The No Name Hour: Blackout Fallout

[...Posted by Ted H]

At one point in college, I had a lot of important people who wanted me kicked out. I'm pretty sure this night was the catalyst for that.

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[Part 1 - The No Name Hour]

[The No Name Hour - Blackout Fallout]

Of coarse this wouldn’t be worth writing about if something interesting didn’t happen. All the real fun started with the annual Blackout Party. It was a school sponsored invitation only “event” which the radio station DJs would hand out tickets to people they wanted. Not much thought went into who I invited seeing how all of my tickets went to the entire circus.

The event itself was lit only with black-lights and featured live bands and occasionally DJed by Diamond, a short black woman with an irritating voice which was only amplified by an annoying laugh, an “I know better than everyone else” attitude, and the worst taste in music: Rap. She was the type of person who actually believed Rap, R&B, Hip Hop and etc were actually all individual genres of music and not just different flavors of the same turd. Over the coarse of the year, we’d always take shots at her horrible show off and on but never really talk too much about it. Rap music or its DJs are never worth talking about too much, even if you’re making fun of them.

The event itself was more or less uninteresting though the highlights include: me having to catch a falling speaker that was the size of a midget because someone thought it was a good idea to put it on an unsteady surface with the bass jacked way up…me retroactively remarking over how hard it is to distinguish how hot a woman is under black-lights…Janky Gitlow sticking a video camera in my face and asking me some dumbass question. I believe my response was on par with what Ving Rhames’ response was to a similar encounter in Dawn of the Dead. Incidentally that’s how I met Janky Gitlow…Me leaving several times because I wanted to strangle Diamond and her fucking laugh…Me spending the night in the womens dorm due in no small part to me being absolutely unable to judge a woman in the black-light.

The first No Name Hour after the “party” involved a bunch of us discussing our impressions of it. Ultimately we all shared the same opinion that Diamond was a pox on the event and we would all be better off as humans without her. I believe that was the final straw for her because she made it a point to walk down to the studio and air her displeasure with us constantly talking shit about her show.

That wasn’t the start of the night in question though. It began when I walked into the station to start the night. Someone else’s show was on and I was all set to take over. It was another Rap oriented show, this one hosted by “DJ Face”. Like my own show, he had a bunch of his friends with him serving no other purpose than company. As he was preparing to end the show…


Face: Yeah, we’re all set here. Stay tuned for DJ…uh…(to me) what’s your DJ name?

Me: Pyro

Face: …DJ Pyro-

Me: No, just “Pyro” no DJ in there.


It was stupid, and petty, but dammit, it sounded better as just “Pyro” and it’s my fucking DJ name. You wanna call yourself “DJ something-or-other” fine by me, but I’m just Pyro.



Face: Ok, Pyro.


Then he proceeded to mumble some bull shit under his breath over how much of a bitch I was being over the name. Friends laughed. This would not stand. Not that I needed to make some grand gesture over it, but fuck, I was getting the last word in on this shit.


So they all left and I set up my show with some regulars K-zilla, Magdaline, Happy-Dancer and Dominatrix as well as A-Ray. The rest of the crew were elsewhere, or were planning on joining later on in the night.


Me: Hope you enjoyed DJ Faggot, now it’s time for a better show…


And off we were. Face said shit about me, and I called him a faggot. All over. Moving on…but no, it’s never that easy.

We kill the first half hour talking to iPinch on the phone since she left the college at the end of last semester but still wanted to be apart of the show. After the call, we moved onto talking about using garbage bags as condoms before we did our usual smack talk about Diamond. Then she came down and bitched at me over it. The next five minutes were of me (on air) talking Diamond down.

Freshly rid of Diamond, I notice the phone line had been flashing. This had been occurring for the better part of my conversation with Diamond so whoever it was really wanted to talk to me. Figuring it was another pot head trying to request a Linkin Park song, I answered to find that it was in fact DJ Faggot. DJ Faggot is not amused and believes my funny one shot retaliation was a slight against his white boy gansta honor.

I decide to go against my better judgment and put this idiot on the air since going against my better judgment tends to create fun shit I can broadcast for the masses (Christ, now I know why Jersey Shore existed). DJ Faggot starts screaming incoherent bitchings, but when he drops “shit” followed by “fuck” I decide to promptly drop his call mid sentence.

