Dead Drunk: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse... One Beer at a Time Read online

  Charlie nodded. “Now I’d be lucky to hit water.”

  There was some yelling from the bathroom. “Who clogged the shitter? It looks like someone tried to flush a dead rabbit.”

  “Damn, I forgot.” Charlie slammed the shot and headed for the kitchen cabinet. He returned a minute later with purple rubber gloves and a plunger, ready to battle the unholy beast.

  Big Rob was currently shirtless in the living room and rapping to an old Tupac song. His arms were still massive, but his gut was now equally impressive. He paused his performance. “Be careful in there, last night was two for one Whoppers at Burger King.”

  Charlie emerged moments later and gasped for air. “Jesus, it’s like you gave birth to Rosemary’s baby in there.”

  “I'll go in the yard next time if you want.”

  Charlie pictured the old lady on the first floor having a coronary. “Just use a courtesy flush for God's sake. The bathroom smells like a damned nursing home. You need to start eating more fiber or something. It’s like you literally crapped an entire ham. Intact.”

  “I’m on the no carb diet.” He patted his substantial belly. “Nothing but meat.”

  The sight of another friend coming from the kitchen with a cigar in one hand and a glass of wine in the other caught Charlie’s attention. “Right when I thought Mike was the queerest guy I knew, you show up drinking wine at a bachelor party.”

  Jim, Charlie’s best friend from childhood, pulled up a seat. “Gay? I’m not the one wearing purple gloves, faggot.”

  Charlie nodded. “Touché. Still… wine? Getting all sophisticated on us?”

  “What? I like wine. I always have and—”

  “Oh come on, your wife wants you to drive home tonight, doesn't she?” Charlie knew something was up. Jim was ready for a church potluck and everyone else was liable to piss on the couch.

  “Cindy knows how we act when we get together. She might be a bitch, but she’s not stupid.”

  Of course his wife was right. The average intelligence of the group dropped five points every time another one entered the room, and would go down five more every hour they spent together. By the end of the night there would be a bunch of slack-jawed idiots trying to hump or fight anything not nailed to the ground.

  Rob jumped in. “She’ll have big dongs waving in her face tonight so you might as well cut loose too.” It was sound advice, even if it did come from a sweaty and shirtless ogre sporting a beer helmet.

  Jen, Blake's gorgeous fiancée, was having her party across town, and most of the group’s significant others would be attending. The girls were actually going to see a transvestite fashion show and finish the night off at a dance club — tame compared to what their men had in mind.

  The bachelor noticed the discussion and saw the glass of wine. “This ain’t a book club. Get this pussy a shot of Wild Turkey.” Blake made gobbling noises and flapped his arms.

  Peer pressure could be a bitch even for thirty-year-olds, and Jim saw the looks he was getting from his friends. “Fine, but someone's taking my car keys and I don't wanna know who.”

  Charlie had a huge smile on his face as he went for the Wild Turkey in the freezer. The shenanigans had begun.

  Chapter 3

  A Pale Horse

  The noise and blood-alcohol levels in the apartment steadily rose as the afternoon wore on. Porn played on the big screen while music blared, and the drinking games got out of hand. Conversations focused on sports and loose women while the lies about salaries and sex floated around as thick as the pot smoke filling the room.

  Meanwhile, Charlie was striking out in a card game called “asshole” and had started to get suspicious. “All right, which one of you shit-heels is cheating?” he said while dealing the cards. Left-Nut, Jim and Big Rob stayed cool, so Charlie focused on his friend named Vidu. “You look guilty and your last hand was too good. Take five drinks.”

  The “asshole” assigned drinks only while dealing, but anyone else could return the favor afterwards, and this often led to swift payback.

  Vidu, a short and wiry Sri Lankan native, chugged his beer. “What can I say? I’m lucky with cards and women. It’s a gift from the gods.”

  He’d been in the States for ten years but still had a thick accent and a horrible grasp of American culture. Why the gang put up with him was anyone’s guess.

  “Luck better find you a wife soon or you’ll be back to humping monkeys in the jungle,” Charlie said with a wink.

