Windows, Fingers, and Knives

Mitch and Bonnie Miller sat in their car trapped in the middle of a traffic jam. They had each been trapped in traffic before, but from the looks of things, this would be the last time it would ever happen to them. Because, unlike the other traffic jams they had suffered through, this one also had zombies and about a dozen of them were slapping the car windows with bloody smacks and pressing their snapping teeth up against the glass.

“What are we going to do?” Bonnie pleaded, while grabbing his arm. “Please, I don’t want to die like this.”
Mitch didn’t answer right away, instead his mind went back to the first person they had seen get torn apart by the raving maniacs that the media were only recently calling the walking dead. It had been their mail man of all people. His prim shorts became drenched in blood as five of the things had drawn him to the ground. The man’s screams had seemed to go on forever.
That had been the moment that Mitch had decided it was time to flee Tucson. Unfortunately so had a few hundred thousand other people.
Bonnie’s voice drew him back to the present. “Come on Mitch, we might not have much time.”

He eyes traveled to the back seat of their hybrid. They mostly held food and clothes, but he had grabbed a few butcher knives. He handed one of these to Bonnie, but kept rifling through the gear until he located his old hammer. It had a small sledge head, but the handle stretched only about eighteen inches long. It had been his father’s and the only thing he had ever seen his old man use it for was driving the tent stakes into the hard packed earth when they went camping.
“Okay, at least we’re armed.”
The moaning grew in volume as two more of the wandering dead took up posts outside of the compact vehicle. So much blood covered the windows they had become opaque.
Bonnie looked down at the knife clutched in her quivering hand. “What do you expect me to do with this anyway? You can’t possibility think that we can fight our way out of here.”
“No I don’t. At least not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“Calm down, will you. I’m trying to save us.”
“Calm down? How do you expect me to calm down? This moaning is enough to drive me mad. We’re about to die.”
“Not if I can help it.” Mitch’s greying hair was drenched in sweat and he wiped it out of his face. “I’m going to try something.”

He rolled down the window. Only about four inches, but that proved enough to send the freaks into a frenzy. Mouths pressed against the opening while fingers struggled for a grip. The moaning rung in his ears.
Mitch went into a frenzy of his own—chopping at the fingers and faces. Several severed fingers dropped to the floor of the car while he kept stabbing and cutting.
Bonnie might have been screaming.
One face dropped lower and Mitch yelled, “Got yeh!” and stabbed forward. The blade took the madman in the eye and he fell back with a final gasp. But more tried to grab the window. “Crap,” he said and attempted to roll it up. He got less than an inch from his goal, but at least ten fingers still protruded into his car. He set to hacking them.
It proved a gruesome affair. The whole time he chopped at them, Bonnie begged him to stop.

“I can’t stop, they could break the window.”
Her hysterical cries sounded loud in the enclosed space, but after two more minutes, he had cut enough fingers away that he was able to roll up the window.
Her face stayed buried in her hands. “Why didn’t we run away from our car like everyone else? Why is this happening to us?”
“I’m sure there are plenty of others trapped in their cars all around us and it would be my guess that these people attacking us could very well be some of the people that did run away.”
This seemed to sober her slightly. “But what are we going to do? You can’t kill them all through the window.”
For a long moment the only sounds heard were the continuous moaning and the violent hand slaps. Then Mitch said, “Don’t worry, I have a plan”

The Story continues next Saturday!


You can find out more about the Eternal Aftermath here!

Dionysus CHAOS

Dionysus Yes I See

Let the Chaos flow in and out of Me

We seek the Entropy with the Unknown Voice

Let our Will continually Follow the right Choice

One Choice leads to Another

Until the Hills reverberate with Thunder

We Wish to Ride the Chaos for it is our Ship

The Bullshit of Life we wish to Slip

Above as Below

Constantly fueled with an Ability to GO

You are our Mentor in the ways of the Night

Together we Bask in the Delight

As 1 As 8 As 9

As a whole we whirl into the Divine

Let us journey to the Borders of the Abyss

No aspect of Life do we have to Miss

The Wheel of Life, the Chaos that Create

Oh Gosh and Golly we think you are Great

 

 Find out more about the Hero’s mystic path here!