Surprise, surprise, this pisses him off as well. The trooper calls back though, this time promising to keep it clean so he can bitch without interruption. I then sit back and let him whine and call me every insult under the sun while promising to return to the air tomorrow and insult me some more for his listeners, which were no one. Me on the other hand? I was gaining listeners by the second. Word was spreading quick around campus that I was fucking with some wannabe gangster moron and people were tuning in to listen to us go back and forth. Hell, the all women dorm had bitches packed in the main foyer listening and cheering on Team Pyro. They would occasionally call in to say how awesome I was and your usual fanfare of praise.

Now there are two ways you can deal with dumb white boys who think they’re gonna be the next Eminem, one way is to drop yourself to their level and have a verbal slap fight in broken Ghetto English. Another way is to use big words (ie. Words with more than two syllables) and try to hold back laughter as the idiot tries to keep up, then point out how he is struggling to keep up. Then just strait up laugh at him. Soon he will forget why he was mad at you to begin with because he is seething at you now for making him remember how dumb he really is.

Time for some backup I guess because I started to get bored and cut off DJ Faggot mid sentence again, only for his buddy DJ Sniper to call up and yell. DJ Sniper is on the completely opposite side of the equation however. Sniper was in a real gang in his life (and not some pussy ass gang either, but far be it from me to give any fucking names) and from what I’ve heard, gang members don’t take too kindly to shit like this. However, my ego is now riding high with half the campus cheering me on. Who am I to back down now? I have an adoring public to entertain!

Sniper though is also difficult to understand over the phone, and to put it bluntly, I didn’t speak black, but I did manage to hear a few “fuck”s in there so I decided to cut this guy off mid sentence as well. If I was gonna get banned from the radio station for language, it sure as shit better be because of my mouth (or probably Happy-Dancer). At this point I need to point out that everyone was getting a kick out of me cutting these idiots off the air. Reactions around campus ranged from “Oh shit, he did it AGAIN!” to “Damn right! If those dumb motha fuckers can’t talk without swearing, toss their ass!” DJ Faggot then calls back waving a white flag. He says he will drop things for now if I just stop saying his DJ name incorrectly, or rather at all, and move on to something else to talk about. I agree and the conversation ends.


Then Dominatrix (an RA who is privy to this kind of information) informs everyone of his real name.


Not his non-DJ name, we already knew that, but rather his legal name that no one was suppose to know about. Remember in 8 Mile when Eminem reveals to the crowd that Papa Doc’s real name is fucking “Clarence” and everyone loses their shit over it? Yeah well, imagine that, but DJ Faggots real name is not only all prim and proper and so non-gangsta, but it also is the exact same name as a newspaper comic character. First name and last. Everyone in the studio pretty much fall over laughing and whatever truce I just got done making went out the window as I go to town over the name on air.

Five seconds later, DJ Sniper calls in. Apparently he practiced talking in front of a mirror between calls because I could actually understand his question.


Sniper: What the FUCK is wrong with you?! We just ended this shit and you’re starting up again!


At this point Sniper begins verbally breaking down again but I catch snippets of how I should get my ass kicked for this.


I then call his bluff.


He starts flipping out again, saying how easy it would be for him to walk on over and kick my ass.


I continue calling his bluff.


And that was the final straw. Sniper then screamed that he was on his way to kick my ass so loud into his phone that his voice cracked and he sounded like a 12 year old struggling through puberty. It was hilarious, and as I laughed at him over the phone, Sniper screamed again and hung up.

Now the reality of the situation was sinking in for everyone. A large, black man with a gang history was on his way to specifically hurt me and anyone else who had the misfortune of laughing at him and DJ Faggot who was also probably on his way to watch. The rest of the circus decided they needed to clear out before the throw down began. I had no intention on leaving, my ego having swelled to the point where I was pretty sure I could take Sniper one on one.

Everyone else was ready to leave, especially Happy-Dancer, who while I wasn’t counting on directly, in the back of my mind I figured he would make a hell of a trump card in a fight. Happy-Dancer was one of those crazy martial arts mother fuckers who can’t enter hospitals without handcuffs because his hands and feet are officially recognized as lethal weapons (or so he told us). You would never guess this by looking at him. Yeah, he was clearing out with all the women, ready to leave me with Sniper. A normal person would interpret that as a cue to leave, but not me.

