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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.

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The next installment has arrived for your cerebellums! Here are the previous chapters for your consumption and digestion.

Prologue
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



The Chicago Post Herald Review Times Examiner Daily

The body of internet superstar Mr. Andy Dixon was found on North Ave. Beach early this morning. Exact circumstances surrounding the demise of the 3,219 year old blogger and pervert are unknown. Police Chief J. Jenna Jameson offered only scant details, instead using most of her press conference to implore the public to “find that Spidered-man and deal him the mustard.” Before ending the conference, an associate handed her a slip of paper. As she read the statement, she injected her own thoughts and commentary, which is entirely inappropriate and which this journalist finds disgusting in the extreme.

She told the assembled journalists, “I forgot to say something super important. 'Mr. Andy Dixon's corpse was found with a huge metal dildo in the rectal cavity.' What a freak, huh? I mean, I'm a porn star and police chief, but even I find that super duper creepy. Man, what a weirdo! 'At this point in the investigation, and given the nature of the deceased, we will most likely rule this death Auto-Aquatic Asphyxiation. We refuse to speculate on the exact type of fish that Mr. Andy Dixon most likely found sexually attractive, but with the invasion of Asian Carp in Chicago's watershed, it's probably Asian Carp.' Golly, poor fish. What did they ever do to deserve that?”

This is the second Destructoid-related death in as many days. The website's founder and leader, Niero G, was decapitated in a live video broadcast by a group calling themselves Polygonal Gaming.

Mr. Andy Dixon Sr., the deceased's father was reached for comment. “He died how he lived, disgracing the once-great House Dixon. He was always a disappointment, not like that Jonathan Holmes fella. A really standup guy, him. The son I never had, but always deserved.”

There will be no funeral service. They grand city of Chicago does not tolerate public perversion and fish-lust, no matter how badass any given community manager might be. Also, cocks.




Chapter 9

DTOID HQ - Chicago

Jonathan Holmes put down the newspaper. “Gosh,” he said, “that was nice of Andy's dad to say about me.”

“Oh, god,” said Elsa. “I need to sit down.” Andy and Niero are both gone. This can't be real.  The Dtoid crew had spent the previous day crying, drinking tequila, and breaking things at HQ.

“Niero had plan!” said Dale. “Niero told Dale, 'Dale must listen, dude. If Niero gets killed, it may mean gaming is under attack. What a bummer, man! Dtoid has angered powerful forces. So if Niero is killed, Dale must research. Dale must unite Destructoid.' That is what Niero told Dale.”

“Dtoid is coming,” said Occam's Electric Toothbrush. “His last words. Like a call to arms.”

“Oh, god,” said Caimdark, “you mean like at the end of every single fucking episode of Extra Credits? I hate how they pitch up that dude's voice. But the Mario 64 intro music they use is pretty rad.”

“I woulda told Samitshaska to shut the fuck up,” said Jim.

“He wasn't filming an old Jimquisition, dude,” said Caimdark.

“He shoulda said thank god for me.”

“Will you fucking take this seriously for once?” said Elsa.

“We need to go kill that Shaska dude,” said Hamza, caressing his knife. “A head for a head.”

“No, guys,” said Phil. “Market forces.”

“What!?” Strider, in his Pikachu costume, was ready to join Hamza. “Market forces? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Think about it,” said Phil. “Dtoid is beloved the world over. Niero was killed by a representative from Polygonal Gaming. The market will devour them. Karmic justice! Soon, Samitshaska will living under a bridge eating cardboard.”

“Forgive me, Phil,” said Strider, “but are you some kind of moron?”

“I'm anything you want me to be, baby,” said Phil, pinching his nipples. “All night long.”

“We must research,” said Dale, but the other ignored him.

“Let us royally smite that Shaska bitch,” said Hamza.

“Market forces.”

“Bloody vengeance on Shaska and Poly.”

“Capitalism.”

Research!” implored Dale. “We must unite. Niero told Dale.”

“We gotta spank him,” said Hamza.

“JONATHAN HOLMES!” shrieked Jim. “Is it pedophilia or not?!?”

Jonathan frowned and walked away. He left the warehouse.

“No!” yelled Dale. “Come back! Jonathan must come back. We must unite and research.” Dale ran after him. “Come back.”

“You can do your research,” said Jonathan, “but I'm sure a polite email will clear up this whole thing.” He kept walking. “Also, fuck Canadians.”

Email, thought Dale. “Jonathan is wrong, but Jonathan gives Dale and idea,” he said to himself, and he ran back to his cave.

“I'm telling you,” said Phil, “the market is gonna handle this.”

“The market?” Hamza was irritated. “The benevolent, magical, invisible hand of the market is gonna restore balance to the force? Is that what you're telling us right now?”

“Yes.”

“The same market that needed slave labor to build Dubai? Shit, fuck Dubai, the entire USA. You're telling me the same market that depends on slave labor and occasional gigantic contractions to keep from eating itself within a millennium is the same market that's gonna avenge Niero?”

“The market works in mysterious ways, my friend.”