Jack Primus, The Ghetto Shaman, and All the Chicken Wings they could eat Rally

Washington, DC—On Oct. 30^th The National Mall was packed wall-to-wall with celebrities attending the Shaman’s Rally to Retrieve the U.S. Soul. After a long weekend of bashing in the skulls of the foul Darcarre, Jack Primus swung east in support of the Discord’s cause.  Being a fictional character doesn’t stop Primus from doing any number of cool things on a given day. You know that dude, the world’s most interesting man, from those Dos Equis commercials? Jack Primus won’t return his calls.

Jack is the archetypal hero. He captured the new century’s zeitgeist and keeps it chained in his basement next to his morning star.  Primus rarely does interviews, but for the Discord…we paid him—virtual money, of course.
The rest of this post is courtesy of Mr. P himself:

Jack Primus

The Ghetto Shaman has given his blessing to Yig.  He is truly wise. Since he’s been receiving death threats from both the Xemmoni underground and the Sharron Angle campaign—both sworn enemies of Yig—I decided to help out my old friend. He asked me to support his cause, protect him from the super natural forces that be, and, of course, buy him some malt liquor products. Actually, I only agreed if GS promised me a plug on the Discord to sell more books.  He also promised me all the chicken wings I could eat. The joke was really on them; I hid an extra eighty in my backpack on the way out.  I heard Zano is getting his “wages” garnished over that one. But GS told me he’s got Winslow wrapped around his little chicken wing and I could muscle-in whenever I wanted.

If what happened at the Mall on October 30th continues to plague America, you’re really going to need the Chronicles of Jack Primus.  It’s not just a book; it’s a survival guide for the coming apocalypse!
To rewind a bit, everything had started out well enough. The Discord was bussing people down to the event. The Ghetto Shaman was reading excerpts of Jack Primus to the cheering masses. But those who could not decipher the Primus Code, never got a bus ride home! This book was their return ticket, you see. Without it, they were forced to hang out at Capital City Brewing—that big dumb brewpub downtown; the one with small portions and rubbery chicken wings. If you get stuck down there and the Xemmoni or the Darcarre get you, don’t come bitching to me. You’ve been warned. They’re in all the major cities, and they tend to know when you know…you know? So now that you know, you better read this book and learn how to stay alive…and don’t order those chicken wings.

I probably shouldn’t have told you that. Can you edit that out, Winslow? Not the staying alive part, the other part about the wings. Sometimes they’re OK drowned in enough blue cheese dressing. But you should buy the book and try to stay alive, of course. Geesh.
So, you want to really know what happened on October 30th? Why GS needed me as he shifted into an alternate dimension? He isn’t called a Shaman for nothing. They did come after him that day—in mass, I might add. You see, anyone and everyone must guard his or her corporeal body during any exercise in soul travel, especially one this important.
When The Ghetto Shaman drank his potion on the Lincoln Memorial steps, those damn Darcarre moved in like bed bugs in an Econo Lodge.  They surrounded us, alongside their unwilling slave, Jeff “come-on-in-guys” Probst of Survivor fame. They didn’t want GS’s message to get out to the people.  They will derail any message resembling Yig’s.  Could you imagine what would have happened if GS told everyone on national television to dissolve our differences and embrace the All Father snake? Yep, you’re right, we’d all be in a state of bliss, with all hunger and wars a thing of the past. Don’t look at me like that… Snakes are all about bliss… duh.  Haven’t you ever read any Graham Hancock?

So when they came, I was ready, or at least I was after I wiped the BBQ sauce off my weapon hand.  GS even helped with the battle; he was pretty bad ass with those chicken bone nunchucks. We gave those Serial Killers a good licking, but the damage was done. They jammed the telecast and those other stooges claimed all the credit for the rally.
Why do you think the special wasn’t on television and they switched all the coverage to those Comedy Central dudes with the weird haircuts and no sideburns?  It was a diversion!  I kept the Shaman safe until the police…er, “took over.”
There you have it, right from the hero’s mouth.  Some call Primus a Yig-loving fictional freak. Whereas this is true, it’s still not a very nice thing to say. We would rather you stay alive, learn your enemy’s secrets, and read The Chronicles of Jack Primus.

