Alberta Redneck Weekend - Alternate Storyline
Joined: Jan 2007
Posts: 19,680
Likes: 161
From: Calgary, AB, CANADA
Alberta Redneck Weekend - Alternate Storyline
While a few of you enjoyed my thread An Alberta Redneck Weekend, a few...some...well, ONE..of you suggested it could be spiced up a little with some poetic license.
But since I failed the written exam for that particular license, you'll just have to be content with:
Beer-Can Chicken Zombies from Jupiter
The fire flickered feebly, reflecting in parts of the pickup’s paint that weren’t red and ripe with rust. The chickens sizzled from their fiery perch, an open can of lager wedged up their respective rectal regions. Enoch McLoud and his girlfriend/cousin/step-mom Lurlean Punkinhead-McLoud looked on, their snoose-blackened gums salivating at the prospect of sinking their three combined teeth into the Budweiser-basted birds.
Earlier that evening, they’d crafted a makeshift shelter from old Pilsner boxes and set up their Redneck Hibachi – a porcelain toilet they’d found under the bridge, topped with the grill from a ’78 Chrysler LeBaron. The sun had set now, the stars shone brightly above and Jupiter was a brilliant beacon in the East. The only sound in the valley was the occasional thumpety-thumpety-thump as a lonely car crossed the bridge above.
The bridge itself was an old one-lane steel contraption, built in the 30s and seemingly forgotten ever since. Bird-droppings bespeckled its cracked and splintered wooden deck. A week-old flattened squirrel adorned the narrow shoulder. Rickety though it may have been, it was the only way across the river for fifty miles in either direction and the most direct route between Calgary and Saskatoon. Even now, Enoch and Lurlean could hear a semi descending the far hill towards the bridge, the staccato growl of its Jake brake reverberating off the surrounding badlands.
“Them chickens look purty done to me, Enoch, we better eat ‘em ‘fore the grille melts anymore. You know I don't like the taste of Dodge lead paint.” Lurlean was getting hungry, it had been nearly half an hour since the pickled pig’s feet ran out.
“Why I b’lieve you’re right, cuz, I mean, darlin’. Let’s git stuck in.” Enoch picked up a hubcap, blew most of the dirt out of it and reached for the near-most bird with a pair of Vise-Grips. He never quite made it, interrupted as he was by a deafening clang from above like God’s Own Kettle Drum. The ground shook under them, and the charred poultry fell off the grille. Enoch and Lurlean looked up wide-eyed to see if this was indeed the Apocalypse, but instead they saw a semi with a large tank on a gooseneck trailer wedged under the far side of the bridge. Steam hissed from the big truck’s radiator.
The dust had barely settled when the couple reached the accident scene. Enoch opened the truck door to see the driver slumped over the wheel.
“Mister. Hey Mister! You okay in there?”
The driver began to stir.
“Unnnnhh. Uhhhhnnn. I don’t wanna go to school.”
Enoch poked him in the ribs; the driver startled into full consciousness.
“Wha-...what happened? I was just driving and then...and then...” the driver stuttered, looking around the cab and out the front window.
Suddenly his eyes flew open wide and his mouth dropped, his hands flew up to his cheeks. His expression reminded Enoch of that famous painting by Robert Munsch or someone like that.
“Gawdamshietfawkinscrew, is the tank ruptured? Tell me the tank ain’t ruptured!”
The driver jumped out onto the truck step and looked up at his cargo. A foot-long gash in the lower front of the tank was oozing a growing green liquid.
“AHHHHH! AHHHHHHH!! RUN FOR YER LIFE, IT’S OUT, IT’S OUT, THE SHIET IS OUT!!!”
Despite his heft, the driver hit the bridge deck and booked it for that far end of the bridge like Usain Bolt, all the while flailing his arms. Still screaming like a schoolgirl at a Justin Bieber concert, he only slipped a little on the flattened squirrel before disappearing into the night.
“What d’ya suppose that was all about?” asked Lurlean.
“Beats me. I wonder what’s in this here tank that he’s so ascared of??” Enoch mused.