  “Don’t worry, ladies love the Vidu.” This was an overstatement, and with a two-month deadline to get a green card, things looked bleak indeed.

  Blake knocked the cards out of Charlie’s hands. “Our limo is gonna be here in twenty minutes so start getting ready.” He leaned in with an arched eyebrow. “By the way, Vidu’s been cheating the whole time.”

  Everyone threw their cards down and Charlie wiped his brow in relief. His buzz was growing, and it was way too early for that. He looked to Vidu. “Luck, huh? You just earned yourself a prairie fire shot at the bar.”

  “You make your own luck,” Vidu replied.

  Blake called everyone in for the game plan. “Gentlemen, the first stop’s a little Irish pub by the name of Drunken McPunchee’s.” The cheers he expected never materialized.

  Smokey in particular wasn’t having it. “That place is all Lincoln Park trust-fund babies. We should go across the street to Ned and Eileen’s. They’ve got cheap drinks, no lines and no one-percenters.”

  Blake stifled the dissent quickly. “First off, smelly hippy, someone has to pay taxes so you druggies can get free needles and hepatitis medicine. More importantly, Ned and Eileen’s is a fucking dive, and the only bush we’ll see there is the old hag that owns the place. McPunchee’s has dance music and co-eds, and tonight’s Mailbox Night. Single, drunk chicks. There’s a slim chance that even Vidu could get laid.”

  “Who’s getting married again?” Mike asked.

  “I’m not married yet, gay-wad,” Blake shot back. “Look, if you want to see a drag-queen show, meet up with the bachelorette party. If you’re coming with us, grow a pair.”

  “Real funny,” Mike said. “Maybe I will go see your fiancée tonight.”

  Moments later they assembled outside. The sun had set but it was still brutally hot, and the Midwest humidity clung to them like a needy ex-girlfriend. It had been a long summer for everyone.

  “Where’s the damn limo?” Left-Nut said and raised an ice-cold bottle to his forehead.

  Smokey had a smug look on his face. “Global warming’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

  Charlie had heard this spiel for the last time. “Oh please. You put up some solar panels and suddenly you’re greener than Al Gore’s cock? Spare me. Nobody is buying it dude.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with going granola,” Smokey replied. “Have to balance out the republi-nazis, and you know the crunchy chicks love it.”

  “Ooh, look at me, I’m Captain Planet because I wipe my ass with newspapers and take hobo baths,” Charlie said.

  “Laugh it up, fuckers. But hasn’t it been super hot lately around here?”

  “It is summer,” one of Blake’s nameless co-workers said and loosened his tie.

  Smokey was unbothered by his total lack of support. “When we dry up like China did and shit hits the fan, you’ll come knocking. This place is totally off the grid, baby. I’ve got solar power, charcoal water filters, the whole nine yards. I’ve been getting pointers from that Doomsday Preppers show.”

  “Screw China. After invading Taiwan they can all starve to death as far as I’m concerned,” Jim said. “Plus, the savages eat dogs.”

  Blake threw his hands up. “Come on, no politics at my bachelor party. Talk about socket wrenches or pussy or something. Hell, talk about socket wrenches and pussy.”

  Big Rob pointed skyward. “That sure looks like something to talk about.”

  “Holy shit,” Left-Nut said as the bottle slipped from his hand and shattered on the r
oad.

  Beyond belief, clearly appearing on the rising full moon was the image of a horse, outlined in green and standing on its hind legs. A pale horse.

  “It looks like the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse,” Jim stated breathlessly. No one challenged the ex-altar boy, and the drunken group stood in stunned silence for a few long seconds.

  Finally, Charlie spoke up. “Do any of you morons watch the news?” Blank stares. “Seriously, nobody even heard about this the past month?”

  Left-Nut shook his head. “Spit it out already.”

  “You can stop clutching your pearls because that’s an advertisement for Pale Horse Beer.”

  There were some sighs of relief and a few lies about knowing the whole time, but Big Rob still stared up in confusion. “Do you mean astronauts are up on the moon right now?”

  Charlie bit his tongue. Rob had never been all that bright, and after countless blows to the head was even less so. “Nobody’s up there. The company’s using some high powered lasers beamed up from northern Canada.”