Then someone worse entered through the door: Diamond.

At some unknown point, Diamond started listening again to the show tonight and when Sniper left to come murder me, she either wanted a front row seat to it or to prevent the station from being closed because of the murder. She beat Sniper to the scene by about two minutes despite living in the dorm right next to the station while Sniper and DJ Faggot lived on the other side of campus. What took so long? Diamond’s dorm was packed with women in the main lobby listening to my show.

Diamond walked right in and as calm as she could say it, told me I need to end the show before someone gets killed. Then entered the station manager. The station manager wasn’t too thrilled about my show. She heard people talking about the show and when she tuned in herself, she got an earful of swearing and death threats.


Station Manager: I turn you on and all I hear is “shit!” and “fuck!” Do you know how much fucking trouble we can get in?


I must mention that I’m still on air at the time so the station manager swearing at me for having people swear on my show while live on the air strikes me as humorous. And me laughing only pisses her off more. Get in line baby, you’re not the first person I’ve pissed off in the last hour.

Sniper then shows up all geared up for a fight with DJ Faggot cowering behind him. Sniper is about six foot four, maybe taller. The station manager is about five feet and a half. Sniper never sees her as he enters the station. Still laughing, I motion Sniper to look down. Sniper glances downward, screams “I don’t give a fuck,” and then the station manager turns all of her short angry fury towards him, screaming for him to get the fuck out. Sniper and DJ Faggot retreat as quickly as they barged in, me still laughing, the rest of the circus too scared to move or just up and running away.

And I’m STILL on the air.

Things calm down and I’m told to shut it down mainly because Roger was sent the order for the station to shut down until everything could be sorted out. Deciding not to wait for security to “escort” me out the hard way, I leave under my own power, thus ending the greatest No Name Hour ever. But we’re not done here.

Sniper decides to wait for me in my dorm. By the time I actually get back, his better judgment takes over and he settles for some under his breath comment as we pass in the hall. But because I’m me, I decide to escalate.


Sniper: Pssh…*mumble* fucking stupid *more mumble*

Me: We all know you’re fucking stupid, but you really shouldn’t be so down on yourself like that.


And Sniper then turns and decides he wants to fight me again. And once again, a woman gets in his face and intimidates him before he can act. This time it was Dominatrix who gets in his face and kicks him out with a couple R.A.s suddenly flanking her. Did I mention Dominatrix isn’t just an R.A. but the Head R.A. of the dorm? Because she then told the R.A.s on duty to call security if they even see him outside the dorm.

At this point, as long as I stay in my dorm, no harm should come to me. I decide top leave anyway out of my own arrogance. Like I said before, an entire lobby was packed with women listening to me, and I had every intention of visiting that dorm. My public awaited me, and I needed to grace them with my presence. This last paragraph wasn’t important to the story, but I included it anyway just to point out how awesome I was that night.

The No Name Hour

[...Posted by Ted H]

More tales from my life. This time about a radio program I ran in college that was directly involved with the fall of the Cazenovia College radio program. I got another NNH tale next week that'll also contain the origin story of how I met Ryan, cuz I know how everyone is clamoring for that one.

The station at the time was called "Black Sheep Radio" but I always just called it "BS Radio" cuz I'm mature like that.

...and HOLY SHIT, there's finally a picture on this blog!

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[The No Name Hour] 

I liked radio programs. One day I happened to come across the Howard Stern Show on a local rock station. It was awesome. Sure, it was in the twilight in his FM career, not his best shows by far but I didn’t know nor care. What appealed to me most was the fact that the show was basically Howard and his friends just talking. There was no point, they would just talk and not actually bother with music, at all, ever. I always figured that it I ever had the chance to be on the radio, that would be what I’d try for.

The prospect of being an on air radio personality was defiantly something I didn’t want to do as a career though. At the time my sister was dating a radio DJ so I pretty much got a first hand idea at how radio DJs were anything but glamorous. Stern was the exception to the rule, everyone else however were worthless. College radio, however, was a good choice. Fulfill that specific life dream without having to make any sacrifices? Where do I sign?

