Trouble Report Inquiry From G.U.S.S.S.S.B. (Government of the United States Secretive Smithsonian Storage Building)

Name: Watkins, Rick

Date: 10/31/03

Basic Description: Found crate with the Ark of the Covenant in it. Everyone in the warehouse is now dead via "wrath of God."

Further Details: I just started here like a week ago, so I'm not sure if this is unusual or anything. I know Earl has been toying around with this shrink-ray he found like three months ago, and that seemed pretty bizarre at the time, but this goes WAY beyond that. I was sent to retrieve the original plans for the cotton gin for some Smithsonian event, but I accidentally opened this crate that had this weird chest in it. There were, like, these two golden eagles with their wings touching on top of it and it was real heavy. I had the night shift manager, David, help me unload the damn thing, which wasn't even in the official registry. After we did some research on Google, we figured it was the Ark of the Covenant, or like the thing that holds the remains of the Ten Commandments that Moses smashed after he got all pissed about something. I peeked in the thing and saw what looked like a storm cloud or something inside of it, so I put the top back on and said I was going on my lunch break. When I came back 45 minutes later, David's face was all melted off and everyone in the warehouse had giant gaping holds through their chests. And that damn Ark of the Covenant was still just sittin' there, looking all proper and ominous. So I decided to put it back in the crate and write out this trouble report. Could you also send in someone to clean up the dead bodies? They're all over.

Hey look! This article is on McSweeney's!

Profiles in Badassery

Let's face the facts: history is boring. But...why is it boring? There are many possibilities. Is it because history class does not have as many fist fights and torn-out throats as Roadhouse? Is it because history class never shows you Marie Curie's sweet rack? Maybe it's because history repeats itself! (that was a joke so you should be laughing for the next three minutes, okay?)

The truth is that history is boring because when you are taught history, all of the awesome parts are left out or glossed over in favor of the "important stuff," i.e. stuff that is too awesome for our adolescent, MTV-soaked, Tamagotchi-loving brains to comprehend. So we get stuck learning about cotton gins, Eli Whitney, and more cotton gins. But what happened to all of the awesome moments and people in history? Do they even exist?

Oh yes, they certainly do. And they're even sweeter than you could imagine. Today we'll profile one of history's most awesome historical figures: Aaron Burr.

Aaron Burr

Aaron Burr is described by the renowned, oft-bibliographied in research papers by desperate high schoolers (i.e. me) website Wikipedia as a "hero and adventurer." Not a shabby beginning. Anyone who can turn "doing brave things" and "having adventures" into a fruitful career deserves a little recognition. But this makes him look like a boring goody-two-pantaloons, eh? Well, let's cut right to the sweet innards then.

Burr was running for Governor of New York when noted nancy-boy and spoiled dandy Alexander Hamilton began writing defamatory remarks about the hero/adventurer, which cost everyone's favorite wily hero/adventurer the election. But the suspected communist Hamilton went beyond the limits of good taste at a dinner party when he rallied the incomprehensible gall to utter from his soulless gullet that he could express a "still more despicable opinion" of Burr. This outrageously slanderous and malicious comment eventually made its way to the universally-beloved hero/adventurer Burr, who demanded an apology from the reviled muckraker Hamilton. When Hamilton refused, claiming he could not remember making the comment (most likely due to his loss of sanity due to his particularly vile case of chlamydia which he received from raping young children to appease his lord and master, Satan), Burr took the gentleman's route and challenged the poofter Hamilton to a duel.

The duel was to take place on July 11, 1804, along the west bank of the Hudson River on a rocky ledge in Weehawken, New Jersey, where Hamilton's equally villainous and squeamish son Philip had been killed three years earlier in a duel (possibly by his twistedly deviant father). Hamilton, being the one who was challenged (not to mention the sissier of the two), was given first choice of weapon and position for his ultimate doom.

At dawn, the duel began. Hamilton, having the bravery of a panicked 8 year-old girl, shot at the ground. This act was considered by some to "exemplify courage" and could "bring a peaceful resolution to a duel," but history clearly shows us that it was merely an attempt by the scurrilous Hamilton to escape his due punishment for his continued slander against a noted American hero. Burr, not one to be deceived by such thinly-veiled trickery, fired and hit the scoundrel in his lower abdomen above the right hip. The bullet ricocheted about Hamilton's ever-cursed torso, effectively destroying his bileful liver and diabolical diaphragm.

