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.
My transcriptionist has completed work on Episode 1 of Kilonova Complex (available on Kobo and Amazon). It's serial fiction in the sci fi (meaning Science Fience) genre. There's a description in the comments section below.
Episode 2 will be ready to conquer the world on April 16, 2014. That's 16 April, 2014 if you live outside the United States.
Where was I? Yes, indeeds. Brandon (the transcriptionist) knows that you want it inside of you.
But it is extremely expensive at .99 USD. And he understands that you need that extra dollar to get approximately .3 grams of psychoactive drugs. Yes, yes. We understand. So here's the deal.
You can receive Ep. 1 of Kilonova Complex for free. Here's how:
Comment below expressing your interest in writing an honest review on the book's Amazon or Kobo page. The author will email you a PDF, you will read it and shit happiness out of your bowels, you will review the book (preferably while high on your hallucinogens), and then we conquer the world.
Destructoid, you've been very naughty. How dare you. You offend me.
JUST KIDDING!!! Haha. I like irreverent jokes designed for laughter. It is funny.
Here is more funny: Eminem. The humanist rapper has released a new group of 1s and 0s that, when converted to an mp3 format, contain musics. That. Is. HILARIOUS!!!!!!!!
Think about it for a minute. If he were smart, he would travel the nation knocking on doors and singing his lovely songs without the help of a computer. Instead, the unOrwellian idiot has released CDs, vinyl records, MP3s, and gramophones containing music. So, when you buy it you don't even get to talk to him and strap him to a chair in order to feed.
Fuck you, Eminem. I'm so god damned hungry.
Here's my review of the Slim Shady LP.
Putting aside the fact that I am unable to consume the flesh of the world's most famous white rapper, this album is almost like having the human in one's vicinity. You can hear his voice as he talks about Kurt Cobain, shish kabob, Lauren Hill, sore throats, wardrobes, orange robes, autographs, being absent-minded, doctors, herpes, Christmas, suicide, middle fingers, sell-out crowds, record release parties, gourds, hammers, Fords, sandwiches, picnic baskets, Excedrin, medicine cabinets, lettuce, cabbage, mummies, bitches, Detroit, the Beastie Boys, Kid Rock, the Loch Ness Monster, weed houses, lipstick, dipsticks, prank calls, rich rappers, and your mom. It is truly impressive.
But then there's the part where you can't eat him. This is a serious oversight on behalf of one of the most well-known musicians in history. You'd think someone on his production team would have pointed out this glaring omission. But no.
Admittedly, this record was made when he was much younger and less knowledgeable, so perhaps we owe him a little leniency. If this situation is rectified by future releases, I will let you know.
There's also a song where a girl eats too many mushrooms and dies. Though, in the narrative, the girl drinks Lysol. Many have tried to blame the mushrooms for her death, but the cause was clearly Lysol.
I give this record a good score out of 10 because Eminem paid me for a good review.
Jim's glinty, glinty eyes surveyed the Valley of Godless Ruination. Four hours prior, the love of his life had met a bloody end. In happier times, Jim might have made a meta-joke about someone's bloody end, but these were not happy times. Jonathan, he thought. You sexy idiot. You sexy criminal.
Jim had no more tears left. Only rage, and an ache in his heart. He knelt and put his palm to the cool dirt. You belong to the earth now, my love. He saw a rock the size of an Xbox controller. What the fuck did we call it? The Duke? He no longer had a taste for videogames. That part of him had perished the second Samit had placed his sword on Niero's neck.
“This is your devastation and your final hour.” the assassin had declared. “Only once you have been eradicated will our mission end.” Samit the Silent, he was called. Good Samit the Silent, tactical is he. Jim remembered the song they sang when their former brother had disappeared. They thought Samit had been kidnapped by the Polygonals. They were wrong, and their carelessness had cost Niero his head.
