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My fellow internet zombie brethren:

It is my specious pleasure to be addressing you in the fullness of time. My name is Zombie Orwell. You will be hearing a lot from me in the coming months as we ratchet up the intensity of our Zombie Rights Revolution.

I wish all of you safe human-hunting. Please message me (ZOMBIEORWELL@GMAIL.COM) if you have questions or free tacos.

I love you!
Following (3)  

Hey Dtoid. Right now I don't have any Zombie Orwell in me. This is the guy behind the voice. What I'm gonna do goes against the unwritten rules of the character I've created, but I've reached an interesting and terrifying and exhilarating place in life; a place that demands I drop the character for a minute and... spit real talk.

Let's start with introductions. I'm Brandon. I live in Oaxaca, Mexico. Why Mexico? Because I've been desperate to visit the country since I started taking Spanish lessons 13 years ago. I came in November 2012 and I don't plan on going back to the homeland (USA). Why Oaxaca (Wa-Hawk-Ah), specifically? Cuz I met a lovely young lady from here and I think she might say yes if I ask the right question.

The food, the drink, the climate, the mangoes, the avocados, the mangoes, the history, the architecture, the mangoes... Life is good.

But I'm in trouble. I work for thieves. Since I'm basically an illegal immigrant, I have few options when they try to screw me over, and my employers know it. Even if I were a citizen, I'm in a country where the phrase “workers' rights” is not in the vocabulary.

My Situation

I teach English. My school gives me an envelope with cash every two weeks, and until recently, my salary has been just enough to pay the rent and buy food. (No complaints, though, because I use my extra time to build side projects and create yummy internet content.) But now they're robbing my hours. For the last two pay periods they've payed me exactly half of what they owe me, and they say “oh, sorry. We don't know your schedule. We'll pay the rest next time.”

But we all know "next time" ain't coming. Next time was supposed to be today.

And earlier today they decided it would be super cool to prorate my salary because I didn't attend a workshop that they failed to inform me about. “You didn't come, so we have to cut your pay.” I left more pissed off than I've been in a loooooooong time, almost panicking, wondering what I was gonna do. But then I started thinking.

My Plan And My Content

I've been here on Dtoid for a couple years, writing absurd things and having a great time. Some of the absurd things I write even get a warm reception, which never ceases to amaze me and fill my cold, black heart with fuzzy tinglies. Lately I've been working my ass off to produce a Mexico History Podcast (in between classes and visa runs to Guatemala so I can keep living in Mexico semi-legally).

I wrote a book (Devastation and Destruction of Destructoid) where Mr. Andy Dixon gets drowned by metal dildos, where Dale North gets killed in mysterious circumstances (as does Hamza's stripper girlfriend), and where Jonathan Holmes is a mob boss. Other things happen, too. And there's a dance number. The final chapter will be up Monday.

I've also recorded a few chapters of DDD, to be released as a disturbing audiobook.

I have a dark sci-fi book in the works. And did I tell you about the Mexico History Podcast? Your ears want it. If I told you how many hours I've poured into it since the beginning, you wouldn't believe me. But I do it because I love it. This is the kind of stuff I want to do full time (or as full time as monetarily possible).

My Plea

I can't keep working for the same school, and there's a high likelihood that things will devolve into the same situation in almost any school that employs me. Things have been... interesting for the last couple months. So I'm reaching out to Dtoid.

Here's the thing, I'm not asking for charity. I'm not asking for handouts. I'm asking for you to check out the stuff I've already created. Check out my Dtoid content. Check out my Mexico history podcast. Check out the Zombie Orwell wordpress. If you like what I've produced, if you think it's valuable, or if you want to see more content more often from Zombie Orwell and the guy behind him, send a little donation via Paypal. On the top you'll see my personal email address (sprin115@gmail.com). Feel free to send me a message. I'm yours, baby!

If you don't have any money to spare, that's totally cool. Maybe you can just point a friend in the direction of one of my outlets (the Mexico podcast, the Dtoid backlog, etc). Or send me a question for the Mexico thing I keep talking about. I'll do listener feedback episodes. MexicoPodcast@gmail.com

All My Stuff

This is where I usually end with "Your Leader, Zombie Orwell" but honestly, I want you to be my boss. I want to be accountable to real people, not shady thieves.