Burr immediately left the scene. According to his second, William P. Van Ness, he ate eggs and toast for his victory breakfast in Manhattan. Well-earned eggs and toast, in this writer's humble opinion.

Also, Burr was behind a conspiracy to steal away a bunch of land west of the Appalachians and start his own massive nation with himself as a self-imposed King or Emporer, with the eventual goal of overthrowing the United States government. Plus, he got acquitted of treason charges when he was caught later. Not too shabby, eh?

Does the Body Good

David McCormick had a tumor in his brain.

---

"You have a tumor in your brain."

I knew I shouldn't have gone to the doctor that day. Now I have a tumor. If I had just stayed home and watched Family Feud, I'd be fine right now. Ignorant, but fine. Now I'm going to die.

"You're not necessarily going to die."

False hope. Great. Just what I needed.

"You have several options. We've found it early. We can attempt to remove it."

Cutting open my head? I might rather be dead. That's one of those things where you have to be awake to make sure they don't futz up your central nervous system. When I was a kid and I fell off my bike and scraped my knee, I couldn't even bear to look at it. I would close my eyes and wait for my mom to bust out the rubbing alcohol and bandage it up for me. I don't think brain surgery would be the best option for me.

"Many patients are averse to the surgical route, I realize. We also have an experimental radiation treatment that's underway with some of the researchers in the hospital. But allow me to recommend the surgical route."

Radiation it is.

---

It's the funniest thing when you think about it. Yesterday I watched Letterman; today I have a brain tumor. It happens like that, too. I had a headache, didn't think much of it. Yesterday I had a turkey sandwich for lunch; today I have a brain tumor. Funny, eh?

My first radiation session was scheduled for tomorrow. Today I have a brain tumor; tomorrow I may just have radiation poisoning.

---

"Put this on."

It was a lead jacket. Just like the ones they had at my dentist's office.

"Sit in the chair, Mr. McCormick."

I sat in the chair.

"Don't be afraid, Mr. McCormick. This will only take a minute."

I wasn't afraid. Not of this, at least.

A minute passed. I heard some noise coming from the machine that was pointed at me.

"You're all done for today, Mr. McCormick. We'll see you in four days."

---

That wasn't so bad. Didn't even have my skull cut open, that was for sure. I feel a little nauseous, but they gave me pills for that. My headache wasn't so bad anymore. They had caught it early, and now it was against the ropes.

---

"So the radiation thing went okay, yeah?" asked my mother as she cleaned her glasses. "I know you don't like hospitals and doctors and whatnot. It's a good thing you had that x-ray like I told ya to. God forbid if you hadn't. Like your father. Refused to see the doctor when he had that scurvy."

We walked into Tollman's Deli on 6th.

"What're you going to have?" asked my mother from behind her menu. "I think I'm gonna have the pastrami. On rye. What're you going to have? Did the doctor give you a diet or anything?"

Ma ordered the pastrami on rye. I ordered potato soup.

"So did you hear about your brother? He and Sheila are having a fight. He wants kids; she doesn't! Can you believe that? Who wouldn't want to have kids with your brother?"

I could think of a few people. My brother had once pushed me off of our treehouse and I broke my arm. The bone was coming out of the skin. I went into shock. It was my worst memory. Little bastard.

"So how are you feeling, David? Are you taking your medicine? How long is the treatment going to last? Are you going to lose your hair? Oh God, you have such beautiful hair. Don't worry, I know a wonderful wig-man. He got your father his toupee. If you didn't know him, you couldn't even tell."

Everyone could tell. Strangers would snicker at him from behind his back. Poor dad.

"Oh, our food's ready. Thank God, I'm starving to death."

The waiter put down Ma's sandwich. A little kid bumped into him and he spilled the soup on my face. It all happened so quickly, I didn't even realize what had happened for a few seconds.

"Oh God! David! Oh my God! Are you alright?"

I was not alright. The soup was boiling. My face was burned. The pain was searing. I couldn't even find the energy to scream. My eyes and fists were clenched shut. Tears were streaming down my face. It was the worst pain I had ever felt.

"Oh my God! Do something! Help him! Someone!"

The waiter apologized profusely as he got a wet towel for me to put over my face. It wasn't his fault. But my face was going to be burnt pretty badly when the towel came off, that was for sure. It was just as much my fault as it was the waiter's or the kid's. Maybe I shouldn't have ordered the soup.

