Urges Contrary to Swallowing

By Kelly Jameson

 

 

          In life, I looked like a Republican who drank too much Windex—the no drip, foaming variety. Now? Well fuckitall.

 

         I live in the only city where being undead will not get you noticed. New York City. A place with bars for queers, business men, business women, Japanese with good Wa, Japanese with bad Wa, girls who like to dance naked, and men who like to yodel. Where are the bars for zombies, huh? Huh? Discrimination is an ugly thing.

 

          I used to like to sit in those bar-kinds of places with my thumb up my ass. Like I said, I was a Republican.

 

         I look at my reflection in a storefront window. Ooooeeeeey. I peel a large flake of skin off my face and drop it on the sidewalk next to some bird crap. Fuckitall.

 

          I'm undead and still trying to get published. I make a living through serious eating. Zombies have to pay the rent too, you fuckhead. So I enter eating competitions. People don't question my diarrhea green pallor, my bloated intestines, or my bad breath. They think it's just my excessive consumption of hard-boiled eggs and hot dogs. Stupid shits.

 

          When I turned undead, I was busy inventing a vaccine to make meetings less boring. I was almost there too. Almost. If they hadn't fired me, I'm sure I would've found the formula. Guess they didn't like me drinking on the job in a lab full of live viruses. Who knew. Fuckheads.

 

         I drink all the rotgut liquor I want now. Get over it. My gut is rotted, so who the fuck cares?

 

         Do you think I have an attitude?

 

          Sometimes my arm falls off. I have to jerry rig it with heavy duty masking tape. I don't go anywhere without that masking tape, believe you me. I still have some pride left, even if I am a gross annoying undead poetry writing champion hot dog eater. You got that right, asshole.

 

         Right now, in the middle of this puckered asshole of a city, I'm somewhere on the other side of neon-lighted truth. I don't have anything to do. A stinky drunk walks up, looks at me, unzips his fly, takes a piss right there on the storefront window with the sign that reads "Save 30% on homeowner's, life, and car insurance now!", and asks me if I like Lynyrd Skynyrd, then walks away. Fuckitall.

 

         I think about finding a café with wireless Internet and searching Career Tools and Tips to find a good boss, or a good job, or both but decide against it.

 

          I’m part philosophical zombie. Get over it already. Go get in bed with your mother already. You know you want to. At least get a cat.

 

         I write short stories, but it's hard when you're sometimes 'mindless' in the conscious sense. Not as hard as you think, though.

 

         I look at my face again in the Plexiglas window. It's blank, expressionless. It becomes more animated when I get hungry and partake in feeding frenzies. Like I said, I like eating competitions because I always win. I fit right in because I am fairly incapable of speech but tend to make moaning and guttural sounds. This goes well with shoving 65 hard-boiled eggs down your throat in 12 minutes or less. You'd be surprised. Or maybe you wouldn't because you're too cool to get surprised anymore. If so, you're a fuckin' cunt-eating moron.

 

          The rules that govern an eating contest are pretty simple. The food to be eaten is either weighed or cut into uniform pieces. No one's allowed to start eating until an official gives the signal. At some of the less professional events, the signal is the finger. Someone gives the finger and then we start eating like the hefty, disgusting gurgitators we are. Today's competitions are judged by the amount eaten within a set period of time, usually 10 or 12 minutes.

 

         Sometimes I go into shops, find the nail polish aisle, open one up, and sniff it. It makes me feel alive. I like colors like "Sweetie Pie" and "Fresh Turkey Carcass." I used to be a Republican, remember fuckhead?

 

         Let me remind you that competitive eating is only safe in a controlled environment. Don't try it at home, fuckhead. You don't have the guts.

 

          There's one question everyone asks: what happens if somebody vomits during a contest? Humans are such disgusting, oedipal, stupid, corn-dog–eating freaks.

 

         Okay, because I'm in a good mood, I'll answer that question for you. Anyone who suffers "a Roman incident" is disqualified if the result of that incident touches the plate or the table. Once time has run out, competitors can rid themselves of the massive amount of food they've eaten however they like. Use your imagination. There's a REASON instant replay isn't used in these contests, whorehead.

 

         Almost all serious eaters eat their hot dogs and buns separately. Now your life is complete, jackass.

 

         I start walking, walk down the overcrowded street with all its liberal Christmas decorations, taxis honking like drunken horny geese, idiots rushing nowhere. I keep walking. I stop, watch two flies fucking on the sidewalk. Okay, that's courtesy of Charles Bukowski, my all-time favorite fucking writer. I mean, how can you not admire passages about two flies fucking?

 

         Right now I am training to beat the world record for hot dog eating. The reigning champion is a Nagasaki, Japan native who ate 53 and 3/4 hot dogs with buns in 12 minutes in July 2006. He just couldn't swallow that last quarter bite though. That must've been one hot July.

 

          They say you shouldn't train beforehand—it can lead to perforation of the stomach lining and potentially fatal water intoxication, but what the fuck do I care about potentially fatal water intoxication? I'm a zombie, undead, and I used to be a Republican. Like I said.