They took a couple of steps back to survey the tank. Enoch squinted.
“Lurlean, what does that there say?”
“Why, cain’t you read it Enoch?” Sarcasm tinged her already-grating voice.
Enoch got a mean look. “Now Lurlean you know I had to quit Grade 3 at the tender age a fourteen on account-a I had to go to work picking fly-**** outta pepper to support my Momma’s heroin habit that she had since afore I was born. So git down off yer high middle-school edumacated horse and read me what it says!”
“All right, don’t git yer panties in wad, lemme look at it. Sezzere ‘Tr...try-“
“Trioxin Reanimation Catalyst?” Enoch blurted.
Lurlean gave him the look a dog gives a funny sound.
“Yeah, I guess so. Who’s Mister Hooked on Monkey Phonics now?”
“Jist read the rest, Lurlean”
“Try-whatchamacallit remuneration catalog...do NOT allow to come in contact with dead things. Or you will be sorry. TOP SECRET. Research Council of Saskatchewan”
Lurlean snickered. “Better not let it touch yer little pecker, Enoch! Or maybe you shoooooould...” The look on her chubby face may have passed for coquettish.
Enoch's face reddened. “I had 'bout enough a yer sass, Lurlean, why, when we get back to the trailer park, you kin jest move right back in with my Daddy. I...”
Enoch stopped in mid-tirade. He stared at the gaseous green mist that oozed around his ankles and wafted down the bridge deck. More of it cascaded off the bridge deck and down into the river valley toward their crude encampment.
“I don’t like the look a this here stuff, Lurlean. We better get back to the pickup.”
A suddenly-meek Lurlean merely nodded, and the two strode back along the bridge deck in the direction from which they’d come, mere steps ahead of the mist. As they reached the end of the bridge, the eerie haze enveloped the flattened squirrel. Its fur twitched. Its remaining eye slowly opened and regarded the retreating couple with a malevolent gaze. It pulled and struggled against the adhesion of its own blood and intestines to the oaken planks. Its tiny squirrel lips strained to croak out a word...
"B..br...braaaaains...."
Meanwhile the glowing vapour had reached the valley floor and spread out across the water, flowing around rocks and over light rapids. Straight toward the redneck Hibachi. About the time Lurlean and Enoch reached the pickup, the fog luminesced around the corpses of the beer-can chickens.
TO BE CONTINUED...
But since I failed the written exam for that particular license, you'll just have to be content with:
Beer-Can Chicken Zombies from Jupiter
The fire flickered feebly, reflecting in parts of the pickup’s paint that weren’t red and ripe with rust. The chickens sizzled from their fiery perch, an open can of lager wedged up their respective rectal regions. Enoch McLoud and his girlfriend/cousin/step-mom Lurlean Punkinhead-McLoud looked on, their snoose-blackened gums salivating at the prospect of sinking their three combined teeth into the Budweiser-basted birds.
Earlier that evening, they’d crafted a makeshift shelter from old Pilsner boxes and set up their Redneck Hibachi – a porcelain toilet they’d found under the bridge, topped with the grill from a ’78 Chrysler LeBaron. The sun had set now, the stars shone brightly above and Jupiter was a brilliant beacon in the East. The only sound in the valley was the occasional thumpety-thumpety-thump as a lonely car crossed the bridge above.
The bridge itself was an old one-lane steel contraption, built in the 30s and seemingly forgotten ever since. Bird-droppings bespeckled its cracked and splintered wooden deck. A week-old flattened squirrel adorned the narrow shoulder. Rickety though it may have been, it was the only way across the river for fifty miles in either direction and the most direct route between Calgary and Saskatoon. Even now, Enoch and Lurlean could hear a semi descending the far hill towards the bridge, the staccato growl of its Jake brake reverberating off the surrounding badlands.
“Them chickens look purty done to me, Enoch, we better eat ‘em ‘fore the grille melts anymore. You know I don't like the taste of Dodge lead paint.” Lurlean was getting hungry, it had been nearly half an hour since the pickled pig’s feet ran out.
