Like the title says, intro’s first. My name was, is… no, yes, it’s is, no, maybe both… Paul Rierson. I was thirty-two when I died and thirty-three when I reanimated. I died from the Pelican Flu. How I contracted it is a story for another time but I got it and that’s enough. I worked for the Ohio Department of Transportation as a desk jockeying accountant and my only source of companionship was my cat, Charlotte. My cat had more of a life than I did and I got out more. By getting out I mean going to work. The one time I did go out I got The Flu. Again, a story for another time.
The person doing the typing is my personal secretary, Paul Demarti. Say hello, Paul!
(Scribe’s notation: He actually made me type “Say hi, Paul”. Say hi my ass and that is BS about me being his “secretary”. I’m more like a “slave”. It’s Spam and undercooked chicken livers for me these days. And don’t get me started on the Twinkies! This guy watched one movie with some hick on a personal mission to get a spongy, crap filled cake and he thinks all humans love that crap. While the movie was funny I can never look at a Twinkie again without wanting to puke. I want a Sno Ball. I like the taste and the consistency of them. The hick was right about one thing though; Twinkies do have a shelf life and they suck once they go past it. It’s like a yellow brick that the Grinch left his seed in. Sorry for the visual and I digress, okay?
I’ve been stuck with this putrid skin bag for the past three years and believe me, the smell don’t get any better. Between him, his wife and that damn cat my life is like an episode of Different Strokes gone to hell in a Tupperware container. That cat alone is a freaking legend in the zombie world. It has more kills than any sniper in the UZS military. But you know what’s really freaky? He’s got a dog, not a zombie dog, a living one. That’s right. One that needs Dog Chow and craps on your lawn and eats your freaking newspaper. Freaky, right? And the dog’s more of a menace to me than the cat! Thanks to this guy and his stupid, brain damaged, farsighted dog, I’m seriously, honestly chained to a freaking desk! You can pull a three-quarter ton truck out of a muddy ditch with the shackles this guy has on me.Where the hell are all you living capable rights activists at? Drinking your morning blood at the Starbloods, kissing each others backsides? I need freaking help here! And before any of you zombie elitists says anything, hell no I didn’t deserve this. Fourteen escape attempts on my part does not warrant this type of treatment! Hey, if you’re reading this; come and get me out of here! I’d do it for you! Maybe. Crap, he’s looking over my shoulder. Gotta go.)
I started, ended my life and began my unlife in Ohio. I joined the Navy when I was eighteen and saw a little bit of the world. Even there I was a desk jockey. I’m not going to thrill you with little details like where my hometown was or what my life was like while I was a pulser. I don’t think it was or even is any different from you’re own. If your town isn’t overrun with people like me then I feel bad for you. Being dead isn’t that bad. It’s not bad at all. You know how you have these gung-ho kill ’em all types running around trying to solve the undead question with a bullet, shouting, “Once you go dead, it’s never enough to be fed”? They’re wrong. Okay, maybe a little right but they’re mostly wrong. There’s a few of us that still want nothing more than to eat you but, and this is a big but, most of us don’t.
We just want to be left alone. *Ahem* Most of us do, anyway, now at least. Think of us like Greta Garbo who once said, and I’m paraphrasing here, “I just want to be left alone”. At first we took to the streets and started eating anything with a pulse. It was traumatic to be sure but once we got our heads about us and we cooled down (bad pun. This guy loves bad puns) we began to form a plan concerning our own survival. Maybe you’ve seen the United Zombified States military fighting you on TV? I hope so. Not too long ago that was me shooting back. I used to be a soldier in the UZS Army. I joined up after death, of course.
(God, I miss those days. Putting undead into the dirt. That was awesome. Sflknsofapsdf asdjdlkofhavbpae iuhq3;rwnfnvakmfshdivugluyahgsdf Damn. Sorry about that. He gets heavy-handed sometimes. Likes to hit me in the back of the head if he thinks I’m getting too out of line. I don’t know why he feels he has to. I don’t have that much free will left. Dumba$$.)
I know some of you are asking how and why we have a military. Well, with your people shooting at us and your local “hunting” parties coming around, hiking up their pants, trying to relive their glory days hunting deer or when they served, we had to protect ourselves. It’s not like we want to kill you. Besides, we have that standing order on flesh here… so maybe it’s a good thing you do come around. Birds gotta fly, zombies gotta feed and all that.
So anyway. I’ve decided to start a blog about my experiences here in the United Zombified States of America and maybe add a review or two on zombie necessities. I’m looking to blog on what the different colors of the human aura taste like and which is best for any occasion and maybe a few firearms reviews for starters. My eyesight may not be what it was but I can still top an attacking human at three hundred yards with no problem.
(Unfortunately… he’s a good shot. Their eyes may be cataracted over but something about the Pelican Flu makes their sight even better, especially at night. And their hearing! Oh crap can they hear! They can hear a flea pass gas at two hundred yards! I kid you not! Pick up Memoirs of the Walking Dead: A story from the zombies point of view at this fool’s eStore or Amazon or whatever to see what I mean.)
I hope you’ve enjoyed this post and that you’ll subscribe to my blog or follow me on Twitter or Facebook. I have another assistant (He means slave! It’s a woman and even she hates me! WTF, right?) that set that stuff for me. Thanks again and check back later for more posts!