Check out the Chronicles of Jack Primus here!



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The Climax of Cowboys Versus Zombies

Brown felt like his heart had been hit by a rock. Where are they? He didn’t dare yell for them because it could attract more of those flesh eating things. Scanning the area behind the burning convenience store, Brown saw that one direction headed deeper into a junk yard of rusted vehicles. Their black silhouettes cast thick shadows and he figured that was about the last place he’d want to go and the others would have probably thought the same.
The other direction proved to be the more dangerous of the two for he came to the road right away. For a moment he almost panicked, especially since he couldn’t see any of the others. Five of the walking dead crossed in the road. It didn’t take long for one of them to spot him and take up their horrible moans.

The fire must draw the things for some reason.
The polished bat still filled his hands and with a yell, he made a roundhouse swing on the nearest one. For once, the blow was enough to take it down without any argument. The second went down and he was going for his third when he heard the moaning increase. Looking around he saw that another dozen of the wailing things had exited the restaurant across the street.

What lurks behind the door

“Must be thinking they’re about to get barbecue,” he grumbled as he pushed one zombie into another, which sent them both tumbling to the ground.
The fire roared behind him and plumes of toxic smoke bellowed ever closer. Damn, I can’t go back the way I came and before me isn’t looking too much better. This might be it, Brown-man.
Bright headlights blinded several of the zombies. They, along with Brown, turned to look into the lights of an approaching vehicle. Brown couldn’t be sure what it was at first, but it seemed damn big.
With a loud hoot, the driver ran down four of the approaching zombies. Not willing to stop there, he threw the rig, which Brown could not see was a monster-sized tow truck, into a one-eighty and then run down another three.
By then, Brown could tell that Trevor drove and a smile crept over his face. He watched as the rig neared and it almost cost him his life.
Pain tore through his arm as violent fingers dug into him. A mouth wasn’t far behind and would have gotten him if his bat didn’t fence and smash the thing in the center of its face. It stumbled back and then Brown smashed his bat down on its fingers. It took two tries, but it lost its grip.

Changing to a two handed grip, Brown took the swing of his life and the neck snapped loud enough to be heard over the tow truck’s engine. Another one drew in close and received the same treatment.
“Are we going to get out of here,” Trevor called down to him, “or do you have to kill all of these sick things before we do?”
“No, I think we’ve done our share for now,” He said as he leapt up onto one of the running boards. “We can let the soldiers clean up the rest.”
Laura wore a smile for the first time since they met. She hugged her daughter tighter to her chest as Brown climbed into the tow truck.
“Where too?” Trevor asked.

“We need to get these two somewhere safe,” Brown said. “Head into Tucson. I’m sure they have the resources to keep whatever’s happening under control there.”
Turning back toward I-10 the small group left the growing flames of the convenience store behind them.
The growing mob of zombies watched them depart until another vehicle exited the highway. As one, the zombies moaned as the vehicle slowed for the stop sign.



Thank You for reading Cowboys Versus Zombies

A new story will begin next Saturday!

You can find out more about Brown and the Eternal Aftermath here!

Al Gore , Men In Green, and the HARP that will Destroy Earth!

Collapsing Shack, AZ—This is some serious breaking news:  now that this distracting election is over, it’s time to push aside useless labels like Tea Bagger, Bleeding Heart Liberal, Limp-Wristed Cow-Kissing Independent, or Humanitarian Sheep-Humping Dingleberry. None of these things matter in the face of the 100 Angry Men and their lacky, nay, their leader, nay, their Supreme Allied Commander…Al Gore.

Sometimes the Discord actually breaks news instead of merely breaking news into ‘tiny shards of sensationalism’.  Google won’t verify anything I’m about to say, because they’re in on the conspiracy. Google has been manipulated by these angry men, also known as the mysterious Men In Green (MIG).  Only a small underground knows the truth. Through a mixture of ill luck, Odysseusian exhaustion, and booze, I found myself a participant in a plot that will surely shake the very core of human existence.