“Why I b’lieve you’re right, cuz, I mean, darlin’. Let’s git stuck in.” Enoch picked up a hubcap, blew most of the dirt out of it and reached for the near-most bird with a pair of Vise-Grips. He never quite made it, interrupted as he was by a deafening clang from above like God’s Own Kettle Drum. The ground shook under them, and the charred poultry fell off the grille. Enoch and Lurlean looked up wide-eyed to see if this was indeed the Apocalypse, but instead they saw a semi with a large tank on a gooseneck trailer wedged under the far side of the bridge. Steam hissed from the big truck’s radiator.
The dust had barely settled when the couple reached the accident scene. Enoch opened the truck door to see the driver slumped over the wheel.
“Mister. Hey Mister! You okay in there?”
The driver began to stir.
“Unnnnhh. Uhhhhnnn. I don’t wanna go to school.”
Enoch poked him in the ribs; the driver startled into full consciousness.
“Wha-...what happened? I was just driving and then...and then...” the driver stuttered, looking around the cab and out the front window.
Suddenly his eyes flew open wide and his mouth dropped, his hands flew up to his cheeks. His expression reminded Enoch of that famous painting by Robert Munsch or someone like that.
“Gawdamshietfawkinscrew, is the tank ruptured? Tell me the tank ain’t ruptured!”
The driver jumped out onto the truck step and looked up at his cargo. A foot-long gash in the lower front of the tank was oozing a growing green liquid.
“AHHHHH! AHHHHHHH!! RUN FOR YER LIFE, IT’S OUT, IT’S OUT, THE SHIET IS OUT!!!”
Despite his heft, the driver hit the bridge deck and booked it for that far end of the bridge like Usain Bolt, all the while flailing his arms. Still screaming like a schoolgirl at a Justin Bieber concert, he only slipped a little on the flattened squirrel before disappearing into the night.
“What d’ya suppose that was all about?” asked Lurlean.
“Beats me. I wonder what’s in this here tank that he’s so ascared of??” Enoch mused.
They took a couple of steps back to survey the tank. Enoch squinted.
“Lurlean, what does that there say?”
“Why, cain’t you read it Enoch?” Sarcasm tinged her already-grating voice.
Enoch got a mean look. “Now Lurlean you know I had to quit Grade 3 at the tender age a fourteen on account-a I had to go to work picking fly-**** outta pepper to support my Momma’s heroin habit that she had since afore I was born. So git down off yer high middle-school edumacated horse and read me what it says!”
“All right, don’t git yer panties in wad, lemme look at it. Sezzere ‘Tr...try-“
“Trioxin Reanimation Catalyst?” Enoch blurted.
Lurlean gave him the look a dog gives a funny sound.
“Yeah, I guess so. Who’s Mister Hooked on Monkey Phonics now?”
“Jist read the rest, Lurlean”
“Try-whatchamacallit remuneration catalog...do NOT allow to come in contact with dead things. Or you will be sorry. TOP SECRET. Research Council of Saskatchewan”
Lurlean snickered. “Better not let it touch yer little pecker, Enoch! Or maybe you shoooooould...” The look on her chubby face may have passed for coquettish.
Enoch's face reddened. “I had 'bout enough a yer sass, Lurlean, why, when we get back to the trailer park, you kin jest move right back in with my Daddy. I...”
Enoch stopped in mid-tirade. He stared at the gaseous green mist that oozed around his ankles and wafted down the bridge deck. More of it cascaded off the bridge deck and down into the river valley toward their crude encampment.
“I don’t like the look a this here stuff, Lurlean. We better get back to the pickup.”
A suddenly-meek Lurlean merely nodded, and the two strode back along the bridge deck in the direction from which they’d come, mere steps ahead of the mist. As they reached the end of the bridge, the eerie haze enveloped the flattened squirrel. Its fur twitched. Its remaining eye slowly opened and regarded the retreating couple with a malevolent gaze. It pulled and struggled against the adhesion of its own blood and intestines to the oaken planks. Its tiny squirrel lips strained to croak out a word...
"B..br...braaaaains...."