Also, cocks.

Give me questions while I ingest "foodstuffs" in preparation for podcasting.

BTW, have you followed me on Twitter and checked my wordpress site? If not, I will kill you from the tree outside your bedroom window.

Do these things in remembrance of me.

From the mountains of southern Mexico:
Your leader,
Zombie Orwell

NotToid records right NOW. Do questions.

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Narrator X – Things recede and I shall die.


His head turned slowly to the left. The cockpit was sliding forward. He looked at Jim, who was sliding with it. Now the doorway was moving past him. A stack of books floated in air as their shelf kept the same slow, forward motion as the cockpit.

An eternity passed while Last Scion hung motionless. Things recede. The meeting with the assassin had been out of Last Scion's control from the moment they had landed at Poly HQ, and now his friend Elsa was receding along with all the Destructoid members who had come with and met their ends in time with Samit's grand orchestra.

He thought of Occam's final brave seconds, leaping to action in order to protect Jonathan. Last Scion felt the rancor's metal fist smash into Occam.

He thought of Dale and felt something on his back. Its touch grew stronger. The wall. Last Scion had floated through the anteroom and was slowly pushing up against the wall. It was comforting at first, but the comfort soon turned to oppression, then to pain, then agony. The wall ground relentlessly into his back.

Now it was touching his head. He felt a sharp pain in his skull and his eyes grew heavy. He could not resist. His body was being crushed, but his brain was forcing him to sleep. His eyes closed and he fell into unconsciousness.

He awoke to flames and fumes. The smell of burning ion fuel scorched his airway down to the bottom of his lungs. What foul dream is this?  Nearby he heard a rhythmic scraping sound. He stood up, though his body screamed in protest. I do not surrender to pain. Pain surrenders to me. But it did not surrender when he walked forward. Instead, his leg gave out and he fell in a heap.

“NO!” he roared. The scraping stopped.

“Last Scion, is that you?”

The British one, he thought. “Yes, where are we?”

“Bloody blazing British ballsacks, I thought you had died.” Jim ran to him. “Are you okay?”

“I am a warrior,” Last Scion answered. “Tell me what happened. The last moment I remember was a peaceful dream in which I floated backward through the zord.” Though it ended as a nightmare.

“We crashed. I'm not sure what happened, but I think Zombie Orwell did something to the control panel. I think he hacked my brain.” Jim looked pale and weak, like he might die of exhaustion at any moment.

“What have you been doing all this time? You look as death itself.”

“The blade,” he said. “I've been sharpening the blade.”

“Damn it, Jim,” Last Scion snarled, “House Dixon has suffered enough shame. You should not pile on by 'sharpening your blade' for hours on end. Go and find Samit. Kill him.”

“No, look.” Jim held aloft a massive, finely crafted sword. It had been shaped into a life-size steel representation of Matt Borealis. He stood nude, hands behind his head, posing suggestively.

Last Scion averted his eyes. It is unbecoming for a warrior to gaze with lust upon such well-made erotica. But the artwork – the craftsmanship.

“My god, Jim,” he said. “Are those...”

“Yes. Droplets of water.”

“You are a true artisan.”

Jim frowned. “The beauty of my art is a result of the anguish in my soul. The only man I ever loved spurned me. He died in the gnashing teeth of a monster made of sex toys. My brain was violated by a long-dead pusher of pens. And now I come crashing to Earth with nothing left.”

He slid the Borealis Blade into its scabbard. “Art is anguish and the ground is dust.”

“Yes,” agreed Last Scion. “Artists were made to suffer. Nobody understands the world like a poet.”

“Or dancer.”

“Or artisan.”

“Or purveyor of fine literature.”

“Truly.” Together they gazed up at the stars. “Yet we are infinitely insignificant.”

“Life is pain.”

“Art is life.”

“Therefore art is pain.” Their two souls communed among the smoking wreckage of the Destructzord. Several hours passed while they discussed things too profound and true to ever set to paper. And their souls communed.

