Somehow, a strange young pullet had been attractive to this mans bizarre mating ritual. A good three feet shorter than him, she looked to be about twenty from behind and fifty from the front. She was wearing some kind of hot pink dress, that could have easily been patched together from parts of a high school prom dress, a few scraps of lingerie and possibly a bit of leather fetishwear or a Thriller jacket that she just couldn't part with. With her gaunt cheeks, she grinned up at her partner's face, revealing a complete lack of molars. Although she seemed to be aiming for seductive, her smile said "fit me with a bridle" more than "come get me, you black stallion." Her hair was short and jagged, dyed one of those Hot Topic colors that she should have grown out of a few decades ago.
Now here I am, watching Dirty Dancing in the Hood meets Return of the Living Dead, suffering the absolute worst case of "discontinuation syndrome", a friendly little term that doctors like to use when you're withdrawing from all the good, legal drugs that they like to dispense like Pez. Withdrawal is a nasty term. You only withdraw from drugs when you're dead broke, you already pawned your mom's TV, stole all the copper pipes from her house, and you're fresh out of stranger dicks to suck for fast cash. Discontinuation syndrome on the other hand, is just the shit that you go through when you've had enough with synthetic apathy, and trudging muddled-mindedly through the lukewarm swamps of the working world, and stop taking those illegible little Post-It notes to the white coat dope dealer at the local pharmacy. Take a minute to imagine the worst flu you have ever had, and multiply the discomfort of that by about nine thousand. Not that "shit your pants in public" flu that people like to claim they have, after eating five pounds of shrimp at the local Phoenix Panda Moon Dragon China Buffet. That isn't the flu. That is just a case of not giving a fuck that Phoenix Panda's on staff crustacean surgeon took a day off, and you devoured a few hundred of those little critters, poop chute completely intact. I'm talking the real flu. The aching, sweating, can't hardly breath, feeling like you had an unprotected triple x throwdown with Gaëtan Dugas in the early 80s, waking up on the bathroom floor type flu. This was hell.. if hell had tunnel vision, pointed directly at some strange zombie mating ritual.