window, when a hand landed on his shoulder, the moan, this time directly in his ear. He felt saliva and spit on his ear lobes and even on the inside of his ear as the creature moaned at him.
Robert tried to take the creature’s hand off of him, and saw that the hand was half flesh, half bone, all covered in blood. When he saw whom it belonged to, he almost fainted. He came eye to eye to a zombie, whose mouth started aiming toward Robert’s once lustful eyes.
Defensively, Robert’s hand went straight for the zombie’s head, pushing it away from him, his pointer finger accidentally poking the zombie’s eye deeply so that when Robert released his hand, the eye was stuck on his finger, yet still attached to the socket by means of optical tendons. He yelped in a high pitched voice, and took the finger-punctured eye off of his pointer finger and started banging on the window of the break room door.
The glass shattered and Robert leaped through it, landing on something soft but cold.
A zombie. One of many who was trampled over by the multitude of zombies who began picking Robert up, smelling him.
“Ge’ off of me!” How could he escape? There must have been at least eighty of them out in the hall with him. Eighty against one Robert. He would still need to make his way down the stairs or elevator, then out to the parking lot to his car.
Zombies were everywhere as the lights in the hall started flickering on and off. Gray and pale brown bodies with hollow eyes surrounded Robert. They climbed on him, pulling on his clothes, smelling his body, petting his chest hair before licking it with their cold, purple-pink tongues. “Tastes, tastes so good. One lick. One lick more.” Robert was constantly prying zombies off of him with his muscular arms. Sometimes he was too strong for them; instead of pushing the zombies off, he accidentally ripped off their arms, legs, feet and head.
He was able to make it to the elevator, stepping over zombie bodies he had knocked down. The elevator doors opened and a flood of zombies poured out, chanting “Fresh, fresh Robert. Dinner is served. Fresh, fresh Robert. Dinner is served.” They toppled over Robert causing his knee to bend backwards. “Oh Jesus, my knee!” screeched Robert. The zombies giggled.
There was no question about it: Robert would have to crawl out to safety; his broken knee would serve him no good. He reached the stairs surprisingly, and once there, he relied heavily on the railing, zombies chasing after him. He thought he was going to die, the way his heart was racing through the roof of Manifest Towers. With each step down the stairs, his broken leg thudded on the step behind him. Thirty flights of stairs was unbelievable, but adrenaline was coursing through his blood – his warm, fresh blood. In no time, he was out in the empty parking lot, save for his car, a white bmw equipped with a sunroof.
When he got in and started the car, he saw zombies making their way toward him, through the rearview mirror. Flooring the car to the front parking lot, Robert was quick to avoid zombies, coming through the bushes that lined the lot. If not, he ran them over with a vengeance. Bump after bump after bump, and Robert was all smiles. Suddenly, the sunroof glass broke and in fell a zombie whose head snapped off after hitting the passenger seat, and rolled onto Robert’s shoulder and down to his crotch area. Robert yelped and took the head, intending to throw it out his window, only to have it bounce back to him because he forgot to open it. He had screamed again when it bounced onto his own head.
Suddenly, there was a large crash from the on top of his car, denting the inside. Leaning toward his window and remembering to open it first this time, Robert looked up and saw black figures – objects from the dark sky – jumping off from his office window, aiming for his car, which was, by now, slowed to a stop. His eyes, still distracted with the living dead bodies falling on top of his car, Robert did not see the approaching zombie jumping on the front of his car, banging his head on his windshield until a huge crack was made, and the zombie knocked himself out cold. Purple blood seeped through a crack in his skull and nose bridge. But no, the zombie was not dead. His mouth opened, eyes widened. When the zombie gave an earsplitting moan, the head could not help but vibrate with spit spurting out of his hole of a mouth. The zombie started to lick the crack, as if it were his lover. He licked it until his tongue started bleeding from the broken glass. Robert could see yellow, thick puss gushing out of the zombie’s eyes as the zombie grew more interested – more excited – in licking the windshield, his tongue, and tongue only, finally making its way through the glass.
Robert could not help it. He pinched the tongue.
At his touch, the zombie wailed and screeched, “Tongue for tongue!” The zombie’s head banged into the saliva-infested crack and broke through. He stuck his tongue out as if to give tongue action in a kiss with Robert.
Robert couldn’t take it anymore. He opened his door and rushed out, crawling head first. Headlights of a speeding car blinded him right before its tires crushed his head.
The car abruptly stopped. Out of it, stood Cynthia. She knelt down next to Robert’s body, his head as smashed as a watermelon thrown out the window of a three-story house. Her hands reached in her cleavage for a zipper that led all the way up to her forehead. She unzipped, uncovering the face of a most sexy zombie.