Their souls communed.

Narrator X – After the communion

“Let us find Dale and set about our separate paths,” said Last Scion.

“Forget about Dale. He's gone.”

“Do not tell me this thing, Jim.” He stood up, his body still screaming in pain, but allowing him to move. “I must find Dale.”

He tumbled through the wreckage, shouting Dale's name, but only the fires gave answer. He picked up piles of steaming metal and flung them out of the way, hoping not to find Dale burnt and crackling beneath. His hands were burning, but he ignored the pain. Why do the fires still burn as though fresh?

The next piece of metal he picked up claimed most of the skin on one finger. He snarled in pain. Lions are warriors. Pain surrenders to me. He lifted up another large hunk of steel, but it slipped from his grasp and fell on the ground, kicking up a plume of ion-soaked dust. He choked and stumbled. His bloody bones and charred skin felt evil when he grabbed his throat. NO! This is not where you die, lion.

His body lurched forward a few more steps, but he struggled to see through the tears. A large, dark object came into view on his immediate left. He leaned against it, grateful for a bit of reprieve. Breathe, lion. Accept the oxygen. He took a breath. And another. And another. He stood there breathing and shaking for several minutes.

A scene from his boyhood raced through his brain: the initiation ritual his uncle, Temujin, had designed for his newly-formed army. The pain of those blows and bites and stings came rushing back, but he shook off the memory. He was a boy then, and boys feel pain; but now he was the veteran of 10,000 battles. Pain did not exist.

He looked at his hands. They had nearly burned away, but, with great difficulty, he could still move them.

In the distance he saw a small cuboid building with one corner dug into the ground. He walked to it, realizing, as he neared, that it was part of the Destructzord. He looked at the upside down sign.


It appeared mostly undamaged. He walked to within inches of the wall and felt no heat. The doors were a few feet to his left. I will need to pry them open, but with what hands?  

The doors slid open as he neared. Luck had a perverse sense of humor. His eyes scanned the room. Everything had fallen into the corner that was stuck in the ground. He climbed in and began digging for gauze, as well as something to form a barrier between his hands and the burning steel outside that likely covered Dale's corpse. If he dies, the plans are sunk. I have failed him by not insisting on extra precautions during the meeting with the assassin.

He found a roll of gauze in one of the many first aid kits. As he tossed it outside and watched dust swirl up around it he struggled to think of a material resistant to ion flames.

The only thing that can stop a Destructzord is, of course, another Destructzord. Niero's final speech replayed itself in Last Scion's ears. He nodded to himself and started digging furiously for ion bandages. If Dale was dead, he could at least find the body and give the creature a proper burial.

He reached just under the surface of medical flotsam and his fingers closed around a hand. He nearly let go and jumped back in fear, but instead merely flinched and dug faster. He knew it was Dale. He knew the careful plans laid by Niero were now done.

Before long he was pulling a body from the pile of hospital equipment. Nietzsche had the right of it, he thought as he threw Dale over his shoulder and carried him out of the infirmary.

After placing him gently on the ground, he stepped back. Dale's body seemed intact. No bruises, no cuts. Last Scion dared not hope the corpse yet lived. He bent down and put his head just above Dale's face. He looked at the chest. No air passed the mouth nose. The chest was motionless. He had no fingers left with which to check the veins and arteries for a pulse.

Ignoring his extensive CPR and First Aid training, he rolled Dale onto his stomach. Then he saw it.

The Last Scion Of The House Of Blue Lions stood up and exhaled. He marched back to the sound of whetstone upon steel, a wild fury in his eyes. The fat one will squeal.

Jim never heard him coming. Last Scion picked him up by the hair and sent him rocketing into the sky. He launched himself up as well and slammed into the man who killed Dale North.

“Before I bring you crashing into the dusty Earth,” he shouted, “before I feed the ion flames with your considerable corpse, just tell my why you did it.”

“What the fuck, mate? What are you talking about?”

They hung in the air for an eternity, the planet growing smaller every second. Their souls had communed among the flames a few minutes ago and now their bodies did the same among the stars.

