Get Zombie: 8-Book Set (75 page)

Later…

I
wake up on the toilet. It’s still dark out. Polly picks me up
in a black van and we speed down to Ala Moana beach, across from Ala
Moana Shopping Center. Polly tells me that we’re going to
search this beach first. She loves it here – tells me that she
has a pal, Mandy, whose mother gave birth to her on these sands.

I
ask if Mandy is still around, and Polly tells me no, because she was
run over by a drunken bus driver and is dead. I say my sorries, and
we stroll down the beach, looking for a good spot for a scene in the
movie involving two women who find a magical crab shell. The prop,
made by Mr. Snake, is to have a mannequin’s torn hand holding
onto it.

It
was in the back of the van, wrapped in bubble-wrap. I had asked to
see it earlier, but Polly said it would be bad luck for the
production.

The
sky is cloudless: A black skin with glowing pimples. The waves
shhhhhhhushed and rolled away from the sands, shimmering under the
moonlight.

We
took our shoes off and held hands as we walked, feet cold, skin
erect.

She
tells me that she’s lonely, and puts her head on my shoulder. I
think about how short I am and how disappointed I am at myself for
not drinking enough milk as a young man. Polly brings her hands up
and cups my face. I want to laugh for some hideous reason, but don’t
because this is a precious moment.

We
stare at each other for what feels like hours. Are the homeless
hiding in the bushes, watching us and crying of better days?

Polly
kisses me.

I
pull back.

“Wow.
Sorry. I don’t know why I pulled back. I’m not gay.”

She
bear hugs me, lifting me off my feet. My toes wiggle sand.

She
laughs.

“Aww,
cute! My fucking God, you’re such a good boy! Weeeeeee!”

She
spins me around.

“Weeeeeeee!”
I shriek.

Something
heavy falls behind us.

We
go to inspect it. Was it a coconut? Maybe the corpse of a bird that
suffered a heart attack, mid-flight?

Five
people in dolphin suits jump down from the trees, carrying electric
guitars. Polly yanks my hair and yells into my face.

“Run
away! Run away!”

I
cry immediately, nodding, and run after her. In two seconds she is a
bus’ length ahead of me.

The
crazies chasing after us hoot & holler: “None shall escape
from the Dolphin Masters!”

Running
on the sand in a panic is hard. It’s like you’re running
in slow motion. My foot trips on a large shell and I hit the sand –
my head landing in a family of tiny, wet, shiny black crabs that
dance in my hair.

I
jump up shrieking and spinning around, slapping myself on the face
and punching my hair, trying desperately to get the crabs off my
person.

I
take a ready stance (a kind of half-crouch) and brace myself and POP
my eyes open.

I
am surrounded by fifteen Dolphin Masters.

The
costumes are open-mouthed, yet I can’t see the humans inside.
Their costumes are thick, and honestly look quite uncomfortable.
Their electric guitars – Fenders – dangle at their sides
by black, furry straps. No one moves. Their dolphin eyes are round
and eerie – poorly made and crooked.

The
waves hush.

The
group parts, making way for a naked woman, painted in a glitter-based
blue that shimmers, gloriously. She wears the decapitated, hallowed
head of a real dolphin. A Dolphin Master guides her at all times, for
she is blind while wearing the dolphin head.

She
holds her hands out in front of her while walking in tiny baby steps,
scratching the air. Her guide stands her before me, and then
something beautiful happens. The Dolphin Masters take hold of their
guitars and play Stairway to Heaven by Led Zeppelin, although the
sound is a tad retarded and sad, seeing how their instruments have no
power.

She
crosses her arms.

“For
the endangerment of the holy ones – meaning dolphins –
the punishment is…YOU DIE NOW.”

She
makes to point at me, but aims a little too low, if you know what I
mean.

Her
guide corrects her.

“The
punishment is death. How plead you, ma’am?”

“I…”

“Silence,
leaky anus! You filth of swine! Oh, man.”

I
want to run away. Can I outrun them? I wait for my move. Like the
answer to every problem: Timing is everything.

The
Dolphin Queen, as they call her in the Midweek newspaper, walks
toward me, blindly.

She
trips and falls like a dull slap.

Her
dolphin head rolls off and she begins to squirm and bounce on the
sands like a fresh baby while making annoying pig sounds.