---

An hour later, we were in the office of a dermatologist at the hospital. My mother convinced me to take the towel off. If she hadn't been there, I probably would have left the towel over my face forever. I hadn't opened my eyes since the incident. I didn't even want to catch a slight glimpse of my burnt face from my peripheral vision.

"Here, I'll take it off, David. Here. Don't worry, I'll go slowly. You're gonna be just fine. The doctor is right here."

She started taking the towel off. It was still damp, but no longer cold. I bit my lower lip and didn't open my eyes. I didn't want to hear my mother or the doctor's horrified reaction to the burnt remains of my face. I knew it was coming, but there was nothing I could do to stop it.

"Almost there..."

Ma finished taking the towel off. I heard my mother take a long breath. No one had said anything yet. I didn't like silence. I opened my right eyelid ever-so-slowly to gauge their reactions.

"Oh my goodness, David..."

I was a freak. Deformed forever. I knew it.

"You look absolutely fine."

Funny. I felt absolutely fine.

---

"I don't see any evidence of any burn at all on your face."

The doctor let us go, free of charge. I hadn't been burned at all. That was strange. I was under the impression that boiling hot soup spilled on the skin tended to burn. At least a little.

"It's a miracle. A miracle from God. You make sure to thank God tonight for not letting my precious baby's face burn."

Um, I still had a brain tumor, Ma. That would be like thanking someone for not stepping on your toes while they saw off your arms.

---

I felt strange walking up the stairwell of my apartment building, as if something in my body wasn't quite right.

"Brain tumor."

Oh...right. I had briefly forgotten.

I had almost reached the top of the third floor when I began to feel dizzy and lightheaded. I stumbled back against the wall, trying to regain balance. Everything looked blurry. Blurrier than usual at least.

It was then that I tumbled down two flights of stairs.

I felt a gash on my right thigh.

This day was not going well, so I decided to pass out. Not consciously decided, but it was a sincere subconscious decision I believe.

---

I came to to the sight of one of my neighbors, Mrs. Fitzgerald, and her nine-year-old daughter, Emilia, looking over me.

"My God, David! Are you all right?"

My head hurt like hell. Ugh...what had happened to me? I fell down the stairs. That was the last thing I remembered...

"No."

My leg. I had a gash in my leg. I closed my eyes shut again and began breathing heavily.

"Is it bad?"

I felt Mrs. Fitzgerald put her hand on my shoulder.

"Is what bad, David?"

Still with eyes closed, I used my left thumb to gesture to my right thigh.

"What? Your jeans?"

Stupid bitch.

"The cut. Is there much blood? Call...the...doctor."

My breathing was growing heavier with each passing second.

"David, there is no blood. There's no cut. Your jeans are a little torn up, I guess."

I opened my eyes and gulped loudly. I looked down at my leg.

"Holy shit."

Mrs. Fitzgerald put her hands over Emilia's ears, looking at me with disgust.

"What is wrong with you, David?"

I was fine. My leg was fine. Everything was...fine.

"Nothing's wrong with me. I'm fine."

---

I was invincible.

"Let's see..."

I pulled out a steak knife. It was part of a set I had bought from an infomercial.

"Here goes nothin'..."

I closed my eyes and made a quick slit across my left wrist.

"OH SHIT!"

The pain was excruciating. What a goddamn dumbass I was.

"Oh...shit."

I had opened my eyes to survey the damage. But my wrists were fine. Not even a sign of a scar. Huh. I guess that was just fine with me.

---

It felt pretty good to be invincible.

"Hey, I'll bet you fifty bucks that I can jam this knife through my hand and not bleed a drop."

Especially when your friends didn't know it.

"Bullshit, Dave. You serious? You're on, man."

Too bad freak shows have sort've died out since the earlier parts of the 20th century.

"Heh, this'll be the easiest fifty bucks I ever made. Don't get my money wet with your blood, though."

Maybe I could at least get on Letterman.

"Jesus Christ, Dave! I didn't think you would actually do it! Oh Christ! Someone call an ambulance."

Sure, it still hurt like hell. But I finally had a talent, and I was going to be damned if I didn't show it off.

"Oh...Christ. Your hand...it...it just healed right up."

No one had ever really been impressed with me before.

"I guess I owe you fifty bucks."

It felt good.

---

I decided to tell the doc the good news.

"Doc, I got some good news."

The doc wasn't gonna believe this.

"Back so soon? How's the treatment going?"

Treatment went juuuust fine.

"Don't think I need it anymore."