“You have ruined Niero's plans. You have caused me to break an oath to him and to my father. I shall grant you a quick and glorious death if you tell me why you killed Dale!  If you do not, your death shall last for nine horrible days and you shall squeal until your vocal chords bleed and break.”

“I didn't kill Dale. I haven't seen him since... oh shit!”

They were flying back toward Earth at twice the speed with which they had left it.

“You are imprudent, Jim!” They re-entered the atmosphere and caught fire instantly. Jim was screaming in pain while Last Scion enjoyed the weightlessness. Just when the heat started to become uncomfortable, they smashed into the ground.

The sound of mountains crumbling filled Last Scion's ears. He could see nothing, but knew their bodies were cratering through the planet near the crashed Dzord. He will roast nicely on the fires. His heart shall nourish me as I hunt the assassin. If Jim was still screaming, he couldn't tell.

The ground continued to part violently before them. Several minutes passed before they slowed to a halt. Last Scion breathed in the dust and prepared for the return journey.

They exploded to the surface. Last Scion dropped Jim next to one of the many still-burning ion fires and went to find the Borealis Blade. His own steel shall break him.

He treaded the dusty, dusty, dusty, dusty, dusty ground, looking for the boulder Jim sat upon to sharpen his sword. He looked left. Nothing. He looked right. Nothing. Then he looked straight ahead and saw it. Of course! It's so obvious. He ran to it and saw the sword.

He picked up the Borealis Blade and held it in his hands, feeling naked rage crawl up his arm. He felt hatred for regressive elements within the gaming industry. He felt annoyance at Michael Pachter. But most of all he felt a sweet ache in his nether regions. Jonathan, he thought. You sexy idiot... my god. Jim has poured all of his polygons into this fine steel. Then a dagger was at his throat.

“Drop Matt.”

Last Scion let the sword fall. “It is a lovely weapon.”

“It's Matt Borealis,” said Jim. “Of course it's lovely.” He forced Last Scion to his knees and picked up his blade.

“Kill me,” whispered Last Scion. “I've waited so long for this moment. I had always thought myself immortal, but now I know.” He looked at the steel-rendered water droplets on Matt's silver skin. “The blade.”

Gunfire crackled in the distance.

“I'm not going to kill you, lion. I didn't kill Dale and I won't kill you. I have never killed, but I will make exceptions for anyone who comes between me and Samit.” Shots continued to ring out in the distance.

“Please end my shame. I have failed. Do your duty. Any of my former generals would have me quartered for such a failure, and I would gladly have acquiesced. Genghis would have clawed my eyes out himself and fed me, still breathing, to his horses. Moctezuma would have sent me to the priests to be sacrificed. Phalaris would have locked me in his Brazen Bull. But I have never failed my leaders. Not until today. Now I know why. My purpose is to feed the Borealis Blade its first soul. My life force shall charge the steel that saves the gaming industry.”

“You're talking a load of shite.”

“If I find the assassin, will you do this thing for me?”

“I'll think about it. But if you ever touch Matt you will find yourself back on your knees, begging again for death.” The shots came quicker with every moment.

Last Scion stood up. “I will investigate the battle. Perhaps I will find the one who murdered the king.”

“Go then. Matt still needs more time with the whetstone. Email me your progress.”

“My 3G signal here is truly impressive.” He put his phone away and strode in the direction of the battle, his hands impatient to feel the life drain from the body of Dale's murderer.

Chapter 1
Chapter 2:DixonDixon
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Jim woke up shivering. He was in a dark room lying on a hard surface. The only sound was a soft, steady hum. He felt needles stabbing into his legs and shoulder when he tried to sit up. He collapsed back to the ground.

“Fuck!” he yelled. “Fuck,” he moaned. Then he thought of Jonathan. The last thing he remembered was Jonathan getting upset and going in the oven. Then giant phalli erupted from Wii U boxes. That was too much for him. I must have fainted from pure elation, he thought. Shit! I missed all the fun.

“Damn it, Jonathan. You sexy idiot. You sexy criminal.” He heard a purring noise to his left. It soon turned to growling. A voice spoke.

