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.
Mr. Andy Dixon yanked the power cable out of the socket. I bring shame upon House Dixon when I commit these acts. I always say I need to quit, but the internet drags me back down every time. Something always forced his hand, so to speak. This time it had been a FFVIII cosplay gallery on Kotaku.
“Oh, Quistis,” he sighed. “You're too much for me.” He turned on the bathroom radio and stepped into the shower to cleanse himself, and House Dixon. The shameful activity had become a daily habit. When paired with a shower, it transformed into an all-out ritual.
“Cuz we are living,” he sang with the radio, “in a material world.” The stream of water felt good on his bare sunglasses. “And I am a materia...” He heard his phone ring on the bathroom sink. It was Niero's ring. The great Niero honors me by calling. He was about to be either fired or promoted. Niero always communicated with Dtoid staff by tweets. He reserved phone calls for the really important stuff. Even if Andy was about to be fired, it still meant that he would have the privilege of speaking with The Boss.
Mr. Andy Dixon's phone repeated the Sonic Drowning Song while he stood frozen in the shower. Breathe, man. Breathe. Answer the phone. He turned off the water, dried his hands on a towel, and picked up the cellphone.
“Hel... Hello? I... Niero? Hello?”
“Hey dude meister! Gnarly radical recap of all the Dtoid articles yesterday bro-hammer!”
“I, um. Yes. Thank you. It's a pleasure... Sir. I mean, it's a pleasure, sir. How might I um, be of assistance, sir?
“Check it Dix-man. Destructoid has just gotten its millionth Huge Member! That's sicker than a nollie heel down a 20 stair! That's like a fakie 5-0 to manual to 3 flip! So here's the deal. I need you to go pick up Boston's Favorite Son and fly him to Dtoid HQ in Chicago. I have a surprise for all the Dtoiders. It's fucking big, man. It's fuckin' gnarly and tubular, bro. Swag, yo! Swag. Swaggity swig swag.”
“You honor me, sir. I shall not disappoint you. Sir.”
“I know, man. You're gonna do so good. Just go get J-Ho and bring him down to Chi City. We're gonna kickflip all over the face of this town, baby!” Niero hung up.
My god, thought Andy. What an honor! No longer would people whisper poison about House Dixon. Keeping Boston's Favorite Son entertained for a weekend would prove Andy's worth in the eyes of his father, Mr. Andy Dixon Sr.
“Why can't you be more like that Jonathan Holmes fella?” his dad would often ask. “Now there's a stand up guy. Works in a psychiatric facility and still has time to host the finest podcast ever to grace the airwaves. And you? What have you ever done? All you ever accomplished is wearing sunglasses and a pink robe. You're a disgrace to House Dixon.”
“NO!” shouted Andy. Then he remembered where he was. Naked. Dripping. In his bathroom. He dried off and called for his wife. “Wife! Bring forth mine Power Robe!”
Mrs. Andy Dixon kicked down the bathroom door, pink robe in hand.
“Power Robe,” she yelled. “Activate!” The robe flew from her hands and enveloped Andy's body. He felt like a new man. The Power Robe had a dark and mysterious power. He had bought it from an old Chinese man in a dusty, dimly lit shop. Not toy, insisted the old man. Not toy. Not toy. Andy cleaned his sunglasses with the robe. He put them back on. The phrase Cool Christmas popped into his head uninvited.
“Wife, I must needs attend to matters of significant importance. Boston's Favorite Son requires entertainment during official Destructoid business. When I return, I shall need a hamburger and several gallons of chocolate syrup. Can you complete the task set out before you?”
“I shall complete the task with all diligence and haste,” replied his wife.
“Good. Kiss the lips upon my face.” Mr. Andy Dixon's wife (Mrs. Andy Dixon) kissed the lips upon his face.
“I must make for Boston.” With that, he jumped 400 feet in the air, leaving a hole in the roof. He flew toward Boston, a song clattering in his head.