It went finer than expected, actually.

"And why is that?"

Finer than anyone would believe.

"Watch this, doc."

I grabbed a pair of scissors on the doc's desk.

"OH JESUS!"

You can probably guess what happened next.

---

The doc finally caught his breath after about five minutes.

"Holy Jesus. How the hell did you do that?"

Wish I knew, doc. Wish I knew.

"That's...that's fucking insane. Let me see your hand again."

The doc grabbed my hand. It looked pristine.

"Well...fuck me. Nothing."

The doc stared silently for another 30 seconds.

"I guess the treatment worked better than expected, huh?"

You said it, doc.

"Well, let's take an x-ray and see if your new...ability or whatever is killing the tumor."

I smirked. Wasn't worried at all. And I am not a smirker.

---

"Um."

That wasn't exactly the reaction I was looking for.

"The x-ray..."

Yes, the x-ray...

"Your tumor appears to have grown...quite a bit since the last time you were here."

What the hell was he talking about?

"This is at least 20% larger than before. That is...pretty unprecedented growth for so short a period."

...

"I guess this would follow with the nature of cancer cells, though. They're essentially cells growing uncontrolably, so this ability you've acquired that allows for your skin and muscular cells to re-grow faster than normal...well, it makes sense. Relative to the circumstances."

Fuck. Me.

"Regardless, if it keeps growing at this rate, you'll be dead in a few weeks, if not sooner."

Great. Now I'm going to die. For sure.

"We need to get you into surgery as soon as possible. It's risky, but it's a hell of a lot more risky to not do it."

Good joke, God. I get it. Very funny.

---

They have to keep you awake for brain surgery. So they don't lobotomize you or something.

"Okay, we're going to make the incision..."

Goddammit. Sweat covered my body. Goddammit. I'd rather be dead. I'd rather be dead.

"Um."

Not what you want to hear a surgeon say during brain surgery.

"The incision already healed."

Oh shit.

"Let's...try that one again."

C'mon...c'mon...

"Dammit! There it goes again."

That was it. I was done for.

"What the hell is going on?"

Please let it stop. Just let it stop for a little while.

"No, John, if we can't make some clean cuts, there's no point in even trying. This is dangerous enough as it is without his skin healing all of our cuts instantly!"

Please do something. You're doctors! Do something!

"Dammit, you're right. There's nothing we can do. We'd just kill him if we tried to force our way in."

Please. Please. Please...do anything.

"Sorry bud, something's seriously wrong with you. Maybe we can try again later."

There won't be a later.

"Maybe you could try radiation or something?"

...

---

David McCormack was invincible...

Until it killed him.

Warning! Zombism - Contagious!

Sure, there was a zombie outbreak a few years back. I hardly even think about it these days.

It's kinda like...SARS, I guess. Remember SARS? Everyone was like "Oh no! SARS! It's the black plague, part two! Save the children!" And then, like, five people total died from it. And they were like, "Oh yeah, SARS has a 98% chance survival rate." Which is, actually, better than the flu I think. So SARS ended up being pretty much nothing? Zombies are sorta like that. Only...really, even less of an actual threat.

I was like you. I'd seen all the movies where a zombie outbreak would occur and in a few days there were crowds of zombies everywhere, gnawing on the flesh of passersby and causing mass destruction amongst the panic. That...is a slightly extreme exaggeration of what ended up actually happening. I mean, did anyone who made those movies even think about what they were showing us? I wonder if George Romero ever thought, "This seems pretty reasonable."

Here's the problem with the whole notion of a real "zombie outbreak": zombies are slow. Really slow. Imagine if when someone sneezed, the flu virus became a 5'7" dead dude who moaned a lot, had virtually no motor reflexes, and slowly hobbled towards you. How many people do you think would catch the flu? I bet a hell of a lot less people than do as things are today. Even if you were sleeping and the zombie had plenty of time to get to you and bite you (hence turning you itno a zombie as well), the zombie would make a ton of noise doing so and almost undoubtedly wake you up in the process and give you ample time to get the hell away.

Not only that, but zombies are surprisingly unadept at opening doors. Meaning if there is a door (locked or unlocked, doesn't matter) between you and the walking dead, you two will probably stay separated. Essentially, you are more vulnerable to velociraptor attacks than zombie attacks. At least velociraptors can open doors, right?