“Where are we?” it asked.

“Probably Jonathan's bedroom,” Jim replied.

“That is doubtful.”

“I think he drugged me, the cheeky bastard.”

“Your desperation is unseemly and you are joking at the worst possible moment... Oh, gods!” The voice became frightened. Or anxious, Jim thought.

“I've fallen asleep. Jim, where's Dale?”

“How do you know my name? Who are you?”

“Do you know anyone else who growls and purrs? I'm Last Scion. Where's Dale?


“We must find him immediately.”

Jim heard him begin to move and fumble through the dark. “Oh, leave him be. He's probably run off with Jonathan, the cheating bastard.” With that, Last Scion pounced on him.

Have you forgotten everything that has happened today?” The lion was pressing him into the ground. “Jonathan is dead. Now help me find Dale!”

“Dead to me, you mean,” Jim said, “and...”

“NO!” Last Scion dragged Jim to his feet. “He was devoured by a monster made of swarming sex toys; the very same objects that tore through Elsa and crushed Occam and beat several of our comrades to death. This is no longer a game, you 4th rate mummer. This is no longer a joke. Destructoid is done. You and I are all that remain unless we find Dale now!

Last Scion let him go. Jim stood in shock. The lion didn't seem to be pitching him a Dismal Jesters skit, but his words were too absurd and, if true, too devastating to believe.

“Take your time to adjust to this nightmare.” Last Scion spoke softly. “Then help me search.” He left Jim there and began rifling through objects strewn on the floor. They made heavy thuds when he set them down.

Jim's eyes struggled to adjust to the dark and he was unable to find words, so he joined the hunt. As his vision got better he saw that the objects Last Scion examined were sleeping bodies. Jim walked up to one and knelt down to see if it was Dale. He lifted the head toward his own. The face slowly came into view as it inched closer.

Jim slammed the head down and fell backwards. “Fuck me!” He scrambled away from the body. It was Caimdark with Huge Members lodged in the eye sockets. He crawled away from it and fell upon something that was clearly not concrete. His hand fell through it as though it were a dry, rotten log. By now he was having no trouble seeing.

He looked down upon a burned body staring staring back at him. Jim fainted for the second time that day.

(dixon dixon dixon dixon dixon)

The light was blinding. “You should not go back into that room. It is a place of horrors.”

“Mmmm,” Jim croaked in response. His throat felt as dry as the corpse he had fallen upon. “Water... please.”

“There is none. Even now Dale searches, but he will find nothing. The Destructzord was not built for comfort.”

“Destruct...” Jim was confused. “Are we on...”

“Yes. We are being carried to the sun. Samit means to extinguish us like he did Niero. But Niero died quickly. We will not share the same fate. The assassin would have us suffer.

“Then this is the end of Destructoid,” said Jim.

“Not yet. As soon as I finish patching your wounds, you shall go to the cockpit and pilot us to Earth. I shall protect Dale until I am relieved of duty, but you may do as you wish after we report what has happened today.”

“To who?”

“Strider, Devore, and the Smurfish one remain on Earth. Hamza may yet live, but his crusade of vengeance will be the end of him.”

“Is he really going to kill all of them?” Jim asked.

“Hamza wants to break DRECK, but they will break him first.”

“Not if I help him.”

“You cannot succeed. You will die with Hamza.”

“You're probably right, but you can't stop me from trying.”

“My only concern is Dale. You are free to do as you wish. I am merely telling you what will happen if you try to fight them.”

“Why do you still insist on protecting Dale? Niero's gone. He doesn't care anymore. You're not gonna get fired.”

“It matters not. He, like I, is the last living member of a once great house. Several millennia ago our houses were one. Internal politics divided us, but it was my father's dying wish that the world see the lions and wolves reunited.”

Jim stared at him, uncomprehending.

“As I said, it matters not. It is merely a promise I made to my father. And to Niero.”

“What does Niero have to do with it?” Just then the door slid open and Dale walked in carrying several bottles of water and packs of sliced meat.

“Do you bring salt beef?” asked Last Scion.

“What's that?” asked Dale.

“It is beef with salt.”

