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September 18, 2007

Tuesday

What's his story?

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David: Repose

Zombie Keith Richards sat quietly in his London flat, gathering wool and moss. It had all been a laff when he’d snorted his dad’s ashes along with some coke off of that groupie’s ass. And the joke had been for years that Keith was an incredibly well- and self-preserved animated corpse, the only thing except cockroaches and Twinkies to survive the coming apocalypse.

Only now that he was here, trapped in his rotting flesh, and surrounded by Twinkies, cockroaches, and the empty skulls of his mates, did he realize the Great Truth of his life.

God, he’d murder a fag.

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Ted: Robert Preston?

Orina, it was rumored, had herself created quite a few illegal clones. Seems one of her only ways of really connecting to people was to have her favorite movie star replicated, program it with all the dialog ever from their movies and interviews, and have it over for dinner.

Orina would let the clone live all during the meal, asking it hours of questions. She of course had made sure that the clone brains had no pain receptors.

When the dessert trolley was finally rolled around, the clones would invariably choose the pink chiffon pie.

She always had the eyeballs.

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