Meanwhile the glowing vapour had reached the valley floor and spread out across the water, flowing around rocks and over light rapids. Straight toward the redneck Hibachi. About the time Lurlean and Enoch reached the pickup, the fog luminesced around the corpses of the beer-can chickens.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Last edited by Swivel; Sep 14, 2010 at 02:17 PM.
Joined: Jan 2007
Posts: 19,680
Likes: 161
From: Calgary, AB, CANADA
Beer-Can Chicken Zombies from Jupiter Part Two
“I’m afeard, Enoch, hold me,” Lurlean pleaded as they stood beside the pickup. The night had gone completely silent – no night-birds, no crickets. Dead calm.
“Now now, puddin’, don’t you be ascared, ole Enoch is here to pertect you.” He managed to put his arms a third of the way around her. As they held and comforted one another, a faint sound began to emanate from the direction of the bridge.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
Lurlean and Enoch turned to the sound, their faces pressed together as if frozen in the throes of some hillbilly tango. At first they saw nothing; no man, no beast. But the sounds continued, growing ever closer.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
The sound now seemed to be coming from near ground level.
“Enoch, look!” Lurlean pointed, wild-eyed, to the footpath leading down from the bridge.
It started as a green pinpoint, rhythmically bobbing half a foot off the ground. As the dot grew closer, they were able to make out a small, misshapen form. Though clearly quadrupedal, it stood upright, shuffling unnaturally and dragging one hind leg. Scritch. It took a step with its one good leg, then dragged the other mangled, useless limb forward. Scritch.
The couple were frozen in terror. Ten feet out, the diminutive abomination stopped and raised its head slowly to regard them. Rotted jaw flesh hung around its yellow incisors.
“Braaaaains!”, it wailed, having found its full voice.
Enoch and Lurlean looked at each other, then back to the squirrel.
“You sound like one of them chipmunk fellers. You know, off the cartoons?” Enoch ventured.
The squirrel’s singular eye blinked.
“Not chi...munk,” the creature slurred, “Squirrrrr-el.”
“Y’still sound like a chipmunk to me. You sure your name ain’t Alvin or Theodore?”
“BRRRAAAINNNNSS!”
The squirrel scritched forward a step, trying its best to look menacing. Enoch reached inside the pickup and plucked his .22 single-shot from the gun rack, felt around and located three live rounds from the floorboards, chambered one and took aim at the undead rodent.
“Well this here works for squirrels, chipmunks and in-laws!” spat Enoch.
He pulled the trigger. A smoking hole appeared in the front of the squirrel’s torso, a tuft of fur flew off its back. Something that may have been a chuckle gurgled from the squirrel’s suppurating throat.
“Oh, lord, Enoch, it’s a...a...a ZOMBIE!!! That green stuff made it into a li’l undead critter! Run, RUN!”
They ran. Down the path, past the Pilsner lean-to and stopped beside the Hibachi. Tendrils of green mist lay round about their campsite. Enoch started gathering his belongings from beside the dwindling fire – tool box, a copy of Guns and Ammo, half a pack of smokes.
“Enoch?”
“I’m busy, Lurlean, we got to get outta here!”
“Enoch??”
“What is it, woman, cain’t you unnerstand Inglish, I said we gotta scat!”
“Where the chickens at, Enoch?”
“This ain’t no time to be thinking with yer stomach, Lurlean, now grab them Vise-Grips and move yer fat ****!”
Lurlean ignored the slur.
“I ain’t hungry, Enoch...but the chickens. The chickens is gone. It’s like they arr-yew-enn-enn-oh-eff-tee!”
“Don’t be an idjit, Lurlean, them chickens was dead, they couldn’ta...” He paused. The image formed in his mind of a flattened squirrel on the bridge deck. A rustle to his left caught his attention; he peered into the scrub at the edge of the firelight. His blood ran cold.
The chickens stood motionless, twin butterballs waiting in the gloom. Charred skin hung from a drumstick, the other’s wing bent at an unnatural angle from its tumble off the toilet.
Enoch chambered another round and fired.
“You can’t kill us. We’re already dead.”
“Already dead.”
Alreeeeeaaady deeeaaaaddd!”