“Dale didn't see anything called salted beef in the kitchen. But Jim must have nutrients.”

“Kitchen?” said Jim. “There's a kitchen on a zord?”

“Destructoid works in mysterious ways,” said Last Scion.

“Jim must have water,” said Dale.

“Jim must have water,” agreed Jim. Dale gave him a bottle and turned to look at Last Scion.

“Jim must pilot the Dzord,” he said.

“Jim must do a lot of things, mustn't he?” Jim finished the bottle and grabbed another. “Why can't you do it?”

“Dale tried,” he said, “but the Dzord growled and shocked Dale with electricity. Dale was very surprised and injured.”

“I tried as well,” said Last Scion, “but the viewport flashed red and said 'Lions can not pilot zords.' You are our last hope, Jim.”

“I'd rather not be.”

“If you can not fly it, we are truly done.”

“Roit. Here's the fing, mates: I've neva bloody pilo'ed a bloody aircrawft in ma loif.” Jim began coughing.

“Excuse me? I did not understand a word of that.”

“Yeah, sorry,” said Jim. “Had something stuck in my throat.” He thought of a hilarious way to harass Jonathan, but then felt a knife pierce his chest. He's gone. My cookie has crumbled. Jim began to frown like the man he so lovingly teased. He had never frowned before, but now he understood what Jonathan felt when he said that makes me frown, yep, frowning.

“Nothing will ever be okay again,” he said.

Last Scion nodded slowly. “That may be so, but it is not my place to say.” He walked to the door. “Come. It is time to see whether you can fly the beloved Destructzord, or whether the sun shall consume our corpses.”

“I don't even work for Dtoid anymore. And I've never flown a zord. I mean, I'll give it a shot, but it's impossible.”

“Jim must try!” implored Dale.

“I will. What else have we got to do?”

“Dale shouldn't say this, but there is a prototype PS5 on board.”

Jim remained frowning. “I shall play no more videogames forever. My heart has suffered a loss deeper than the waters traversed by Ecco.” I need a sword, he thought. “Take me to the cockpit. Let's see what fate has in store for us.”

“Fate will not be kind,” said Last Scion, “but we must tread forward.” He walked out and Jim followed, Dale at his heels.

The Dzord was surprisingly spacious inside. Several years ago they had attended Niero's final speech and then scaled the zord, all of them overcome with orgiastic joy. No, it wasn't that long ago.

“Dale, when was Niero kidnapped?” he asked. Last Scion called the elevator.

“A week, Dale believes.”

“A week!?” Is that possible?

“It feels like just yestermorn,” said Last Scion.

“Yestermorn?” Jim's frown of despair became a frown of confusion. And disappointment with the gaming industry. And arousal. “No. It feels like a lifetime ago.”

The elevator doors opened and the stepped inside. The words Radical Badical were written in Comic Sans. They covered every inch of the walls.

“My lifetime is considerably longer than yours,” said Last Scion, “but time is relative, and suffering causes it to dilate. Pain stretches it.”

Jim's frown deepened. “I may once have joked about things stretching out painfully, but you're right.”

“It matters not. The timeline can not change our present.”

The elevator buttons appeared to be written in crayon. They were labeled Engineering, Barracks, Medical Place, and MOH is 4 sukazzzz. “That's the videogame room,” said Dale.

There were more floors than Jim could count. Because I live in Mississippi. His frown almost lightened.

Last Scion pushed the top button, labeled Also Cockpit, and the doors closed. “These load times are unbearable,” he said.

“No,” said Dale. “Not load times. This is real life.”

“Mmm, indeed,” said Last Scion. Just then the intercom made a squibble noise.

“Isaac!” The person on the other end was panicking, but Jim couldn't make out any words.

“Sorry, mate,” he said. “Didn't catch that.”

“... I … been killed... Samit?”

“You're breaking up. Who is this?”

“I'm Smur... news. Strider has... How was...”

“Say again,” said Last Scion.


“Say again. This is not Final Fantasy 8. You have to speak.”


"Say again, Squall! What has happened to Strider?” There was no response. A moment passed. The elevator doors opened and they stepped out in silence. Jim collapsed onto a chair, feeling defeated.