The other night one of these Men In Green ended up at The Green Room, my favorite bar.  I don’t know what they were looking for there, but what they found was some awesome drink specials and yours truly—a combination that would prove their undoing. I will tell you what I know.  If I disappear, they got to me…or, I got drunk.  I’m sure it’ll be one of the two. These MIGs have no country, but move throughout the world like shadows and, no, they don’t get felt up at airports; lucky bastards.

I got two of these MIG dudes drunk back at The Green Room and while they were in the can I accessed one of their laptops.  Apparently, these men control the wealth of the world and their word can change nations or economies overnight, to say nothing of extending all happy hours indefinitely!   So why was I buying all the beer?  Geesh, in retrospect, it’s a shame I spent most of the time logging into their Facebook pages to have all their friends befriend Jack Primus and The Daily Discord.  Hindsight is always 20/20, or in my case, a beer goggly 30/40.

I learned a lot perusing their files; suddenly everything made sense.  Do you really think we elected Bush twice?  It’s the game beneath the game.  Gore never wanted the presidency and then maneuvered Bush into a second term.  This was all part of the plan.  This group even allowed Fox lies to keep the ’04 election close enough so we wouldn’t suspect any foul play.   These Men In Green currently hate everyone except commies. These guys love commies. As they swerved away into the night their bumper sticker read: Pinko is the New Green.

I just heard something outside the window?  I hope it’s just the Ghetto Shaman trying to get me to buy him some more Robitussin.  Otherwise, they’re onto me.  I just hope I have enough time to send this off, finish this twelve-pack, and eat those last few slices of pizza from last night. Damn, that was a good spicy Hawaiian…

I almost forgot to put on my aluminum foil hat!  There, that should block their transmission for the few more minutes I’ll need.  They aren’t settling for just sucking the world’s resources dry, like some Bond villain.  These fiends believe the world is overpopulated so they mean to cull  the herd! That’s where Al Gore comes in.  He is their leader in the guise of an affable fool.  Their most treasured secret is this: Al Gore’s world shattering H.A.R.P.! You think Al Gore is against Global Warming, hah!  That’s nothing but another clever ruse. According to these Men In Green, Al Gore has a dreadful harp-like machine and when he plays this Human Apocalyptic Reprogramming Per-whatsas (H.A.R.P.)…well, lean in closer.  It actually causes global warming!

Why are they trying to kill us? That’s the creepy part. The truth is this: they like fluffy little animals better.  They think humans are all wicked and unredeemable.  Sure, it’s true, but it’s still not a nice thing to say.

I heard something again. I had better attach and send this document to Pierce Winslow before they set off another electro-magnetic pulse.  Shit…get another slice of pizza or warn mankind?  Damn you saucy pineappley yumminess!

So we have nothing to look forward to, other than these 100 Angry Men stealing as much money as they can and then destroying the world.  They’ll leave our planet a Road Warrior wasteland while they move into their mansions in Antarctica, party with Gwar, and laugh as the rest of the world becomes a lifeless desert.  Worse yet, they don’t seem to buy any rounds of alcohol despite almost C. Montgomery Burns levels of wealth!

I’d like to quote the Lord Humungus, “What a puny plan!” but I hear they are already booking flights to the South Pole.  They left Al Gore in the center of a hidden Tobacco patch, plucking away on his malign H.A.R.P. from Hell.  I emailed the above picture from their laptop to myself and then onward to The Daily Discord.  Do you think they’ll check their sent mail?  Damn.  I think they’re in the house now.

Still don’t believe me?  Well, I don’t give a pluck what you think. You’ll be playing a different tune when the oceans roll over the cities and the forests turn to dust. Don’t come running to me when that doomsday H.A.R.P plays its final stanza as our fingers grasp through the burning sands in the hopes of unearthing some old sandwiches or the warm beer of a dead world.
And always remember, It Could Happen to Harpo!