“You know what kinda person you sound like? Have you been smoking my product?”

“Are you coming on to me, you manly man?”

“Maybe a little, sugar,” said Hamza.

“Look at that,” said Jim. “I wish Jonathan would talk to me like that. He always runs away or changes the subject. Or he laughs it off.”

“Oh, Jim,” said Elsa. “You just need to take him on a nice date and be clear about what type of relationship you want with him.”

“I thought I was being pretty damn clear on Podtoid every single week for the last few years.”

“He thinks you're joking,” said Occam.

“He fuckin' what?!” said Jim.

“Yeah. The way you laugh, the way you intersperse the harassment with silly movie pitches and ridiculous ideas.”

“Silly?!” he sputtered. “Ridic... I'm not fuckin' joking! Why would anyone joke about that shit? Why would I spend so much time developing those movie pitches if I weren't serious?”

“You've never been serious,” said Elsa.

“Excuse me? I'm always serious!”

“You can't even bring yourself to be serious now, with all that has just happened. Look at yourself, you carry around that Saints Row dildo like a sword! On the rare occasion you're not nude, you always wear sunglasses and a top hat. For fuck's sake, Jim, you're pining for a coworker when we just lost Andy and Niero.”

“You make a good point, madame. But the Violator, here,” he held up the Saints Row memorabilia, “is an integral part of my identity. The clothes grant me a cohesive visual aesthetic for my videos, and the nudity broadcasts my intentions toward my future princess: the world's freakiest Constantina.”

“Okay, whatever,” said Elsa. “Look, I just lost two friends. I need to be with my husband. If you guys need me, you know how to find me.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Phil. “Wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.destructoid.com/blogs/elsa. Take care of yourself.”

“I'll try. Goodbye, guys.” Elsa left. Hamza, silently stroking his knife, glaring at the floor and mumbling to himself, looked up.

“I gotta go, too. I need to think.” Hamza followed Elsa out. He was squeezing the blade so hard that blood started to drip.

Strider looked at Phil.

“So, market forces, huh?”

“Listen, Pikachu,” said Phil, and they spent the rest of the day debating the ability of capitalism to solve their problem. Names such as Subcomandante Marcos, Milton Friedman, David Harvey, Arundhati Roy, and Alan Greenspan were invoked. There was much discussion.

Narrator X – They got a little bit off topic, considering two friends had just met their demise, but let us grant them a few brief moments of stimulating conversation and cuddling as they debate Naomi Klein's The Shock Doctrine before their flames, like Niero's, are forever snuffed out.



That night, Hamza took the bus up Clark Ave to his favorite Irish pub. Lady Chatterley's was usually busy, but now it was nearly empty. In a dark corner, two men were clearly conspiring against him. I might have to slip back into character, he thought. Candle-lit shadows danced on the mahogany walls, and the men's Russian stouts appeared a shade brighter than their intentions.

“Evenin', Hamzaberg.” The bartender, as always, was wiping dust off a wine glass. His red bow tie was off center and his comb-over was particularly unkempt. “I saw what happened to Niero. Drinks on the house tonight.” Hamza sat down and looked the bartender in the eyes. He nodded toward the two men in the corner.

“Never seen 'em before,” whispered the bartender. “They ordered Rasputin. Beer don't get any darker than that.”

Hamza got back up. He approached the figures, who were now staring at him. “Who the fuck is Samitshaska?” he asked.

“What?”

“Tell me what I want to know right now. Hamzaberg don't fuck around. He ain't yet fucked around ever, not in his whole life. He ain't about to start now, not for you beer-sippin' Poly bitches. Now, tell me, who is Samitshaska?”

“Sorry, man. We don't know what you're talking about.”

“Wrong answer.” He whipped out a throwing star and threw it at one of them. Before it reached the man's neck, Hamza's knife was in the other's heart. “You do it to Niero, I do it to you.” Hamza began his fifth decapitation that week. He spoke softly to his victims.

“You will heed me, Samitshaska. You will heed me forever.” He finished and removed the throwing star from the other man's bloody throat. He put it, dripping, in his pocket and began to work on head #7. When the job was done, he went to the bathroom.

As he washed his hands, he saw himself in the mirror; red eyes, blood spattered face, and perfectly-maintained hair. Whiskey. He went back to the bar and sat down. “Laphroaig. Quarter cask. Neat.”

He sniffed it, noticing very slight floral notes. He sipped. Melted band aids, he thought. God I love whiskey.




POLYGONAL GAMING HQ - A billion miles above Los Angeles

A day had passed since the execution, and Samit was tense. Why haven't they busted down the door and strung me up?  He was slightly behind schedule, having spent most of intervening hours watching cat videos. He needed to write Niero's letter, but procrastination always won. No longer! he thought. Today I break the habit. I must write that letter immediately. He opened his laptop and clicked on Word. He knew it had to be convincing, and was unsure how exactly to word it.

Friends, colleagues, Dtoid crew, these are my final words. Samit was pleased with the opening sentence. If you are reading this, I am dead. This letter is my confession.



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