“They are being hunted down and slaughtered,” said Last Scion. The elevator had left them in the cockpit anteroom. Books covered every wall. There was a log fire burning in a fireplace.

“We must help them! Quickly, to the cockpit!” Dale bounded ahead and threw open the doors. “Jim must fly us to Earth.”

“Jim will get us to Earth,” said Last Scion. “But we can not help them.”

“They are dying!” said Dale. “Last Scion is a warrior. Last Scion can save them!”

“They are already dead. My job is not to protect them. I have only one task; I will keep you safe or die.”

“No!” Dale snarled. “You will fight for Destructoid or Dale will ban you from the site.”

“Destructoid is done. Even if that weren't true, I could create a new account.”

“Dale has given Last Scion an ord...”

“I already have my orders!” he roared. “Niero has trusted your life to my hands. You shall come to no harm.”

“Niero is dead, Destructoid is dying, and Dale is now the leader. Dale commands Last Scion to stand down!”

Both Jim and Last Scion were left speechless. Dale had never disobeyed Niero before. He had always acted as though “master” were a god.

“I will not be swayed, Dale. This is more than an order from an employer, and if you will not relent for your boss, perhaps you will for your father.”

Dale said nothing.

“Have you ever wondered why you are called 'North'?”

“North is Dale's surname,” Dale replied.

“Yes, buy why? And why are you half wolf?”

“Dale does not understand.”

“You are the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark,” said Last Scion, looking into Dale's eyes.

“That's impossible.”

“So is FTL travel. Now listen to me: Lord Eddard, soon after the discovery of the five direwolves, did impregnate one of the females. It was never recorded in the histories. Jon Snow threatened the historian, Martin, with torture and death if he revealed the secret.”

“Dale is... a direwolf?” He looked shaken and worried. “No. No, that's impossible. Dale can not be a direwolf.”

“Not just a direwolf; the last scion of the house of gray wolves. You are meant to rule the north.”

“What the bloody shite does this have to do with Niero?” Jim said.

“Niero Targayen's greatest wish was to unite the seven kingdoms under allied kings for an everlasting peace.” Last Scion's gaze never left the viewport.

“Who are the other kings?”

“I am the last surviving son of Tyrion Lannister, who wisely changed the color of our standard after the disastrous misrule of his father. I am one king. Dale is the second, and Niero the third. I can only guess at the others. Niero died before he could give me the names, though I am certain they are all Dtoiders.”

Those plans are all in ruins now, Jim thought. He stood up and walked to the cockpit. “Whatever happens when we get home, I need steel. I plan to stab Samit in his shitty, sports-loving neck.”

“The Destructzord is built of steel. Dale will collect all Jim needs.” He scurried away.

“Now, how does this thing work?” Jim looked at the controls. They were all labeled with highly impressive and Orwellian phrases like Peace Missiles, Lasers of Everlasting Love, and Tactical Offensive Ejection.

Jim's hands moved of their own volition. As they inched closer and closer to the control panel he felt a shiver run down and back up his spine. Filthy humans, he thought. Dearest dearest... My god. I'm melding with his impressive cerebellum. Deal them the mustard! Deal Samit the filthy mustard!

His mouth went dry. “Only an intellect as powerful as... this cockpit was... I think it was built for Zombie Orwell.”

“Peace be upon him,” said Last Scion.

Jim's hands latched forcefully onto the two joysticks. He tried to let go but his body did not obey. Whencewithly unto the infinite breach. “Shit!,” he yelled, sweating. “My vocabulary is growing exponentially. I am truly becoming with fury upon the filthy human oppressors. Let us destroy their corporeality with all due haste!” A screen dropped down from the ceiling, flashing red words.


“Yes, leader! The mustard shall be dealt in great quantities. There will be no survivors.” Jim saw his hand slam down on a large red button and his brain hit the back of his skull.

Zombie Orwell
4:14 PM on 12.12.2013

The time has come for you to insert questions into my comments section.

And to post pictures of drunk people. Do this now.

Your leader,
Zombie Orwell
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