Not that much more kindling needs to added to this bonfire of apathy towards zombism, but once infected, there is an incubation period that lasts usually at least a few hours. So even if you get bitten in the middle of a crowded area, you're not gonna spread it like it was ebola or anything. You'll either realize what's happening and "finish yourself off," or you'll just feel really worn down and go take a rest in bed or something. And you'll probably close the door behind you. And then you'll starve to death in there.

Viruses are small, can travel through the air, and are not nearly as avoidable as zombies. I guess I just never got what all the fuss was about.

Confessions of a Secret Agent Man

To Whom It May Concern,

My name is Agent Cody Banks, and I spent the greater portion of my life as a secret agent for the United States of America, and if you are reading this, then I have died. Or you found my Hide-a-Key and opened my car and found this in the glove box. I became privy to a great number of secrets and classified information whilst working for the government, which I had never divulged to anyone or anything or even made mention of while trying to make small talk at parties. But, now that I am dead, I will release every secret I have ever known. Beware, for few eyes are ready for the truths which they will bear witness to today!

Secret #1: President John F. Kennedy was shot by Oliver Stone, who hoped to half-assedly frame Lee Harvey Oswald for the crime and then make the whole incident into a Kevin Costner movie several decades later. Kevin Costner was 8 at the time, but Stone saw great promise in the young lad's abilities.

Secret #2: America actually won Vietnam back in 1963. Oliver Stone (under an assumed name and wearing a fake mustache) led the charge. The ensuing years of the "war," were all faked to provide David Mamet with the idea for Wag the Dog, which followed about 35 years later.

Secret #3: There is no such thing as "the Moon." Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin actually travelled to Heaven to chat with Jesus. The talk was deemed "too gay" for television, and the alternate version (on "the Moon") was filmed and televised.

Secret #4: Richard Nixon was not impeached for his connection to the Watergate scandal. He was impeached for trying to sell America to a superintelligent race of extra-terrestrials from the Outer Rim of the galaxy. Note the scene at the beginning of Independence Day, when the alien spacecraft hovers past "the Moon," and a plaque signed by Richard Nixon shakes. This is symbolic of the aliens finally arriving at Earth to take what was promised to them long ago, although the entire allusion was completely lost on filmgoers.

Secret #5: Gerald Ford wet the bed almost every night. And I'm pretty sure I saw him wearing a baby's bonnet to a meeting with the British ambassador once.

Secret #6: The Matrix was a documentary. You are all just batteries for a giant robot/computer civilization, wherein all humans are in a virtual world which we believe to be reality. Meanwhile, there are a few freedom fighters who have been "freed" from the Matrix and are looking to put an end to the machines. The Matrix Reloaded and Revolutions were just bullshit though. None of that ever happened.

Secret #7: The George Lopez Show is actually a drama series. The constant laughing of the crew and off-stage cast members have led to the belief that it is intended to be a comedy. But no, what you thought was a really crappy comedy is actually an even crappier drama.

Secret #8: Chocolate is actually goat feces. Sorry.

Secret #9: America was conquered by invading Soviet forces in 1987. We didn't know how to break it to the public, so we just haven't told you yet. Hopefully you'll just figure it out on your own eventually.

Secret #10: We've had the cure for cancer for about 40 years, but it's in Spanish or something, and we can't figure out what the hell it says.

Secret #11: The letter U is supposed to precede I in the alphabet, as per presidential orders of Dwight D. Eisenhower in 1954. This change has been largely ignored throughout the continental U.S.

Secret #12: Ya know that song, "Secret Agent Man?" That pretty much sums it up.

Secret #13: Bruce Willis was dead the whole time in The Sixth Sense. Not only that, but in real life as well. He's a method actor I think.

Secret #14: The number one movie of all-time is not Citizen Kane. It's Three Ninjas: Knuckle Up. Everyone who thought it was High Noon at Mega Mountain...you weren't too far off.

Secret #15: Every election ever has been rigged in some way. The winner of the 2008 presidential elections has already been determined. In 2008, the United States will be run by the California Raisins, the first fictional claymation musical group to ever hold the title of "president."

Secret #16: Hope is a good thing...maybe the best of things. And no good thing ever dies.

Prologue to a Zombie Invasion

Jesus.