“It’s a cold, cruel and unfair world out there,” she said, with a curled lip.
Her alarm clock was set precisely at 4:30am: Cynthia liked to catch the black sky before it turned different hues of the morning pink because it felt the equivalent of catching criminals before they could disguise themselves into something nice or at least commonplace – the everyday morning pedestrian, marathon runner in-training even, what have you – and run away. She was nit-picky too, in a world-reflecting sense. She liked her coffee black as a vacuous eye – no sugar for her, or God forbid, splenda – because she thought all of humanity had too much sweetness in it that it was lying to itself; if there is any bitterness in the world, it should not be denied but confronted, head-on. She liked her house as a cold as a meat locker – it’s a cold, cruel and unfair world out there, she would always mutter to herself, especially whenever she worked with Robert, whom she loathed with the deepest distaste.
Did Robert know all this about his secretary, Cynthia? Robert, the richest, most influential businessman, who sat with his nose in the air, on the 30th floor of the Manifest Towers? He knew her hands were always cold, and so was her body, her torso, her legs. But, nope. He was as blind as a bat to all this. His blindness will come back to bite him.
And by God, it will bite him hard.
This is what Cynthia did on a daily basis: after getting up, beating dawn in the face with a curled lip as always, she made her way to the bathroom and took a quick cold shower, making sure she scrubbed clean every part of her body. Every inch, every single inch. Next, she brushed her teeth with the latest recommended toothbrush by dentists nationwide. After flossing that is; she must not forget about flossing. When it came time to do her make-up, she suppressed vomit building up inside. Cynthia hated make-up, but was forced to wear it. It was part of the ‘dress code’ at her work. Perhaps part of the ‘dress code’ of society, even. And high-heels, how she abhorred those agonizing devices made to make her feet look ‘pretty.’ Yes, with her toes sticking out through the far end, like how a mischievous kid sticks out his tongue. Yes, with the blood seeping out through the scratched skin at the back of her ankles, red staining the inside of that end of the shoe, creating a dull burgundy fade after a few days.
And yet Cynthia wore these for months upon months upon months to work . . . with Robert.
Ugh. Her face cringed each morning before the waft of his cologne hit her face.
“Good morning, Cynthia,” said Robert, age 31, five feet, eleven inches, dark brown, almost black hair in the mold of Clark Kent’s hair. But Robert was no superman. Sure he had abs of steel and a book of charming pick-up lines up his sleeves, but he was no super hero. He was as vain and arrogant as a superman look-alike could get. His middle name was “Baby, baby, be with me and you won’t regret.” Or was that one of his pick-up lines? Perhaps his middle name was this: “Sexy, but ignorant.” Yes, that must have been it, if you believe middle names to be descriptive lines about a person – down to the essentials. Like the way of the Native Americans, because their epithets are native to them. Robert couldn’t help being, “sexy, but ignorant.” That characterization was indigenous to him, born and living in every one of his genes and emanating out of his body through his body language. His despicable actions . . . with women.
Ugh.
“Cynthia, could you go get me a coffee?” That wasn’t a question. “You know how I like it.” Yes, Cynthia did in fact know how he liked his coffee, unfortunately. And that was expected, after working for him for almost ten years now.
“Do I now?”
“I sure hope so.”
“You sure hope so.”
“Cynthia?”
“Yes Robert?”
“The coffee, now?”
“Yes, Robert.”
Her smile, which had been one hundred percent artificial throughout her brusque conversation with Robert, continued to stay a smile, but one that was sarcastic in color as she left his office to head to the break room.
Moments later Cynthia entered Robert’s office with an espresso and a mint for Robert often liked to have something minty after his morning coffee. As Cynthia placed the cup next to the telephone, a memory jolted her spine, making the espresso spill a little, over the cup and onto the small saucer underneath it. The memory was one she had been trying to repress for several months now. It was one she was ashamed of and hated as much as she hated Robert.
Probably because that memory involved Robert.
The memory took place about nine years after she was employed at Manifest Towers – just recently. Originally, she applied for Robert’s position. Back then, Robert was almost forced to relinquish his job for a more minor one. But no, no, no, that wouldn’t look good for Robert now will it – a man who had good relations with the female secretaries of other businessmen, the higher ups, and therefore had good connections with other companies? But when the head of his company saw that the person replacing him was Cynthia, a powerful woman with much more credentials, qualifications, and honest confidence -- but a woman nonetheless -- they were quick to let him keep his position.
Cynthia, instead, was given the position of his secretary. That’s when her loathing intensified. Her loathing for how the world worked.