The problem was getting in there. My freshmen year I had missed the opportunity. Sure there was a meeting at the beginning of the year for interested people. Perfect, except that I had forgone the meeting to instead hang out with friends. Whoops. I also had no idea who to talk to afterwards about getting a show, nor did I have any idea as to what that show would include.

Sophomore year had finally provided me the opportunity. Roger was teaching a Broadcasting class and it included having your own radio program. A class taught by Roger? Easy A. A way to finally get me into the radio program? Awesome.

A few things had to be done before radio magic could be done. First was a code of conduct. Everyone had to read a half page contract and sign it at the bottom. Basically it stated that you wouldn’t be a profane mother fucker on the air. Simple. Also there was the division of the time slots and program information. All had to be submitted with the contract before we could start a show.

The Broadcasting class had first dibs on time slots. Unfortunately, when we passed the sheet around for time slots, I was on the wrong side of the classroom and all the choice, prime time selections were already taken. I didn’t want to do my show in the middle of the day when everyone on campus were in class or otherwise preoccupied, and I certainly didn’t want to play a show on the weekend. The only other option was Thursday nights, starting at 9pm. “Good enough,” I figured. I called the 9-to-11 time slot and that was that. When all was said and done, I was allowed to have my show last as long as I wanted since the next scheduled show would’ve been Friday morning at 7.

Code of Conduct signed and filed and my time slot reserved, the only thing left to do was pick a DJ name and show title. Neither of which I put much thought into, leading all the way up to my first show. Roger had finished giving me a final crash coarse of the radio station controls literally minutes before my inaugural show and I still didn’t have a clue as to names.

At 8:59 he pretty much flashed me a thumbs up and asked what DJ name I had decided on. I had nothing, so I just dug my hands into my pockets, the only thing in there were keys and a lighter. Keys so I could go home and a lighter because I had taken up the regular hobby of walking various pieces of notes and tests from my failed statistics class to the lake so I could burn them. Sure I not only failed the class but also my appeal, but it all felt a little better because I was slowly burning all of the evidence of my statistics past.

I was a pyro, and the word was the only thing in my mind when my hand happened upon the lighter. “Pyro,” I eventually said to Roger “My DJ name is Pyro.” Roger flashed a quick look on his face. Not the best nor most original name ever but it seemed to be suffice since he shrugged and nodded. “Good luck,” he said, then left the room.

9:00. Time to rock. I had a DJ name and a CD of songs I burnt up earlier to play. The only problem was that the show didn’t have a name yet. In my bag nearby was the information sheet for the show that I had neglected to complete and hand in. In the space marked “show name” I had written “Duct Tape Dreams” in pencil, had erased it and wrote “Duct Tape Hour” over it. I hated the name, but kept it as Plan B in case I never thought up a better title. The whole duct tape thing was yet another small obsession of mine and it was better than nothing, or so I thought.

I activated the mic attempted to say something, but anxiety clutched my throat. What if someone really was listening? We always made jokes about how no one listens to the colleges radio station but what if someone just happened to be listening right now? Or worse, what if the person recognizes me and realizes what a shitty job I’m doing. And when did it become 9:01? Fuck, I need to say something. ANYthing. I ended up going with the standard station identification call sign, then I immediately switched to my CD.

A Slipknot song started and I relaxed in my chair. That could’ve gone worse, but it sure as fuck could’ve gone a lot better too. Seriously, I cant have been the first person in history to not have a name for his creation after launching it. And I wasn’t, because I remembered a lunch I had over a year beforehand.

I was on a construction job when we decided to head out to lunch. One of them suggested we eat at a place called “No Name Diner” instead of getting a pizza (again). If the coworker is to be believed, the diner opened without a name proper but no one seemed to mind at the time. After a “help us name our diner” contest, it was decided that “No Name” shouldn’t just be a place holder, it should be the actual fucking title of the place.

So when Slipknot finished, I hit the button on the controls and started talking. “I’m DJ Pyro and you’re listening to the No Name Hour.” Done, next song. It was touch and go for most of the next hour and I never really got around to saying much anything at all. Once my CD finished, I was too. I hated how my first show went and realized that me sitting by myself in the studio wasn’t gonna cut it. I needed more voices.