You never take the time to really appreciate the world you live in until it’s all gone, the tranquility obliterated by a horde of flesh-eating zombies. Ain’t that always the way? One minute, you’re lying back and having a cool glass of lemonade; the next, you’re running for your life from your grandmother – who died, like, at least three years ago. Then you realize that you had it pretty damn good before. Sure, there was war, poverty, evil, pain, senseless destruction, sickness, cruelty, and sadness throughout the world. Sure there were warlords and evil billionaire megalomaniacs and psychotic rapists. But you know what there weren’t? Zombies. Fuckin’ zombies trying to eat your brains. That is one thing I could live without.

It was a real loss of innocence for the world, when the zombies started to rise that is. Looking back, we were a pretty naïve world. Didn’t automatically think to incinerate every single corpse once the sweet release of death took it so that the corpse would not come back to life as a mindless, shuffling zombie drone. It’s crazy to think how foolish we were. We actually had morgues – where we would take fresh corpses and just leave them lying around for days at a time. Days! God…we didn’t even take into consideration the possibility of zombification. Oh well. Hindsight is 20/20. Especially zombie apocalypse hindsight.

We really should have seen it coming. The warnings have been there for years. At my Uncle Ralph’s funeral, I could have sworn I saw him flinch in the casket. Why didn’t I tell anyone? I ask myself sometimes when I’m hunched in the back of a closet with a rifle pointed at the door in case a zombie were to burst in. I know why. I was stupid, I was scared, and I was a kid. But that’s no excuse. Jesus…we only buried them six feet in the ground? We deserved the zombie invasion for that kind of carelessness.

When it first started happening, people tried their best to ignore it or pretend like the problem would just solve itself. Medical science couldn’t explain it, so tried ignoring it. Eventually the medical community was forced to swallow its pride and let out a collective “Whoops…didn’t see this coming.” Regular people just sort of avoided cemeteries and morgues and tried to go about their daily life, hoping to God that they would be able to make it to work without being bitten by one of the zombies roaming the city streets. Even God couldn’t answer everyone’s prayers.

A lot of people just called in sick for the next few weeks, hoping the whole fiasco would blow over. Even me. Hell, I figured the government would be able to take care of this with ease, no question. I mean, they handled the whole drug problem pretty well, right? Zombies should be a cakewalk! Wow. I’ve never been more wrong in my life. The government scrambled to deal with the situation, but it spread too far too fast and caught everyone with their thumbs up the collective ass. No one knew what to do because no one could believe it. Even the news tried avoiding the big “zombie scare,” as they called it. Jeez. Imagine being in the midst of a zombie invasion and seeing “Hanson Reunion Tour a Moderate Success” as the headline of the morning paper. Zombie stories were lucky to make the Lifestyles section…or even the obituaries, at first. The newspapers mostly stopped printing the obituaries after a while, as they were getting way out of hand and would have cost far too much ink to turn a profit.

Neighbors, friends, family, and strangers would disappear without notice and people would close their eyes and whistle and go on about their daily life as though nothing was different. Pretending a zombie isn’t there doesn’t make a zombie go away. Words to live by.

By the time humanity as a whole had decided it was time to face the problem head-on, the problem had gotten way out of hand. Zombies were everywhere and destroying everything, albeit really slowly. The living dead aren’t the quickest, you see. I guess dying does something irreversible to your motor reflexes. At that point, no one could care less as to what caused the zombification of millions of corpses or how to explain their existence. It simply didn’t matter. They were there eating brains. Freakin’ brains. They ate them. That’s what mattered.

We didn’t know how to deal with it. How would we? It was, after all, our first war with zombies. We made some poor decisions here and their, both as a group and individually. For instance, the government probably shouldn’t have armed every citizen, regardless of age and criminal, emotional, or psychotic history. And I, individually, probably shouldn’t have strapped an axe to my dogs back before sending him out into the streets. But that’s a whole other story.

People stopped going to their jobs and the whole “system” more or less collapsed onto itself. Then the anarchy kicked in. Here’s a good thing to remember: if zombies are taking over the streets and are pretty much omnipresent, DO NOT LET YOUR SOCIETY FALL INTO ANARCHY. Jesus H. Christ. It wouldn’t have been that hard to stick together and say, “Ya know what? Fuck you, zombies! We’re gonna work as a group and you’re gonna wish you’d stayed dead!” But no. Everyone locked themselves up in their homes or tried abandoning civilization for some tranquil, un-zombified piece of land up north. That made it easy for the zombies and the anarchists alike. There were no grand armies standing up against the zombies, so they picked off civilians individually, just the way they liked it. And the anarchists? Well, with no one showing up in jewelry stores and banks (not that paper money had a great deal of use in the post-zombie invasion society, but anarchists weren’t particularly fond of trying to have things explained to them) and groceries, they finally had their day. The only things that stood in their way were the zombies, and they were damn good at avoiding the zombies.