Tactical is he. Damn it! It says “tactical” in the bloody song. We should have known. He frowned the frown of a thousand collapsing stars. Then he remembered The Duke and frowned harder. Then…then he remembered the naming of Microsoft’s third game console and his frown became death itself. He picked up the rock and clenched it in his gloved hand, forcing it to absorb all of his pain; all of his rage. His grip tightened.
Damn you, Samit. Damn you, Niero. The stone began to glow. Damn you, Microsoft. Damn you for making us scramble to find ways to differentiate between the first Xbox and the Xbox One. The stone was red hot and steam was rising from it. His glove was melting. The pleather made popping and hissing sounds. He squeezed harder. And you, Jonathan. You sexy criminal. You left me here to finish this alone. You know I’m not strong enough without you. You KNOW!!
The rock exploded in his hand. Whether from the absorbed rage or the force of his grip, he couldn’t tell. His gaze returned to the Valley of Godless Ruination. He knew not what he would find there, but he knew blood would spill upon the dusty ground.
To his left was an ancient corpse, behind him the wrecked Destructzord. The corpse was now merely a pile of bones. The feathered end of an arrow protruded from the dead man’s rib cage. A sword and a whetstone lay beside the fallen warrior. He was killed while sharpening that pitiful sword. Jim withdrew his own steel, thinking of the joke he might have made, long ago, about sliding a shining sword from its scabbard. His own sword was massive, and forged into the shape of a life-sized nude Matt Borealis. It glinted like Jim’s eyes.
He paused to enjoy the shape of the sword. Matt’s curves are as lovely as they are deadly. And Samit will know it, before long. He picked up the whetstone and continued sharpening Matt Borealis’ curves. He looked yet again at the village in the Valley of Godless Ruination and shrieked in fury.
His phone buzzed. Last Scion had sent him a six-second video. “This one admitted to killing the king,” he said, looking into the camera. Then he pointed the it at a dead body laying on the ground. Jim's phone buzzed again. Another video.
“A news report is saying the Destructzord has been razing cities worldwide. What have you done, Jim?” The video showed a TV with film of the zord burning a building to the ground. He put the phone in his pocket.
Vague, Orwellian images fizzed before his eyes. He saw fire and lasers. He saw buildings melting. He heard himself screaming and felt the Dzord lurch to one side.
Just then a moan came from behind him, causing the dusty ground and burning wreckage to pop back into existence. He turned around and saw a wretched figure shambling toward him.
“Coooooookkiiieeee,” it said. “Ooovvveeeeeeeeeeennn.”
Jim's stomach dropped and the air grew cold. No. The figure lurched forward, nearly falling. Jim's phone buzzed again. He looked at the screen.
“I have found the assassin,” Last Scion said. “It is probably a trap. Don't come. Will send message if I kill him. If not, I am dead and you are the last Dtoider.” The message looped. Jim dropped the phone and watched the dust swirl around it.
“Coookkiiiiiieeeeeeee...” The figure was nearly on Jim. This is the closest I've ever been to my crumbling cookie. It no longer looked like Jonathan. It moved as if half its bones had been broken. Its left cheek bone had been smashed in, leaving an enormous bruise over the flattened area. Take me, my love.
He felt teeth sink into his neck and he screamed with pleasure as Jonathan tore away a piece of flesh. He was ready to die , but as his soul-mate’s teeth clamped down again, Jim's hand grabbed the Borealis Blade. Before he could tell his hands to stop, they had knocked Jonathan to the ground and sent steel through the undeceased neck.
Jonathan's head rolled away from his body. Jim wailed and fell to his knees. It had all happened so quickly. His muse, his lover, his spirit animal had come back to life for him, but Jim's own body betrayed them both. He stared at the ground in disbelief. His world faded to black.
Last Scion had the crosshairs on Samit's head. The assassin was addressing a crowd of perhaps a hundred men, women, and children. They stood amid smoldering ruins. Their city appeared to have been recently leveled, and if the news reports could be believed, Jim was the cause.
The entire world will be on Samit's side now, he thought. Jim has left craters in a thousand cities. But none of that mattered anymore. He would kill the assassin and then Jim would allow Last Scion to escape the realm of the living and finally join the Pantheon of the Warriors.