I decided to drop the DJ from my name and just call myself “Pyro” since it flowed a lot better, keep “No Name Hour” as the title and hand that shit in and make it a priority to find someone to talk to on air before next week. I didn’t get anyone to show up. Sure, people said they would come by and talk, but people are full of shit.

The next week came and went much like the first. Not so bad, except that I was suppose to be recording these shows for the actual class. I was sure Roger would give me an A but I figured it would be a lot easier to give me an A if I gave him shows that consisted more than just me saying the time and the radio call sign.

A few weeks passed and one night I’m on the air when Quiet Girl walked in to visit. I call her this because she does everything in her power to actually live up to that name. She didn’t say shit loud enough to be picked up by any of the studio microphones, but she was company, plus I had someone to talk to. Conversing with her on air proved to be a mistake since anyone listening would just as well assume I was talking to myself like some retard. I went as far as throwing chairs around the radio station and causing general chaos in an attempt to get her to say anything, but she still held no comment to my rock-star studio trashing job. Whatever, fuck her.

Then one night a bunch of my fiends decided to show up in the studio and before I knew it, the No Name Hour had life. In addition to QG and myself, there were now Jigga, PainInTheAss, Dominatrix, iPinch, K-zilla, Happy-Dancer, Magdaline and Whitey. Affectionately we called our collective selves “The Circus” cause we’re dumb like that.  Any given night would feature anywhere between a few of us or all of us. The show tagline was “Fucking Classy…all the way” and we rarely failed to live up to those sad standards.

It wasn’t so much as a radio show as much as a bunch of us shooting the shit on live radio, broken up occasionally when a bunch of them would step out for cigarettes while I played music. Inevitable on any given night you could count on Dominatrix using the stations computer to look up something involving sex (occasional virus is implied), Happy-Dancer sounding an occasional swear by accident in full range of a microphone and someone making obvious references to the “sex couch” being disgusting. Seating in the small room was limited at best, especially for 10 of us, so if you wanted a seat, your options were: one of 2 hard plastic chairs, the floor, the sex couch or a couple amps that were laying around. The sex couch itself was…well…lets just say that it’s something of a horror show if you ever viewed it under a black light. Luckily I always had a slightly padded roller chair to sit on.

So the show went on very smoothly after a while, I had an easy A in Broadcasting after all and we all had so much fun that I decided to keep the show going into the following semester. It was no longer a class requirement but a recreational activity, meaning the standards of our group conversations on air would fall from their already low standards. It was still fun as ever and it opened the door for a couple of the more iconic shows.

[The show poster that I printed out and put everywhere on campus, usually right on top of other show posters cuz this show was obviously better.]

Statistics

[...Posted by Ted H]

I got nothin until NaNoWriMo...but that's a 2 month gap, and 2 months is too long to go without an update. But instead of making up a story for this week, I figured I'd entertain with a true story of my own life.
A long time ago I had this dumb idea to chronicle my college exploits. Looking back on most of them, I figured that was a bad idea but there were a couple interesting tales...

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[Statistics]


-Spring Semester and September 2006
-Written 2011

I’m not a Jets fan. My dad is. Back when I first learned about the NFL and football in general, the Jets sucked and I didn’t want to align myself with a shitty team. It was around Super Bowl XXXI and I had either the Patriots or the Packers to choose from and since it causes me physical pain to even compliment a Boston team, I rooted for the Packers. The Pack didn’t let me down, and the rest is history…but this is about the Jets, the team my Dad loves.

Fast forward to 2011, the Packers and the Jets are both on the verge of making it to Super Bowl XLV. The mere idea of a Packers/Jets match up have had me and dad going back and forth for weeks. The Packers beat the Bears to clinch their spot, all the Jets have to do is beat the Steelers. That was a tall order, but hey, the Jets just got done beating the Patriots and their faggy ass QB, how hard could this be?

My dad tried to downplay the Jets’ chances all month. They were the #6 seed, dead last. They weren’t suppose to even survive round 1...but they did. They weren’t suppose to beat the 1 seed Patriots…but they did. My Dad still downplayed their chances, but we all knew he was invested. But the game started and the Jets fell behind big. The experts at halftime said it was pretty much over. I had no reason to watch, but I did.

I watched them mount a comeback. All of a sudden they were nipping at Pittsburgh’s heels. Then they closed it to a one score game. They had all of the momentum. All they had to do was get the ball back for one more drive and they could win. All they needed to do was-…wait, never mind. Times up.