The first few weeks were hell. And I say that pretty literally: the dead were all around and looked particularly demon-like. Dante would’ve freaked out if he had managed to survive another thousand years to see this. Flame covered the country as the demons went about killing and maiming and eating everything in their way.

Now, the whole zombification thing works exponentially. Let’s say there’s one zombie. He bites one person. Now there’re two zombies. They each bite one person. Now there’re four zombies. And so on and so on. It happened so fast. Sure, we were able to take out a few here and there. They were slow. God, were they ever slow. But there were so many. Too many. And we only had so many bullets.

When the last television station went off the air (Telemundo), we knew it was over. We had lost. If they’ve given up on television, humanity might as well give itself up too. We did give up, in a way. We didn’t try to band together like we should have. The President flew around in Air Force One contemplating dropping nukes across the nation to kill people who were already dead. No one would have blamed him. Hell, most would’ve been happy with that. Better to go out in a blaze of glory than to go out with the whimper of zombification. And a nuclear blast is a mighty fine blaze of glory to go out in. Plus, we had literally thousands upon thousands of nuclear weapons in storage that had been lying around since the Cold War days, just collecting dust. Our tax dollars were spent making those bombs and, dammit, I hate to see something I’ve spent money on go to waste.

After a while, people started trying to make their way to army bases. A few had been taken over by the zombies, many of whom had starved because they couldn’t figure out a way to get to the brain of soldiers with helmets on. Stupid fucking zombies. Yet they beat us. They beat us. A few bases made it though. They locked themselves in, too. Just like Joe Nobody in the suburbs, they reacted hastily and fearfully. They enacted martial law and a few proclaimed their independence. Hmph. No one had a whole lot of faith in the powers that be, I guess. Not that I would either. But with not even the armed forces to worry about, the zombies owned everything that wasn’t walled in. And they even had a few walled in properties to boot. Without any system or plans – hell, with just a universal craving for brains! – the zombies had managed to wipe out our entire civilization. Pretty impressive really.

When we were first realizing what it was we were up against, the real fright started settling in. Everyone found out pretty quickly that if you were bitten by a zombie, you were going to be enlisting in the army of the undead sooner or later, whether you liked it or not. It was a lot like the movies when you think about it.

But perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself.

More is Less When You're Homeless In the West

Being an actor is sort've like being being homeless: neither really make any money, and you can't be afraid of rejection if you want to make a dime. Also, your parents will give you roughly the same amount of respect and pride if you pursue either occupation. Some, however, are a bit more sympathetic towards homeless. At least then you're not some "fruity theatre queer prancin' around," as my pop would say.

I have to admit, there came a point where I was at a cattle call audition in Los Angeles, waiting outside in 100-plus degree weather, two months behind on rent, unable to afford a haircut, coming down with a case of scurvy, and nothing but old Ramen in my refridgerator when I thought, "Ya know...being homeless sounds pretty sweet right about now." The cattle call audition was American Idol by the way. Simon's ears literally started bleeding halfway through my audition, so I guess I didn't do so hot. Also, Paula announced that it was the single worst thing she had ever heard, slightly edging out the time she heard a 2nd grader being sodomized by a grizzly bear. I didn't see any need to stick around to ask questions.

Acting was supposed to be a glamorous career, full of exciting people and lots of fame and fortune. I had yet to see that aspect. I had managed to score a production assistant job on a commercial for denture adhesive, and that was about as high up the totem pole as I had been able to climb thus far. Hollywood...the land of crushed dreams. My "agent," who hadn't managed to get me any real work in two years, called me up and asked me the question that would change my life forever.

"What would you think about being homeless?"

Some would be offended by this, but to tell the truth, I truly had considered it. I'd see the various homeless of Hollywood every day, sitting at street corners, begging for spare change, wearing flannel button-ups in mid-July. They had it pretty sweet. Hobo Joe was never worrying about his next audition, unless you considered the next sap he would ask for a quarter from an "audition." He just stood around, got some good sun, and enjoyed life to the fullest.

"Yeah, David, I think you may be onto something. Thanks for the advice."