          I spend my time wandering this dirt-mark of a city, looking for some action. I can't sleep after all; I never get fatigued. Zombies are not influenced by pain and don't require air to breathe. We are immune to drugs, poisons, gases, high voltage electricity, shit like that. Sometimes I find live wires and touch them in front of other people, just to freak them out. Another advantage of being a zombie is that I can suffer great damage to my body, including dismemberment, without being too adversely affected. Dismembering my legs will render me immobile, but I will still continue to exist. I don't suggest you try this though. I wouldn't take it kindly. In the right mood, I would brutally tear you to pieces, you sack of shit.

          Good thing for you I often have trouble with simple things like doorknobs, windows, and stairs.

          You want to know my other weaknesses, you stupid shit? In case you ever meet me in a dark alley after I've written some really bad poetry? Alright then. I'm addicted to Gingerbread lattes, Jujubes, and italics. I love italics. Go ahead, figure out how to fight me with that.

          I know you're scared shitless now, you zombie hater. I sit on the curb not far from where the drunk pissed on the Plexiglas. I sit and listen to the steamy night. I peel off another large chunk of skin and drop it in the street, next to some drunk's day-old vomit. I get up, think about taking a shower at the homeless shelter—the plumbing in my uptown piece of shit place doesn't work—change my mind, get a burger and a beer instead. I never eat hot dogs unless I’m in training. I decide I'm not in training anymore. So then, why would I eat hot dogs? It's like eating nitrite turds. I walk again. Die and walk, or is it walk and die? My left arm falls off. A woman in a business suit looks at me, keeps walking. Like she's seen it all before. Or seen me or someone like me in one of her stupid business meetings. Bitch.

         I tape it back up. A cabby speeds by, splashing me with gutter-level city filth. I give him the finger. But my hand's on backwards, so I'm really just giving myself the finger. I sigh, get out the tape again. Fix myself up. I'm starting to feel a little animated. I’m ready to get back in the saddle, I look for someone to screw around with. I don't find anyone. I bend down and watch two flies fucking. I laugh. That Charles Bukowski. He died in 1994. He's got to be in this city somewhere though, and I'm going to find him. He was too much of a great writer/bastard to stay dead for long. I'm sure of it.

         I find an interesting joint where loud music bounces out into the street like rubber coins and knocks the skin off my face. I like that kind of shit. So I walk in, sit down at the bar.

          "We don't serve Republicans here," the bartender says.

          I'd throw hot oatmeal in his face if I had some. Apple cinnamon. I don't really like oatmeal though. Looking at it reminds me too much of my face these days.

         "I'm not a Republican," I say. "I'm a zombie."

          "What's the difference?" he asks.

         "I may fuck you over but I won't vote to increase your taxes, moron.

 

Give me a Scotch and water. Not so much water."

         "Sure, shithead." He moves off to make my drink.

          I look around hoping to see Oleg Zhornisky, a guy who once ate four 32-ounce bowls of mayonnaise in eight minutes. Did you do the math fucker? That's 128 ounces of the white stuff. I don't see him. I'm more likely to see Eric "Badlands" Booker, a 420-pound rap singer and New York City subway conductor who holds records in doughnuts and pumpkin pies, but he's not here either.

         I think about the record for eating Spam. Six pounds of Spam from the can in 12 minutes on April 3, 2004. Guy named Richard LeFevre. He must've taken a really good shit after that. I bet it was all sparkly with various unnamed pork products. I bet it was so beautiful it made him cry. I order another drink. I look at a flyer someone's posted near the bar about an upcoming talk. Due in part to societal norms, women are expected to take on more in their lives than ever before. The Superwoman phenomenon will be discussed with an emphasis on change. Specific suggestions are given for common stressors, such as the importance of being able to say NO to people in our lives. I yell "No!" But no one looks at me. It seems no one cares. I laugh hysterically. It's obviously too late for a red-neck Republican zombie like myself. I feel a little like the shadow beneath the lotus when I leave.

         My apartment is just as boring as it was when I left it that morning. I pull out some Russian vodka. Good shit. Drink it straight from the bottle. I laugh hysterically some more. Hit the bottle some more.

          I check the pile of mail I left on my table that morning. There's an interesting package. I rip it open.

         "Dear Wanda, we like your zombie story "HAPPY HOUR" and we're going to publish it…."

         I swallow. I fall over. Literally. I don't think it's because I’m drunk now. I swallow again. I finally did it. Shit. Being undead is no excuse, after all, for not writing. I feel a case of "meat sweats" coming on, so lying there anyway, I finish the bottle of vodka. It doesn't effect me like it would effect you, you stupid fucking shithead.

          I wonder if I will be the first published undead zombie. I wonder if they will put my face on T-shirts and sell them in Times Square.

 

Author’s Bio: Kelly Jameson is the author of the suspense-thriller Dead On, film optioned and Runner-Up in the 2006 DIY Los Angeles Book Festival, about a medical examiner being chased through different lifetimes by the same killer. Her agent is currently looking for a home for her second novel, Glass Gardens, and she’s at work on a short story collection, screenplays, webisodes, and another novel. Kat Martin, best-selling author with over 11 million books in print, calls Dead On "Brilliant. A chilling erotic suspense that will send shivers down your spine. A sensuous, gripping tale of murder through the ages." Dead On is available at most online bookstores. www.DeadOnNovel.com