However, the memory took place nine years after her employment commenced. It was during a cold, winter night when a horny Robert occupied his office. Everyone else had left work to go home. It was already ten o’clock in the evening, oh but of course. He found himself unable to get any work done. No worries, he thought. I’ll let Cynthia do the leg work, or better yet, give me a reason for distraction.
Cynthia had entered his office with the recovered files he had asked for when he showed signs of friskiness. Unfortunately for Cynthia, that night was one in which she was vulnerable. Having been alone for the past nine years, she was throbbing to the touch of Robert, or anyone else, really. She was split in half that night in Robert’s office: one side of her was the regular Cynthia, with her guard of a wall standing erect, casting a proud shadow from Robert’s desk lamp; and the other side, a much softer side, was in need of attention and intimacy, no matter how forced it was.
On the desk. The papers falling off, coating the floor with white, like the snow outside, covering the ground. Much to busy in gratification to answer the ringing telephone. It rang and rang and rang, until his wife left a message, saying she missed him and could not wait until he got home to be with her.
For it was, indeed, ten o’clock at night.
Later on in Cynthia’s apartment, Cynthia, alone, crawled herself into a ball under the sheets and cried herself to sleep. Her alarm clock, set at 4:30am still, watched her, pitilessly. That was the only time she cried in her entire life, save for the time someone told her she sounded like a man when she was fourteen years old.
Tense words lashed out under their breaths the next day at work.
“That will never happen again, Robert. I’m warning you.”
“Oh, but why? You had fun didn’t you?” He began to caress her elbow.
She tugged away from him. “You have a wife; I can blackmail you.”
“But why would you do that? You would get hell from her. Plus, you would lose your job, now wouldn’t you?” His hand began to reach for her elbow once more.
And again, she tugged away.
Open jobs were sparse at the time, and she knew she had to keep her job to pay her rent, her bills, everything. It’s a cold, cruel and unfair world out there, she muttered to herself, leaving his office to get his morning espresso.
But on this morning, after that jolt of a memory finished sparking the inside folds of her brain, Cynthia promised herself that she would get justice. It was going to be a late night, just like that wintery night in the memory. But things would run differently.
His office door was often kept closed. As Cynthia was carrying important folders for him to look over, she walked down the hall, her eyes steadily set on the line of light underneath his door. Already from seven in the evening to eleven, she had done numerous tedious jobs for him, getting him important documents, looking up information from various sources, making important phone calls. Robert, she could tell, only pretended to do work. Whenever she took a quick, furtive glance over to him, she saw his eyes diverted to the mirror on his desk. He loved looking at himself, admiring his own hair, his face and how it seemed to complement his neck and chest. Occasional chest hair popping out for sex appeal. And white, straight teeth too. His insensitive eyes, good for glossing but not for caring.
And when he called for something, he was annoying as ever. He yelled out demandingly, “Cynthia, oh Cynthia! Cynthia, did you make copies of the reports you made yet? I need them now!” Through his closed door, his voice traversed the hallway, uselessly.
For Cynthia did not respond to him this time.
“Cynthia! I need those damn reports! Come here, lady! I’m not playing games, sweet thing!”
No response.
His desk lamp flickered, then turned off. Alone in the dark, Robert used the light from his phone to substitute a flashlight. Even so, this dim light could only light up a limited space. He made his way to the door, bumping his knee on one of his chairs, causing him to curse in the name of Cynthia. Once he opened the door, a stuffy blackness descended.
“Cynthia? Cynthia, enough with these games. Come here right now. If this is about the whole . . . incident . . . you’re not treating it with professionalism. I remind you that I have the power to fire you. I know you don’t want that.”
Silence.
“Cynthia! Cynthia?” His echo rang through the darkness until it was interrupted by a moan. It was to his right. Quickly, he shone his cell phone light in that direction . . . in the direction of the break room.
His heart beat pounded with each step closer to the break room whose door was only slightly open. Making his way in, he shone his light hesitantly looking. Could Cynthia be in there, hurt and therefore moaning? Or could it be something darker?
The moan sounded again, this time louder and deeper in pitch. It was not Cynthia’s voice. Could not have been. It came from behind the garbage can – something or someone was crouching there. Robert began to question if it was even a human voice, and quickly started stepping backwards toward the door again. Pellets of sweat dripped from his head as fear raised hell inside of him. He got to the door, but someone had locked it. Robert banged on the window, when a hand landed on his shoulder, the moan, this time directly in his ear. He felt saliva and spit on his ear lobes and even on the inside of his ear as the creature moaned at him.