I hung up on David. I didn't need to hear any more from him or any other Hollywood-types any more. I was done with the whole system. Done with "networking" and working out 'til I vomitted six days a week. Done with trying to offer sexual favors to every casting agent in town. Done with sending out headshots of myself to every agency, production company, and coffee house in the tri-county area. I was gonna live out my dream...

I was gonna be homeless.

I vacated my apartment and took whatever few possessions that would fit in my burlap sack that I had found. I promptly stopped shaving, in hopes of growing an unwieldy hobo beard, and threw away all of my underwear. I wasn't going to need them where I was going. I was going home...and that, my friends, was whereever I wanted it to be.

I started out small, corner of Lilac and Washington. My first attempt at asking for change didn't go too well. I spotted a man who could have potentially had change walking down the sidewalk, and my eyes immediately locked onto him. His eyes caught mine, and he decided to bust out the old "just got a call on my cellphone" ignoring-technique. Oldest trick in the book, but I didn't know how to react at the time. Hey, I was young and foolish. The exchange went like this:

Me: Um, suh- sir? Uh, excuse me? Could I possibly -

Man Who May Have Had Change: Whatever it is, the answer is no.

I failed just as badly as a homeless person as I had as an actor. But then it struck me - the beauty of being a homeless person is that you cannot fail. If you're an actor and you can't get a gig in which to act, are you really an actor? But if you're homeless and you can't get change, you're still homeless. It was unconditional. And that's when I fell in love with being homeless.

From then on, I worked every day on my change-exchanging techniques. I toyed around with a few different styles I had picked up here and there, when I finally settled on what I would be renowned for: the "my daughter is hungry and waiting for me to bring back food, could you spare some change?" It worked like a charm! No one could handle the thought of leaving a little girl hungry. "Daughter" works ten times better than "son" by the way.

I thought I was pretty hot shit at the time. I was clearing ten bucks a day, easy. But I had no idea what I was talking about. One day, as I wandered down the Sunset Boulevard, I ran into the man who would teach me more about homelessness than Tony Orlando and Wesley Willis combined: Tom "Mumbles" Malone.

Mumbles was renowned for using two different styles and meshing them into one unstoppable change-getting technique: Crazy, Deranged Homeless Man With Crazy Eyes. It was hard to tell where the man ended and the hobo began. He would mutter to himself, throw in the occasional scream, go for an incomprehensible rant or two, and shuffle his feet the entire time. He had the whole "been doin' this since the early 80's" ensemble on as well, with a tattered jacket and a scraggly beard that would make most pirates green with envy. Then, when anyone (but particularly businessmen) came within twenty feet of him, he would zone into them like a missile locking onto its target and run towards that person like a speeding train. He would get in their faces and scream at them, try to touch them, spit on them, and threaten them. But here was the key of his technique - he NEVER mentioned change!

Nope. But the businessmen knew. You didn't have to tell them. They'd throw change, whole dollar bills, and sometimes even their entire wallets at Mumbles to get him to stop. Watching Mumbles operate was like watching Mozart play "Mary Had a Little Lamb." It was like watching Genghis Khan battle a five year old. It was like watching Nolan Ryan beg for change. It was child's play.

After a few encounters with the legend himself, I tried out his style a few times. My beard had grown to exceptional length and had gained a respective level of filth. My dad and I were on speaking terms again. I was clearing upwards of 12 bucks a day! Everything was looking up. Then, one day, I ran into my agent David on the street.

"Hey David, my daughter is sick and-"

"How do you know my name?"

"It's me, Martin Freeburg."

"Martin Freeburg? What the hell happened to you? I haven't heard from you in seven years!"

"Yeah, I took that advice you gave me."

"What advice?"

"I went homeless."

"What? Homeless?" David paused and thought deeply about something. Then he looked at me in bafflement, as if he had just had a revelation about how insane I was. "I was calling you about a goddamn job offer! That Pacino flick, Intrepid Dangerousness, needed a homeless guy as the third male lead. You jackass, I greased some elbows to get you that role and you disappeared off the face of the earth!"

Huh. I shrugged it off and asked David for change anyways. He gave me two dollars and told me to never speak to him again. It was a fair deal, I said, and graciously accepted. I think David knew I didn't have a daughter, but he didn't say anything. He was a good man.

I never looked back, even after finding out that the entirety of my new life had begun due to an communication error. It's true what they say - once homeless, always homeless. It's a pretty sweet life. Did you know that the continents are constantly shifting? That the earth is in constant motion? That the solar system is always moving? So, let me ask you this: if nothing else stays at one designated location...why should I?