She
springs up before me and crosses her arms as if nothing happened.

“Now
you see my true face, ma’am.”

I
want to say that I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’ll
anger her.

She
brings her crossed arms higher to cover her breasts.

“Destructors,
destroy!”

“No!
I’m sorry!”

“Silence,
man!”

The
Dolphin Masters make bear-like sounds and raise their guitars for the
attack. The Queen laughs with her head reeled back and I PUSH her
angrily while drooling madly. She falls back into the arms of her
guide. The Dolphin Queen points at my retreating bulk and SCREAMS.

“Waaaaaaaaaaaah!”

The
others run after me, many of them falling because running on sand is
hard.

Each
time one of them falls, I hear a high-pitched shrill, like a baby pig
being squeezed by a proud muscleman.

A
voice calls me:

“Rubs!
This is Polly! I’m in the parking lot! I want to help you!
Hurry!”

I
run after her voice.

“God,
help meeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Now! Right now!”

I
see her in the van and I hop inside.

The
Dolphin Masters throw their guitars through the windows. The
headlights sweep across the parking lot and land on two, female,
80-year-old Dolphin Masters, squatting on the road, undressing
quickly and flinging mad poop at us, which thud against the
windshield like moist sandwiches.

Polly
grinds her teeth and leans into the wheel.

“GO!”

She
steps on the gas and the Dolphin Masters jump out of the way –
their aged breasts jiggling. They land tough on the road and roll
under cars. As we jet into the night, I look in the rearview mirror
to see them jumping up and down and shaking her fists at us, crying.

The
van is furious.

Polly
exhales.

We
look at each other.

I
begin to cry.

“I’m
so sorry.”

She
opens her mouth to say something lovely, then looks to the road AND
SHRIEKS.

“Whaaaat!”

THE
VAN FLIES INTO A DOLPHIN MASTER GIVING US THE MIDDLE FINGER AND
DESTROYS THE FIEND.

Its
body rolls OVER the van with the noise of many pigs’ feet.

The
van screeches to a halt.

My
head bumps against the dashboard and I fly back in my seat, screaming
as it reclines and throws me off.

Polly
hops out of the car and slides open the side door.

THUNDER
in the clouds.

Polly
puts her hand over my mouth and puts a silencing finger to her scared
lips.

“Thunder…thunder
in the clouds.”

I
nod.

“Oh,
heinous omen.”

She
grabs a baseball bat. We walk to the van’s rear and hold hands
as our faces turn sour.

There,
in the middle of the road, under a drizzle of rain, the Dolphin
Master stands, head bowed, its back to us, swaying from left to
right.

Polly
walks toward it, dragging me along as she readies to hit the Dolphin
Master with the bat. Its plastic waist wrinkles as it sways over and
over again, arms swinging. I can see through the back of Polly’s
wet scalp: The closer she gets, the wider she grins.

THUNDER
and the sky FLASHES.

The
Dolphin Master looks up and jumps and takes off for the shopping
center.

Polly
raises a commanding finger into the moist air as lightning explodes
the sky – says, “Pursue!”

She
runs after the Dolphin Master and goes “Roarrr!” and I
follow her, waving my arms in the air, yelling at her to be careful
not to run into the mini-lake.

She
jumps over a tiny hill into the night and I lose sight of her. I am
depressed, and stop, struggling to breathe – my hands on my
knees.

“Polly!
Polly! Polly! Polly! Polly! Polly! Polly! Polly! Polly! Oh!”

…silence…

…pitter-patter
of rain…

Then…

POLLY:
“Gaaaaaah!”

SPLASH!

I
run toward her voice, to the lake.

The
mall lights bounce and snake on the surface of the lake. Polly is
wrestling with the Dolphin Master. Her hands squeak over the costume,
trying to latch on. Polly head butts it in the face. The dolphin puts
her in a headlock.

It
looks at me – frozen – as they sink sink sink,
disappearing under the lake.

Stillness.

Cars
in the distance.

Tiny
figures on sidewalks, carrying shopping bags.

I
kneel down to the edge of the lake.

I
see my waving reflection.

A
HAND SPLASHES OUT AND GRABS MY HAIR.