“You said that already.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re repeating yourself. There’s nothing as tiresome as a repetitive zombie.”
Enoch lowered the gun.
“Can we just please focus on the task at hand?”
“Very well, we’ll discuss this later.”
They turned back toward Enoch.
“BRRRAAAIIINNNSSSS!!!” they wailed in unison, shuffling toward the humans.
Enoch and Lurlean backed away. One step. Two steps. Three.
“Ow”, cried Lurlean. Enoch felt it, too. They had backed into a barbed-wire fence. Enoch’s best Walmart vest snagged on the wire. Lurlean struggled to free her overalls. They were held fast.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
The squirrel-zombie emerged from the footpath. The reanimated chickens lurched into the firelight. The undead trio stopped together and regarded their entrapped prey.
“This looks like the end, Lurlean. I only got one more shot. I’m gonna hafta shoot you so’s you don’t get bit and turn into one of them zombies, too.”
“Shoot me? Why you gonna shoot me? I seen lots of them zombie movies, Enoch, and errbody knows you can only get turned into one if yer already dead and that green stuff touches you.”
“Trioxin Reanimation Catalyst.”
“Whatever. So you just go ahead and shoot your own self, Enoch, and see how you like it!”
“You can also turn into a zombie by gettin’ bit while you’re alive, then you croak and become the walkin' dead!”
“That’s only them dumb old Romero zombies, I’m talkin’ about real O’ Bannon zombies.”
“Zombies is zombies, Lurlean!!”
“No they ain’t!”
“Yes, they IS!”
"And I say they AIN'T!!"
The undead looked on as the argument continued. The leftmost chicken put its wings on its hips and turned to the squirrel.
“No brains to be found here, my putrescent friend.”
The squirrel shook its head slowly. The triumvirate ambled off into the night in the general direction of Edmonton, and further disappointment...
“Now now, puddin’, don’t you be ascared, ole Enoch is here to pertect you.” He managed to put his arms a third of the way around her. As they held and comforted one another, a faint sound began to emanate from the direction of the bridge.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
Lurlean and Enoch turned to the sound, their faces pressed together as if frozen in the throes of some hillbilly tango. At first they saw nothing; no man, no beast. But the sounds continued, growing ever closer.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
The sound now seemed to be coming from near ground level.
“Enoch, look!” Lurlean pointed, wild-eyed, to the footpath leading down from the bridge.
It started as a green pinpoint, rhythmically bobbing half a foot off the ground. As the dot grew closer, they were able to make out a small, misshapen form. Though clearly quadrupedal, it stood upright, shuffling unnaturally and dragging one hind leg. Scritch. It took a step with its one good leg, then dragged the other mangled, useless limb forward. Scritch.
The couple were frozen in terror. Ten feet out, the diminutive abomination stopped and raised its head slowly to regard them. Rotted jaw flesh hung around its yellow incisors.
“Braaaaains!”, it wailed, having found its full voice.
Enoch and Lurlean looked at each other, then back to the squirrel.
“You sound like one of them chipmunk fellers. You know, off the cartoons?” Enoch ventured.
The squirrel’s singular eye blinked.
“Not chi...munk,” the creature slurred, “Squirrrrr-el.”
“Y’still sound like a chipmunk to me. You sure your name ain’t Alvin or Theodore?”
“BRRRAAAINNNNSS!”
The squirrel scritched forward a step, trying its best to look menacing. Enoch reached inside the pickup and plucked his .22 single-shot from the gun rack, felt around and located three live rounds from the floorboards, chambered one and took aim at the undead rodent.
“Well this here works for squirrels, chipmunks and in-laws!” spat Enoch.
He pulled the trigger. A smoking hole appeared in the front of the squirrel’s torso, a tuft of fur flew off its back. Something that may have been a chuckle gurgled from the squirrel’s suppurating throat.
“Oh, lord, Enoch, it’s a...a...a ZOMBIE!!! That green stuff made it into a li’l undead critter! Run, RUN!”