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Arizona’s Crawdad Menace and Other Disturbing Observations

Caved-in-Shack, AZ—Something deeply disturbing is happening in Arizona.  No, I’m not talking about Janet Brewer, Immigration laws, or Mick Zano’s naked bar crawls….I’m talking about something reaaalllly disturbing.  Back when I was shelling out ten bucks a bag in New Orleans for mini-lobsters known as crawdads, how could I have known a few years later these same bastards would be on the verge of destroying my state’s ecosystem?

In case you are unaware, crayfish or crawdads are not native to the states west of the Rockies, like funding for education and the arts.  Over the years, scores of intrepid crawdads died trying to traverse the Rockies.  Most eventually gave up and settled in Denver to open microbreweries…very small ones, obviously, or micro-microbreweries.

In a similar manner to the republican migration, crawdads have crept into the southwest and have invaded our delicate ecosystem with their big trucks and their wild tea parties. These evil little beasts have infected the streams and lakes in every part of my home state—not to mention their racially charged immigration bills.
Similar to the red state’s pro-Christian stance, many of these crayfish were introduced through a misconception of facts. A statewide program for seventh-graders had the children studying these, nearly impossible to kill, cockroaches from hell. Then, at the end of the school year, in a truly misguided attempt at environmentalism, teachers had their students dump this destructive invasive species into every stream and pond across our fair state.  This is why eco-friendly people are often only slightly more devastating to our planet than the Sarah Palin’s of the world.  Hey, maybe Sarah can shoot crawdads from her chopper?

Once in our formally tranquil waters, these demonic (yet tasty) crayfish begin to devour everything in their path, much like laws enacted by our governor’s red pen.  Soon all aquatic life is killed off.  After this eradication comes the demise of all plant life. Without plants there is nothing to recycle to carbon dioxide other than algae—not to mention, there’s nothing to smoke. This turns clear streams and lakes into murky dark pools, where the crawfish now have no choice other than to eat each other in a dark cannibalistic frenzy, not dissimilar to Zano’s naked bar crawls.

Once in our formally tranquil waters, these demonic (yet tasty) crayfish begin to devour everything in their path, much like laws enacted by our governor’s red pen.  Soon all aquatic life is killed off.  After this eradication comes the demise of all plant life. Without plants there is nothing to recycle to carbon dioxide other than algae—not to mention, there’s nothing to smoke. This turns clear streams and lakes into murky dark pools, where the crawfish now have no choice other than to eat each other in a dark cannibalistic frenzy, not dissimilar to Zano’s naked bar crawls.

 

As a follower of Yig, I find the loss of frogs and other amphibians across our state the most depressing aspect of this crustacean invasion. Even the most selfish swimmer cannot be enjoying a wade into the murk with crawfish nipping at your toes, unless they’re trying to save money on a pedicure.

 

So what can we do to stem the tide of evil and death that is sweeping over the west? The answer is simple. All crawfish must be boiled alive and eaten, preferably with butter sauce.  Boil that crayfish, boil that crayfish. Boil! Boil!  Devour those selfish shellfish, munch on those crusty-aceans, cook those lobster mobsters, can those crabby…I’m being told to stop.
It is only fitting that we, the species responsible for started this plague, sacrifice our time to eat as many of these delicious morsels as possible. It’s a rough job, but sometimes sacrifices must be made. And, if such sacrifices involve eating endless piles of buttery white meat that tastes like lobster, then so be it.
Leave no stone unturned!  (Literally.)
So, my fellow Americans, pick up your nets, your traps, your spears, and maybe some of those concealed handguns, and let’s go crawdadding!  Book your Coconino County Crawdad Chopper Safari with Alex Bone today!

