Flash Fiction Friday: Prompt: ANYTHING GOES – Battle Royale with your favorite villians, monsters and myths.
The bus driver was speeding along the decrepit Florida interstate trying to avoid the genetically engineered mega-pythons that stalked anyone unfortunate enough to break down and have to pull over when I saw the banner hanging across the road. It read, “The Living Are Friends, Not Food!” reminding me that the annual Vegetarian Zombies Association convention was in town and that it would be a bitch to find a motel room. Given the increased radiation levels and toxic fallout drifting up from the Dick Cheney Memorial Waste Dump located where the Everglades use to be all the good rooms were sure to be long taken. A tough break, but in my two-thousand years of living few of my professions have offered more in the way of getting to really know people than the occupation of private detective that I currently practiced.
Still I chuckled; somewhere underneath the Disneyworld castle, I figured the frost burned body of old Walt was spinning in his frozen capsule. The living dead were obliviously stealing something from one of his movies and his incestuous domain that his acolytes protected so feverishly. Barely a hundred years before I remember Spielberg made a movie parodying the rat’s empire. The resulting court battles lasted decades but the famous director’s brain still ended up integrated into the rat's corporate mainframe. They also implanted a basic control chip into his empty skull and his body even now can be found eternally cleaning restrooms at the parks.
It did occur to me that the zombies were a lot more powerful that the formerly famous director, since the Fourth World War they made up a huge and powerful minority with the last three presidents coming from their group. The most prominent having the world famous waste dump down in south Florida named after him. So, if Walt’s disciples wanted to challenge the zombies they would have to gear up for decades of lawsuits. Happily, it was not my fight and I soon saw the bus approaching my destination.
We pulled into the bus station with an ease that seemed bizarre for the pretty and young maniac that had piloted this contraption that was probably held together just with good intentions, duct tape, and maybe some sticky slime if the condition of the bus floor was any example. She collected her jacket then adjusted her miniskirt that had ridden further up her thigh exposing a tattoo of some cute teddy bear eating the remains of a small child, the symbol of an old death rock band whose music now was now standard on the oldies and easy listening stations these days.
I felt the old stirrings of youth and lust just under the surface of my ancient and stoic exterior, so much so that I focused my Chinese-made artificial eyes ever closer on the near busting cleavage her blouse barely contained. My mind began wandering and for someone like me that is always a mistake. My memories carried me back to the small farm I was raised just outside the walls of Rome. Born Flavius Augustine Octavius I had seen many empires, nations, and people fall and turn to dust but humanity's current situation was just damn bizarre.
“So how about asking me about Dagon?” I heard her say which brought me back quickly to this particular reality. I looked up refocusing my eyes to see her standing right in front of me, her face cold and so lovely inhuman with her black hair flowing off the side of one shoulder.
“Excuse me miss?” I coughed out startled and embarrassed.
“If you want to do more than just look at the goods you have to come to our seminar. Dagon will not only show you the path to eternal glory and power but we have timeshares on the coast that frankly only foolish mortals would pass up.”
The vision before me now seemed tainted and spoiled. Dagon was nothing but a minor real estate cybernetic deity hawking cheap condos and low financing, such a waste. After disengaging myself from her the best I could, I made my way off the bus careful not to forget the small leather bag I was carrying and began walking through the bus station looking for the entity who was waiting for its delivery.
The whole scope of living, living dead, undead, deadish, possessed, phantoms, and spirits mingled in the dirty environment of Orlando’s main bus station. While scanning most of the electromagnetic spectrum for any possible threats I caught sight of some poor zombie, apparently here for the convention and on his cell phone trying to explain to his wife how he fell off the wagon and ate some living person. The sadness I saw in his eyes was awful, even the one hanging out the socket dangling by the crusty remains of his optic nerve.
However, sitting off away from all the rest was some very pale fellow dressed in nice black slacks, white oxford shirt, black jacket and shoes holding a sign that said “Winford Picklesworth,” the entity I was suppose to meet.
Walking up to him I quickly realized that Winford was a vampire. We exchanged greetings with me careful not to expose my neck and tempt the undead creature with my old but still valuable blood.
“Not to worry Mr. Octavius,” he politely said. “I’m just here to get my package from you.” Instantly I felt at ease with this creature of the night and did not know why. While for mortal appearances he looked around his late twenties to early thirties my experienced guess suggested he had to be closer to three hundred.
“Well young man,” taking into account what I thought his true age was, “here you go. “I must say that while professionally I shouldn’t ask I’m curious to why so much would be spent to pay for an in person delivery?” As soon as the words left my mouth, I figured the good undead man would go all vampire and do something like rip my head off.
“I’m so glad you asked.” Winford said as he took possession of the leather bag and opened it. “Because when I get a chance to praise the Lord to the unsaved I feel it is my duty to spread his word.”
In shock I recoiled to see him pull out a specially crafted cross and bible from the bag. It was then I realized that I had run across the strangest thing in at least three parallel universes. He was a member of “Vampires for Jesus” and the cross and bible I brought for him and been specially blessed by none other than big dude in Rome. Needless to say, I got the hell out of there claiming that my artificial eyes were about to die out. As I walked away, I could not help but wonder where in the world freaks like him came from.
Anyway, I had my own issues; my next mission was to ascertain if my new employer’s wife was having an affair with her boss, an enhanced cephalopod with a British passport. An intercepted email the intelligent squid sent to her said to meet him in the flooded city of London for a week of passion. With the packaged safely delivered to the vampire my bank account had plenty of credits allowing me to buy a first class ticket on the next luxury Pan Terra dirigible to where they would rendezvous.
A couple of hours later I was on the other side of Orlando inside the enclosed aerodrome sipping cocktails. While waiting for the call to board I fingered the old plasma blaster I kept for protection trying to decide what I would do when I found them. My boss had left their fate in my hands with his only request that I be “creative.” I had plenty of time to figure that out how I would accomplish that, until then I would indulge my darker side and dine on pan-fried calamari.