They ran out of time. What they needed more than another drive was another couple of minutes. They almost came all the way back, only to be stopped, not by Pittsburgh’s defense, but by the clock. Despite downplaying the whole thing leading up, my dad couldn’t help but throw a mini fit over the whole thing.

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There was a point to that little story. It reminded me a lot of when I failed Statistics. The class had been hell for the entire semester, and it had a dangerous combo for disaster: me not giving a shit combined with the professor being a short woman from India who has yet to master how to speak English properly.

Seriously, you couldn’t understand a fucking thing she said, and I’m no rookie on that kind of thing. I was friends at the time with a guy who had come all the way from fucking Africa and spoke English as his 2nd language. This bitch from India supposedly has been teaching at this college longer than my friend had been alive and he could talk circles around her. Hell, in high school one of my teachers was a fresh import from Kenya and I could carry a conversation on with her. Maybe its just India.

So the professor cant speak English, and that can only lead to me not understanding shit. Turns out though, she didn’t know her shit either. She taught strait out of the book and would often confuse herself in the process. It was like a piano teacher always trying to stay one lesson ahead of their student.

Now, its one thing to be failing a class because you’re retarded. Its another thing entirely to be failing a class even when you get all the answers right. I failed a lot of tests early on because of that. The problem was that while I was writing the correct answers down, I wasn’t apparently showing enough work, thus I would lose out on points. The same thing happened in my Calculus class from the semester before; I failed to show “enough” work and my 90s became 75s. Here in Statistics, my 90s were becoming 55s. Cutting 35 points for right answers? That goes beyond excessive. That’s fucking ludicrous.

I would argue over it but always to no avail, mainly because English eluded her and her “Hooked on Phonics” series never taught her how to understand phrases like “Even the book says I’m right!” and “How the fuck can you be this stupid?” She refused to give me credit on my right answers and no matter how much work I showed, it apparently was never enough.

And before you even decide that I’m just too lazy, you’re right and you’re wrong…mostly wrong. There are two ways I do math: strait off my calculator, or strait out of my head. Neither tactic requires pencil and paper. The simple shit can be written down but there’s only so much you can write when using a calculator, the rest is done automatically. And when I use my head, I'll write some things down as I do it, but to write every single part of the process would take too long and I’d lose my place.

There’s a scene in The Day After Tomorrow where the kid tells his Dennis Quaid that his professor failed him in math because he didn’t write out his work because he did it all in his head. Essentially his professor failed him because the student was smarter than the professor. Am I saying that my Statistics professor failed me because I was smarter than she? Well, yes, but only because my Statistics professor was a dumbfuck and I can at least speak proper English.

Eventually I would drop off and stop caring. I would fail tests by a long shot and flat out skip the class for weeks at a time, but its not like I didn’t have a good excuse; Those Guitar Hero high scores weren’t gonna beat themselves. The text book had been reduced to a mere doorstopper and those few times I did attend class were only because none of my friends were around to hang out with. Hell, after Pirate Night, I could count on one hand the amount of classes I attended, including the final exam. I’m actually surprised I even showed up for that.

Early on I was concerned about failing, but that fear turned into acceptance when I realized that there was nothing I could do about it because I couldn’t even suck up to this bitch and earn a pity boost to my grade. I had a date with an F, and that bitch was picking me up. It was impossible to avoid.

I don’t really remember the final. I do know I was there though because I remember waking up from a half hour of sleep, programming random equations onto my calculator because I never bothered to learn them, hanging out with my friend Colleen and using her as a crutch where I assume she dragged me to the classroom so I could take the fucking test, only to realize I left my calculator back in my room. You don’t take a math final without a calculator unless you’re a genius or a dumbass, and I’m not that smart. I forgot it once before in 8th grade and I’m still shocked I passed, but at least I knew my shit back them. I was less confident this time around and walked all the way back to my room and retrieved the damn thing before walking all the way back to the classroom. I returned maybe 10 seconds after the short Indian so in her mind I was late for the final. Fucking great.