  “Oh, cool,” Rob said.

  “They had to keep airplanes out of the sky for miles around so they wouldn’t get burned up on accident.”

  “Sounds expensive,” Gay Mike said.

  “Like a million dollars a minute,” Charlie said. “Still, a ton of people are gonna see it. But you’d have to be a complete moron to fall for marketing like that.” The eerie design blinked a few times and then disappeared. “Looks like the show’s over.”

  The limo finally pulled up, and everyone piled into the pimped-out ride and went right back to drinking. ESPN played on flat screens while rap music and a disco ball set the tone as the hectic pace of the party picked up once more.

  Blake set down two paper sacks. “Okay, we’re gonna do boat races so none of you dildos sober up.” Inside were two lukewarm bottles of strawberry Mad Dog 20-20, breakfast of winos all over the world. “It’s my college friends versus my work friends. You guys always talk smack so now we’ll see who can back it up.”

  After some mild grumbling, the two teams squared off. The game was a simple one. A player would chug and then pass the bottle down the line, and the anchor had to finish it off. The first team to finish would earn coveted shit-talking rights for the rest of the night.

  The race began, and even with Vidu’s lackluster

  performance, the college friends dominated. Of course, having Big Rob made the difference. After all, the man was legendary in the sporting world for guzzling a bottle of whiskey on the way into the ring before demolishing an opponent.

  Left-Nut was quick to stir the pot. “I haven’t seen anyone lose that bad since the Jamaican bobsled team. You boys ever drank before?”

  Blake’s overdressed friend named Cliff fought back. “First off, you guys had Andre the Giant over there. The guy’s head is like a watermelon,” he said and gestured to Rob who was tucking into a cheeseburger pulled from one of his pockets. “Second off, who gives a shit? You can drink a lot, big deal. Put it on a resume and see if it gets you a job.”

  It was too early for the griping to start, so the bachelor stepped in to moderate. “Listen up, ladies. We’re gonna be at McPunchee’s in a minute. The limo’s coming back at ten for the next stop, so if you wander off, tough shit.”

  Charlie raised his hand. “Where are we going at ten?”

  “Patience, young Padawan,” Blake said with an impish grin, enjoying his control over the itinerary. “It’s another of my favorite stomping grounds. I promise it’ll be fun.”

  Upon arriving, the gang clambered back into the sweltering heat and humidity that was thick enough to suck the breath right out of a person’s lungs. Luckily, the line was short.

  McPunchee’s was a dive that specialized in watered down drinks and cheesy gimmicks. Mailbox Night was one such gimmick where drinkers had the chance to meet complete strangers by wearing address labels. If a person wanted to flirt, they simply dropped a note in the corresponding mailbox. It was dumb, but the place was packed.

  They grabbed their tags and spread out to eye the talent while Charlie went to buy a round of beer. A perky brunette sporting a ridiculously short skirt came over as a Guns-n-Roses song came on the jukebox. She had a skanky emo look going and he definitely approved.

  “I need to open a tab.”

  She leaned forward, flashing the balding man a fake smile and scrunching her cleavage together while grabbing Charlie’s almost maxed out credit card. “Sure thing. What can I get you?”

  He smiled back. “Fifteen Pale Horses.”

  Chapter 4

  Love Letters

  Charlie chatted with his closest pals while the others shot pool or hit on women. The crew saw each other less often now, so it was good to hear old stories of bar fights, hazing pledges, cheating on tests and catching each other masturbating in the quad.

  But reality had proven to be quite different from their time at the dilapidated fraternity house. Where school had been one big party, adult life was one giant hangover. Crappy jobs, failed relationships, crushed dreams or the drudgery of suburban life had taken a toll on all of them.

  The trip down memory lane conjured up better times, but also reminded them of all that had changed. Panama City spring breaks became antiquing in Door County. Late nights partying turned into late nights meeting deadlines. A whirlwind of morally challenged women morphed into a nagging wife, or even worse, the dim glow of internet porn in a lonely bedroom. In a nutshell, adulthood sucked.

  Jim cleared his throat. “I wanted to let you guys know that Cindy’s pregnant. Obviously, this is a big deal for us.”

