ECOPOCALYPSE CH.1 - TAKE BACK YOUR HOUSE
By Steven Novak
Milo slams his hand against the passenger door of your car.
“Come on! Move your ass! Let's get the hell out of here!”
For the briefest of moments you consider doing exactly that.
You have the keys to a relatively functional DeLorean in your hands and there’s
a rabid horde of poop-soaked lunatics stomping through your mansion upstairs.
Running makes perfect sense. Heck, flooring it all the way to Mexico, changing
your name to Paco Sanchez, and living off the money you’ve stashed in your
multiple offshore accounts makes even more sense.
Milo is leaning out of the car now. He looks really confused
and equally pissed. He’s pounding his closed fist against the car’s metallic
exterior and screaming at the top of his lungs. “Come on, moron! Stop dragging
ass! What the hell are you waiting for?”
You don’t want to move to Mexico. Sure, the Tequila is great
and the senoritas are spicy, but you don’t want to move to Mexico. You
certainly don’t want to change your name to Paco.
You don’t look anything like a Paco.
Those freaky-damn shit monsters are tearing apart your
place. They’re destroying every inch of it in a desperate attempt to find you.
You can hear glass breaking and wood shattering. Not only are they making a
mockery of your stuff, but they’re lathering it in what seemed to be mostly human
feces. They’re mashing the disgusting awfulness into your carpet and rubbing it
onto your cabinets and spraying it onto your bed. You worked hard for your
carpet and your cabinets and your bed.
Well, actually, you
didn’t.
You love your carpet and your cabinets and your bed.
Well, maybe, you don’t.
Still, that’s your damn carpet, not theirs! Those are your beshitted cabinets! That’s your motherfucking bed!
Well, maybe, you don’t.
Still, that’s your damn carpet, not theirs! Those are your beshitted cabinets! That’s your motherfucking bed!
You know what you have to do.
You toss the keys in Milo’s direction. “Take the car.” They
land almost three feet short, forcing Milo to crawl across the concrete to
retrieve them, and admittedly, sort of ruining the impact of the moment.
He looks up at you from his hands and knees. “You’re not
coming with?”
“This is my house,
Milo. That’s my carpet. Those are my cabinets. That’s my bed those shit-covered assholes are rolling around in! Those are
my sheets and my slippers! I can’t just let them destroy everything I’ve worked
so hard for! I can’t! I won’t! I won’t let them destroy everyth–”
The tires of the DeLorean squeal and the car peels out of
your underground garage.
Milo was always sort
of a douchebag.
You spend the next ten minutes digging through your
underground lair looking for anything remotely resembling a weapon while keeping
an ear on the carnage above. It’s a warzone up there – a squishy, sloppy,
slippery warzone. What sounded like mostly human voices when the PooCrew
originally burst through your window has transformed into something else
entirely. The screams have turned animalistic, guttural and moist, from throats
clogged with the diarrhea of half-digested pasta and bargain basement soy
sauce-heavy Chinese food.
After ten minutes of searching you manage to find yourself
an axe and a crowbar. It’s not much, but it’ll have to do. You slide yourself
into some old catchers gear from your college baseball days and head for the
doorway leading into the house.
Those shit-slappy assholes are going to pay. You’re not sure
exactly how you’re going to make them pay, but you’re going to make them pay. You
don’t really have a plan. Who cares?
Fuck plans.
Those dung-drenched dillweeds are probably stomping across
the rug President Widmer-Schlumpf gave you when you visited Zurich last summer.
One of those turd turkeys is more than likely wearing your Nobel Peace Prize
right now. They might’ve even discovered your collection of Playboy magazines
from the 60’s. Christa Speck’s boobs are probably smeared with corny bits of
fecal matter.
No, the time for plans
has long since passed.
The time for ass
kicking has arrived.
The instant you burst through the doorway and into the house
you’re greeted by the somewhat surprised faces of no less than fifteen shit-soaked
wackos. They instantly halt their mindless rampaging.
The room goes silent.
There’s a pool of lumpy brown liquid at least an inch high
on the floor. It’s up to your ankles. The god awful liquid is dripping from their
bodies like the devil’s sweat. Awkward chunks of human nastiness cling to the few
bits of exposed flesh of their otherwise coated faces. A river of chocolate
terror dribbles from the chin of a wide-eyed, shit-slick-haired lothario in the
back of the room who immediately sucks it back into his mouth like he’s sipping
from a frosty milkshake. A woman with
bright red eyes and a freakishly long rope of dookie dangling from her neck
takes a single step in your direction and tilts her head to the side like a dog.
A still steaming tube of toot-butter slips from beneath her dress and splashes
to the drink. When she smiles she flashes you a set of chompers so stained with
Cleveland fudge they look like a package of Slugworth’s chocolate covered
raisins.
A log of Lincoln’s finest smacks you right between the eyes.
You drop your weapons and vomit.
Hands slippery with still-warm mush latch onto your limbs.
The growling mass of brown and greenish-brown flesh hoists you into the air and
carries your flailing body into the hallway. You’re weightless when one of
their pooey digits worms its way into your mouth and partially down your
throat. There’s an ever-so-subtle hint of burrito hidden beneath the gooey
brown nastiness suddenly coating the interior of your mouth.
Paco’s not such a bad name. Mexico’s a pretty nice place.
You probably should
have changed your name to Paco.
The crowd of shit-crazed freaks reaches the bathroom and
deposits you into the melted puddle of buttnugget juice slathered across your obscenely
expensive tile. Slippery fingers grab a handful of your hair and drag you to
the toilet. Your eyes are burning. Your nose is filled with the scent of
excrement and dingle berries and the combined, partially recycled scat of a
million ample-waisted Americans. With the bowel explosions of an entire nation
still pouring from the bowl of the toilet like cocoa lava from some butt-Vesuvius,
the mob of fudge fiends shoves your face into what remains of the once
porcelain-white bowl with a splash.
Chunky sewer sauce slips into your nose. It seeps into your
ears. It sneaks past your lips and worms through the spaces in your teeth. When
you try to breathe it fills your throat and finds its way into your lungs. You’re
dying. You’re dying face down in a pool of the most awful of awful. When you
open your eyes you see only an unending torrent of speckled brown.
This isn’t how it was supposed to end. Not like this. Not
face down in the juicy rear end muck of the very same people who enabled you to
buy the carpet and the cabinets and the bed you foolishly decided to fight for.
It’s difficult to tell, but you think you might have crapped your britches.
Not that it matters.
It’s difficult to tell, but you think you might have crapped your britches.
Not that it matters.
Miles away, Westbound on the 405, Milo turns off the radio
and pops in a CD of The Human League’s greatest hits. In less than three hours
he reaches the border of Mexico. In less than three days he’s changed his name
to Eduardo Rodriguez. In less than five he’s being pushed back onto a soft bed
as a particularly sultry Mexican girl pulls off her sundress and prepares to
take him to heaven and back.
Eduardo is a much cooler name than Paco.