He pulled the trigger and watched Samit's head snap back. It should not have been so easy. The body crumpled and fell. Last Scion's phone was recording video the incident, which he sent to Jim. The crowd ran screaming but a few people were gesturing in his direction. I must quit this place.
Jim's eyes snapped open. He stood up. In his hand he saw a gleaming object. Humans were nearby; he could smell them. A screaming hunger grew more intense with every second. His body carried him toward the flesh.
Last Scion dropped the Dragunov he had lifted off a body. The dusty, dusty, dusty, dusty, dusty, dusty, dusty, dusty, dusty ground threw up wisps of thin brown smoke. He pushed open the door and drew his dagger. He preferred the heft of a sword, but was deadly enough with steel of any length.
The air outside smelled of anger, sadness, and drought. He walked past another television showing news footage of the Destructzord razing several cities. The assassin must have a copy of the zord, he thought but that is our wreckage on the hill. It didn't matter. He would leave this broken city and implore Jim to take his life. If Jim refused, Last Scion would have to report his failure to the Council. They would decide what punishment to levy.
Jim had not responded in at least two minutes, even though the 3G signal here was strong. Something foul has befallen the large one. Angry voices drifted toward him from behind. He could barely see the ion smoke in the distance.
He ran up the gentle slope. The voices grew excited and the buildings drifted steadily past him. He heard a crack and felt the air snap by his head. He veered into an alley. Up on a hill, roughly a kilometer away, was the crash site. He was nearly on the outskirts of the smashed and smoking village.
Last Scion let the dagger fall. They will not catch me. Jim must take my life. His hands were shaking. The voices grew louder. Last Scion turned left between two buildings and felt his shoulder explode with pain. Then a gloved hand was around his throat. The pain was easy enough to ignore.
He saw a nude, shining man streaked with red. The fat one has lost himself. Jim dragged him to the nearest building and slammed him into the wall. The lion had already determined not to struggle. He looked at the rising sun and felt teeth on his neck. I die as a warrior. It was a better fate than he deserved, having failed in his duty, but he had already imprinted himself upon The Histories.
The sun burned his eyes, the teeth tore at his neck, and he shot his soul skyward to commune with the gods and elders.
Narrator X - 3rd person omniscient.
Blood rolled down Jim's face. The Last Scion's body had been completely devoured. (Contrary to popular belief, zombies do not hunger for brains. Their goal is always flesh.) A group of villagers found Jim not long after he had finished eating. They put him down easily, as the Borealis Blade was a perfectly crafted instrument of death and arousal. A man named Gamaliel found it and used it to slice Jim's head neatly off.
Local police arrived shortly thereafter and, having been bribed by DRECK representatives to the amount of roughly $50 USD, declared the case closed. The crashed Destructzord, they said, was the same that destroyed a thousand other cities in mere hours. The corpses in the alley had killed each other, and Dtoid entered the history books as a villain to rival Francisco Franco.
Gaming was, of course, thoroughly destroyed. It quickly became a wasteland of free-to-play games, overpriced DLC, microtransactions, and horse armor. No more single player games were ever released, not even Skyrim VS Angry Birds.
Nobody in the village ever told any outsiders about the Blade, though they would go on to use it in a series of events that would stir the world and ignite long-dormant liberation struggles.
There were no happy endings for anyone related to the gaming industry. Except, of course, for Zombie Orwell. He had managed to infect both Jonathan Holmes and Jim Sterling, thereby leading to their deaths. The Last Scion's death was a happy accident for which he claimed full credit.
As a result of his masterful hacking of the Dzord cockpit, thousands of world cities burned to the pavement, or to the dust. Millions of lives were snuffed out. He managed to sow all this chaos and doom despite dying the very day Niero was kidnapped. If ever a more impressive feat of post-mortem devastation has been caused in the world of High Literature, this author has not yet encountered it.
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.
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).
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 (email@example.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