Robert tried to take the creature’s hand off of him, and saw that the hand was half flesh, half bone, all covered in blood. When he saw whom it belonged to, he almost fainted. He came eye to eye to a zombie, whose mouth started aiming toward Robert’s once lustful eyes.
Defensively, Robert’s hand went straight for the zombie’s head, pushing it away from him, his pointer finger accidentally poking the zombie’s eye deeply so that when Robert released his hand, the eye was stuck on his finger, yet still attached to the socket by means of optical tendons. He yelped in a high pitched voice, and took the finger-punctured eye off of his pointer finger and started banging on the window of the break room door.
The glass shattered and Robert leaped through it, landing on something soft but cold.
A zombie. One of many who was trampled over by the multitude of zombies who began picking Robert up, smelling him.
“Ge’ off of me!” How could he escape? There must have been at least eighty of them out in the hall with him. Eighty against one Robert. He would still need to make his way down the stairs or elevator, then out to the parking lot to his car.
Zombies were everywhere as the lights in the hall started flickering on and off. Gray and pale brown bodies with hollow eyes surrounded Robert. They climbed on him, pulling on his clothes, smelling his body, petting his chest hair before licking it with their cold, purple-pink tongues. “Tastes, tastes so good. One lick. One lick more.” Robert was constantly prying zombies off of him with his muscular arms. Sometimes he was too strong for them; instead of pushing the zombies off, he accidentally ripped off their arms, legs, feet and head.
He was able to make it to the elevator, stepping over zombie bodies he had knocked down. The elevator doors opened and a flood of zombies poured out, chanting “Fresh, fresh Robert. Dinner is served. Fresh, fresh Robert. Dinner is served.” They toppled over Robert causing his knee to bend backwards. “Oh Jesus, my knee!” screeched Robert. The zombies giggled.
There was no question about it: Robert would have to crawl out to safety; his broken knee would serve him no good. He reached the stairs surprisingly, and once there, he relied heavily on the railing, zombies chasing after him. He thought he was going to die, the way his heart was racing through the roof of Manifest Towers. With each step down the stairs, his broken leg thudded on the step behind him. Thirty flights of stairs was unbelievable, but adrenaline was coursing through his blood – his warm, fresh blood. In no time, he was out in the empty parking lot, save for his car, a white bmw equipped with a sunroof.
When he got in and started the car, he saw zombies making their way toward him, through the rearview mirror. Flooring the car to the front parking lot, Robert was quick to avoid zombies, coming through the bushes that lined the lot. If not, he ran them over with a vengeance. Bump after bump after bump, and Robert was all smiles. Suddenly, the sunroof glass broke and in fell a zombie whose head snapped off after hitting the passenger seat, and rolled onto Robert’s shoulder and down to his crotch area. Robert yelped and took the head, intending to throw it out his window, only to have it bounce back to him because he forgot to open it. He had screamed again when it bounced onto his own head.
Suddenly, there was a large crash from the on top of his car, denting the inside. Leaning toward his window and remembering to open it first this time, Robert looked up and saw black figures – objects from the dark sky – jumping off from his office window, aiming for his car, which was, by now, slowed to a stop. His eyes, still distracted with the living dead bodies falling on top of his car, Robert did not see the approaching zombie jumping on the front of his car, banging his head on his windshield until a huge crack was made, and the zombie knocked himself out cold. Purple blood seeped through a crack in his skull and nose bridge. But no, the zombie was not dead. His mouth opened, eyes widened. When the zombie gave an earsplitting moan, the head could not help but vibrate with spit spurting out of his hole of a mouth. The zombie started to lick the crack, as if it were his lover. He licked it until his tongue started bleeding from the broken glass. Robert could see yellow, thick puss gushing out of the zombie’s eyes as the zombie grew more interested – more excited – in licking the windshield, his tongue, and tongue only, finally making its way through the glass.
Robert could not help it. He pinched the tongue.
At his touch, the zombie wailed and screeched, “Tongue for tongue!” The zombie’s head banged into the saliva-infested crack and broke through. He stuck his tongue out as if to give tongue action in a kiss with Robert.
Robert couldn’t take it anymore. He opened his door and rushed out, crawling head first. Headlights of a speeding car blinded him right before its tires crushed his head.
The car abruptly stopped. Out of it, stood Cynthia. She knelt down next to Robert’s body, his head as smashed as a watermelon thrown out the window of a three-story house. Her hands reached in her cleavage for a zipper that led all the way up to her forehead. She unzipped, uncovering the face of a most sexy zombie.
“It’s a cold, cruel and unfair world out there,” she said, with a curled lip.
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