  Charlie slapped him on the back and leaned in. “Who’s the dad?” Everyone busted up. “No, but that’s awesome news. Congrats.”

  “She’s due around Thanksgiving, and we’re gonna wait to find out the sex.”

  “I’m sure you don’t have enough testosterone to pump out anything with a dick, so I’m guessing it’s a girl,” Left-Nut said dryly and wandered to the dance floor to harass several women minding their own business.

  Jim flashed the white-haired jerk a dirty look. “Says the guy with one testicle.”

  “Don’t mind the sour grapes,” Blake said loudly and then summoned a round of Jager Bombs in celebration.

  Charlie wondered what was wrong with the rest of them, himself included. Vidu could barely speak English and was on the verge of deportation. Big Rob had gained seventy pounds and hadn’t fought in two years. Gay Mike was un-dateable, and Smokey was down to his last brain cells. Finally, there was the walking hard-on known as Left-Nut. Charlie watched him get shot down by four girls in thirty seconds and keep right on trucking. Getting laid was a numbers game, he always said.

  Vidu stumbled off to the bathroom and Charlie saw his chance to get even. Having blown most of his money on the round of beers, he settled on something more devious than buying a disgusting shot, and it wouldn’t cost a dime.

  He grabbed two blank letters from the mailbox station and addressed the first to a stacked college girl that he’d noticed earlier sucking down dry martinis like water. The schoolteacher marked it, “Urgent: Special Delivery,” and the words flew feverishly from his pen.

  I could not help but notice how gorgeous and sexually active you are looking in the glow of the neon Budweiser sign. Would you like some alcohol beverage? Maybe a fruited drink like on Sex and the City? I would like very much to make love to your large American breasts. Are you wealthy? Please write back to mailbox #102 or see me at the table next to the dartboard. I am wearing an orange Ed Hardy shirt.

  Dearly yours,

  Vidu

  P.S. Do you have any diseases?

  P.P.S. If you are a lesbian or a bitch please give this letter to your short friend that is dressed like a hooker.

  Charlie addressed the second letter to Vidu.

  Hi there, stranger.

  I saw you the moment I walked in and just had to drop you a few lines. You’re really cute. Make sure you co
me see me tonight! I’m kinda shy but would love a big hug.

  XOXO,

  #70

  Charlie dropped the letters into the numbered slots and casually went back to his seat to find Left-Nut complaining about stuck-up women while Big Rob wolfed down expired pickled eggs.

  Remembering the gross bathroom incident from earlier, Charlie pushed the jar away and took on the lecturing tone he often used when speaking to his giant friend. “Stop eating all this junk if you’re staying at my place. The pipes can’t handle it.”

  “Fine, I promise I won’t use your toilet.”

  “That’s not what I mean. What I’m really getting at is, if you’re ever going to fight again you need to lose weight. Honestly, you’re starting to look like a sumo wrestler.”

  Now it was Rob’s turn to get annoyed. “You want to act like my trainer again? You did such a great job the last time,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. It hadn’t worked out so hot, and he still blamed Charlie for his stalled career.

  “I just want you to take care of yourself. You keep living like this and you won’t be around long.”

  Rob looked down. “I guess I could stand to lose a couple of pounds.” He always ended up agreeing with Charlie.

  “You know I need to get in shape too. How about I start running with you next week?”

  Rob’s face brightened. “It could be like old times again, except this time I won’t get—”

  “Check out the buns on her,” Left-Nut said and pointed at an attractive girl swaying on the dance floor to a crappy indie-rock song, the same girl that Charlie had just written to. “She’s giving me a five-dollar footlong.” Vidu agreed and the trap was set.

  Twenty minutes later the girl went to the mailbox and discovered the letter. A sour look crossed her face and she scanned the bar for the creeper in the day-glow shirt.

  In the meantime, Blake gathered the party together for yet another drinking game. “Okay, guys, it’s time for credit card roulette. Put your card into this lovely hat, and if I pull your card, you buy a round. The only catch is the buyer picks the shot. We’ll pull two. Any questions?” There weren’t. “Good. Pony up.” He handed a trucker hat sporting giant boobs to Cliff.