They ran. Down the path, past the Pilsner lean-to and stopped beside the Hibachi. Tendrils of green mist lay round about their campsite. Enoch started gathering his belongings from beside the dwindling fire – tool box, a copy of Guns and Ammo, half a pack of smokes.
“Enoch?”
“I’m busy, Lurlean, we got to get outta here!”
“Enoch??”
“What is it, woman, cain’t you unnerstand Inglish, I said we gotta scat!”
“Where the chickens at, Enoch?”
“This ain’t no time to be thinking with yer stomach, Lurlean, now grab them Vise-Grips and move yer fat ****!”
Lurlean ignored the slur.
“I ain’t hungry, Enoch...but the chickens. The chickens is gone. It’s like they arr-yew-enn-enn-oh-eff-tee!”
“Don’t be an idjit, Lurlean, them chickens was dead, they couldn’ta...” He paused. The image formed in his mind of a flattened squirrel on the bridge deck. A rustle to his left caught his attention; he peered into the scrub at the edge of the firelight. His blood ran cold.
The chickens stood motionless, twin butterballs waiting in the gloom. Charred skin hung from a drumstick, the other’s wing bent at an unnatural angle from its tumble off the toilet.
Enoch chambered another round and fired.
“You can’t kill us. We’re already dead.”
“Already dead.”
Alreeeeeaaady deeeaaaaddd!”
“You said that already.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re repeating yourself. There’s nothing as tiresome as a repetitive zombie.”
Enoch lowered the gun.
“Can we just please focus on the task at hand?”
“Very well, we’ll discuss this later.”
They turned back toward Enoch.
“BRRRAAAIIINNNSSSS!!!” they wailed in unison, shuffling toward the humans.
Enoch and Lurlean backed away. One step. Two steps. Three.
“Ow”, cried Lurlean. Enoch felt it, too. They had backed into a barbed-wire fence. Enoch’s best Walmart vest snagged on the wire. Lurlean struggled to free her overalls. They were held fast.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
The squirrel-zombie emerged from the footpath. The reanimated chickens lurched into the firelight. The undead trio stopped together and regarded their entrapped prey.
“This looks like the end, Lurlean. I only got one more shot. I’m gonna hafta shoot you so’s you don’t get bit and turn into one of them zombies, too.”
“Shoot me? Why you gonna shoot me? I seen lots of them zombie movies, Enoch, and errbody knows you can only get turned into one if yer already dead and that green stuff touches you.”
“Trioxin Reanimation Catalyst.”
“Whatever. So you just go ahead and shoot your own self, Enoch, and see how you like it!”
“You can also turn into a zombie by gettin’ bit while you’re alive, then you croak and become the walkin' dead!”
“That’s only them dumb old Romero zombies, I’m talkin’ about real O’ Bannon zombies.”
“Zombies is zombies, Lurlean!!”
“No they ain’t!”
“Yes, they IS!”
"And I say they AIN'T!!"
The undead looked on as the argument continued. The leftmost chicken put its wings on its hips and turned to the squirrel.
“No brains to be found here, my putrescent friend.”
The squirrel shook its head slowly. The triumvirate ambled off into the night in the general direction of Edmonton, and further disappointment...
Last edited by Swivel; Sep 15, 2010 at 01:01 PM. Reason: Conclusion...
Trending Topics
Joined: Jan 2007
Posts: 19,680
Likes: 161
From: Calgary, AB, CANADA
Nahh, Mom doesn't read this kind of trash...
Last edited by Swivel; Sep 14, 2010 at 11:07 PM.
Takes me back to that infamous Halloween serial tale...
Joined: Jan 2007
Posts: 19,680
Likes: 161
From: Calgary, AB, CANADA
^ I was thinking about you today...in a non-threatening, non-sexual kinda way. I started the audio of The Surgeon's Mate, which begins, as you may recall, in Halifax.
How have you been? Shoot me a PM if you get a minute and let's catch up.
Regarding the story, it helps (if such a story can be helped) to have read the original thread linked at the top of the first post.
How have you been? Shoot me a PM if you get a minute and let's catch up.
Regarding the story, it helps (if such a story can be helped) to have read the original thread linked at the top of the first post.