I
yell out like a girl and slap my hands over Polly’s wrist,
hauling her out from the lake as she pulls out the Dolphin Master.

We
lay on the dirt, muddy and tired, our chests struggling and bothered.

Except
for the Dolphin Master.

It
rests there.

Motionless.

PART
THREE

“The
Wonderful World of Amputees”

(A
note from the editor: “Hello. The original section of this book
was found to be too disgusting. The following has been edited to
please the casual reader. Mahalo.)

WE
PUT THE CORPSE in the back of the van and drive around, aimlessly,
frightened. I don’t know where she’s driving. Does she
even know? I work up the courage to say something, and ask her what
we are going to do with this body.

For
a long time she doesn’t say anything – the street lights
passing over her face. Is she ignoring me? Is she mad at me?? I think
she’s mad at me.

I
lean back in my seat, always remembering that there’s a corpse
right behind me, on the ground, rocking with the van.

But
what if it wasn’t on the ground?

What
if I turn around and find it standing up? Ready to eat me?

I
make to look behind me when Polly opens her mouth.

“Mr.
Snake can help us.”

She
makes the call, and from what I can gather, we are to drive over to
his house, the main movie set in Aina Haina, pronto.

He
is alone in the house, topless, in his Angelina Jolie boxers, and
helps us carry the body into the attic. That was a bitch, getting it
up there, as you can imagine.

Mr.
Snake kicks up a few, large, dusty floorboards and stuffs the body
under. Polly asks if we should take whoever it is out of the dolphin
costume first. Mr. Snake says no:

“Ziplocs
the smell in better.”

He
then throws a plastic bag over the thing’s head and wraps it
with wire. I want to throw up. I didn’t want to before, but now
I do, so there.

I
excuse myself and hightail it across the attic, jumping down the
attic ladder and speed-walking into the bathroom.

After
doing the nasty, I wash up and stand in the dim, silent hallway,
leaning on a wall, gathering my thoughts.

I
think about the time I went to Pink Cadillac, during 8o’s
night. I smoked my 1st Hookah that day – a large water
contraption with flavored tobacco. Mmm. Peppermint Vodka. And then
weeks later, mmm, sour Apple.

Oh!
And before I forget: Mmm. Liquid Cocaine. A magical, alcoholic
beverage with pineapple.

A
disturbing sound wakes me from dreamland: Sounds of lovemaking and
things being knocked over. Grr! That whore. Flirting with me then
eating Mr. Snake’s finger food. Oh, she’s such a whore!

Whatever.
Fuck it. Let’s see if there’s any booze in the kitchen.

Huzzah!
I’m so pissed.

Whore.

I
open the refrigerator and sure enough – a bottle of UV Blue.

I
inhale, roll all my problems into a ball, and toast with a sigh.

“L'chiam.”

I
drink from the bottle and go numb for a bit.

“That’s
good cake.”

I
feel the stiff one-eye on me. I look to my right.

A
large, fat, Japanese man in a Hawaiian shirt stares at me through the
front, sliding glass door, breathing heavily and misting up the
glass, his eyes wide & insane. My heart goes Ack!

I
stare back. He writes in the fog with his beefy pinky, backwards so I
can understand…

Pain.

Feet
running up the front stairs.

More
fat Japanese men in Hawaiian shirts appear behind the first man, who
snarls and spits on the glass and PULLS the sliding door open with a
mighty SLAM! They all storm in. They carry black briefcases and mugs
of steaming coffee. A short, fattish, muscle-bound Polynesian man
pushes through the crowd and approaches me. A silver whistle half the
size of his head dangles from his neck.

This
fellow asks to see Mr. Snake. He has a womanish voice, although I
have no intention of laughing.

I
point and (gladly) tell them where he is. The fatty blows on the
whistle in quick TOOT TOOT TOOTS and everyone runs down the hallway
and up the attic ladder.

I
can hear Polly:

“Jesus
H. Christ! The Porn Mafia!”

There’s
more yelling & screaming and the sounds of glass shattering and
umbrellas opening and heavy things being thrown through walls.

Mr.
Snake dangles out from the attic door in an upside-down sit-up, his
arms clawing the air, screeching, “Why! Why! Why! Why! Why!
Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why!”
with his tongue swinging from his mouth.