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Mother Road Brewing and Deschutes Unite! By Mick Zano

Flagstaff, AZ—Mother Road Brewing made the fatal mistake of informing The Daily Discord about an important event. On February 5th they combined forces with Oregon’s Deschutes Brewery to brew one spectacular Super Brew. It’s kind of like that Wonder Twins thing, but instead of rings they use vats. Wonder Twins activate, form of ethanol! Video preview at the end of the article! And, yes, we will be releasing the entire video on this momentous day, theoretically soon. For some history, about a year ago there were only four brewpubs in Flagstaff. Mogollon Brewing recently closed, but three more cropped up in its place, which begs the question is slaying a brewery like killing the hydra? You lop off a head only to find more sudsy heads emerging in its place? Hey, just be thankful I didn’t go with my original Mead-dusa joke. You would have immediately turned to Stone...Brewing. Zano, anymore puns like that and YOU’RE FIRED!! Sincerely, Pierce X. Winslow, CEO Hey, I’m working here... Anyway, it all started when the Discord crew attended the local Brew Ha-Ha on January 19th—which is also where we found and hired our new cameraman Greg, who hence forth shall be known as Greg! Alex Bone, Cokie McGrath, Mick Zano and The Pharmacists at Brew Ha-Ha Yeah, I’ve been working out a little. Actually, that guy in the back tried to photo bomb us, so we showed him...by turning him into me! Take that, brew fest photo bomb dude. I didn’t cover the Brew Ha-Ha for the Discord this year—not because it wasn’t fun—it’s just I’m getting lazy in my old age. If you want to get the true flavor of Flagstaff’s premier winter beer festival, check out my coverage from last year here. Oh, but when my agency’s CEO made a surprise appearance this year, for my day job, I was just thankful the gang talked me out of my "great idea". "Hey everyone, let’s all run up to him and dump our beers on his head like it’s Gatorade and we’d just won the big game!" Yeah, my friends...I’m kind of surprised they stopped me. Meanwhile, at the Brew Ha-Ha we ran into the founder of Mother Road Brewing, Michael Marquess. He is already a bit too familiar with the Discord gang, but despite this fact remained shortsighted enough to tell us about his little Deschutes collaboration thing on the 5th. The idea was for Deschutes personnel to drive from Bend Oregon to Flagstaff Arizona and pair up with Mother Road as part of their initiative to support your local brewery. Mike started brewing as a hobby in 2000 but now, 13 years later, his shiny new brewery was just recognized by the city of Flagstaff as the Business of the Year—narrowly beating out The Daily Discord, which has over 11 viewers, because our fans go to 11! Mr. Marquess was then presented with the key to the city, which in retrospect the Mayor now regrets as he got the town as far as Sedona before being pulled over by police. It’s sad, really, because no matter how big The Discord gets I can’t see the Mayor handing us anything. That bridge has sailed...or something. We were able to corner Mike for an interview and here’s how it all went down: Zano: I have only one question for the founder: why, night after night, do you serve this man (pointing to Alex Bone) when you know what’s going to happen? Isn’t doing the same thing over and over again the definition of insanity? Marquess: My license states I have to treat and serve everyone fairly, even when he is—shall we say—less than himself. Bone: (towering over both of us) I’m more than myself! Zano: I just want to say, your black IPA is phenomenal, your recent Anniversary brew is phenomenal, you are a real up and coming brewery in this little town. Wouldn’t you say your black IPA is your signature beer? Marquess: Yes. Zano: Then please tell me how do you brew a black pale ale? That’s an oxymoron like jumbo shrimp or ...wait, I have more. I prepared them (Zano reaches into pocket). Marquess: We can argue all day about Cascadia ale, American black ale, so just call my beer Lost Highway— Bone: I saw the movie Lost Highway. Marquess: —keep drinking it, and we can agree to disagree on whether you can call it a pale, or black, or whatever the hell it is. Zano: I love this man! Marquess: We like you guys too, but please stop downloading that stuff you’re downloading off our free internet. I keep getting letters from my internet service provider. (Our answer to this important accusation is best left to our video response. Hint: it involves dolphins.) Alex Bone then interviewed Casey Carhart of Deschutes Brewery and asked him questions ranging from demonic possessions to zombie apocalypses. Bone isn’t well. Alex Bone, Mick Zano, and Casey Carhart of Deschutes Brewery This is another reason I Iove Deschutes. Doesn’t this sound like the perfect event? The video captures more of our antics and our ultimate ejection, but we really feel we accomplished some important work that day, or at least that’s what we keep telling ourselves... Our official apology to both breweries is included in the video, coming soon! Check your spam folder. Until then here’s the opening. Enjoy.

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