The rest of it was a blur. I don’t even remember the test. Hell, I’m assuming I remembered to even write my name. I later found out that I set a new standard in failing because I scored less than 50 on the final…meaning I probably got an 70 in real life. Ultimately, I failed the coarse by a mile, not that I cared at this point.

So final grades were eventually mailed home and I was officially informed that not only did I fail Statistics, but in doing so I had fallen behind by three credits and wasn’t technically a sophomore yet. It really didn’t seem too hard to catch up, take an extra class and everything would be fine. Retaking Statistics was out of the question since it wasn’t a requirement for my degree, and the only reason I took it to begin with was because my advisor, that clever bitch, tricked me into taking it.

So while it looked bad to have failed and be behind by one class, it was manageable…try telling that to the rest of my family. The thing about my mother is when you present her with bad news, no matter how trivial, she’ll always assume the worst case scenario will play out. In this case, failing one class as a freshman automatically meant that I wasn’t going to graduate at all and would have no choice but to work as either a fry cook or a grocery bagger. This was made evident when she constantly taunted me with the phrase “Paper or plastic?”

My dad wasn’t exactly helpful either. Just your usual ranting over how I should just join the army now because I apparently wasn’t going to make it through four years. My sister would keep adding needless insight on the situation as well, as if her opinion carried any weight. It was the fucking apocalypse at my house, all over an F. In retrospect, I’m shocked my brother didn’t jump in the fray, though he probably he was destined to fail a class or two when he made it to college.

I had a few shitty options on the table; McDonalds, army, tie a plastic bag over my face or jump into traffic. Luckily I had one more option: Do what I do best, and that was damage control. The only way to shut my entire family up was to at least pretend that I was doing something about the F. In this case, argue the grade with the school. A long shot, a hail mary, no fucking way it would work, but it convinced my family that there was a chance I can change the grade.

I made the necessary e-mails and talked to whoever you talk to in these situations. I figured that even though I was wasting my time, I could at least give it my best shot. The policy on arguing grades was that you only had about a week to do so, no exceptions. I waited about 10 days before sending out an e-mail over it. I don’t remember the lie I used, but I had convinced the academic dean and my advisor that I should be exempt from that “no exceptions” rule. When all was said and done, the academic dean had agreed to meet with me in person to discuss the grade. Since it was summer vacation, this meeting would go down in the fall semester.

At this point, I’m beginning to wonder if this half baked idea could actually work. I only attempted it because it was the only way to get everyone off my back but now I was beginning to think I could pull of a D or something. I had actually convinced the fucking dean that I wasn’t given a fair shot to pass. The damn thing was, I really wasn’t given a fair shot to pass, only I stopped trying after it became clear I was being taught by an idiot and that sealed my fate. The same reasons I stopped trying were also the reasons that I might just win the appeal.

Into the new semester, the day finally came. Ironically, I blew off from a class to attend the appeal, but it was a class taught by my buddy Roger and I had given him fair notice and he had no problem with it. I was feeling good, this was a chance for me to sneak in another victory. In high school, I had argued away countless detentions, dropped a suspension down to the bare minimum, managed to not get expelled multiple times and scored the key to the handicapped elevator despite being fully capable of climbing stairs. Now I could add another gold star to my asshole resume: genuinely fail a class and talk my way into passing anyway. Four months ago I had no shot, and now I was on the verge of pulling off one hell of an upset over the Indian Stats teacher. It was all looking good…up until the meeting actually started.

Maybe it didn’t help that I was dressed in street clothes, but what was I suppose to wear? A fucking suit? It also didn’t help that the dean walked in with an unamused look on his face, that he took a seat right next to the teacher, sitting right across from me with a folder filled with papers while I had only a couple tests and a notebook (and the notebook was only there to add weight to my items. I had no intentions on using it, but it made me look like I had a lot more ammo. Compared to the deans folder, I wondered why I even tried)

The meeting started off bad, real bad. The dean started talking about how he doesn’t see much merit in my appeal. Why the fuck agree to a meeting if you don’t think I have a shot? Bored? Got time to kill? Or do you just enjoy having these kinds of meetings?

Then the teacher started explaining why she failed me. I tried in vain to keep up with her pseudo-English while the dean only nodded in agreement, which I call shenanigans over because I doubt he understood a fucking word she said. What I could translate was that I missed too many classes and outright failed the final. Both a given, but I knew those coming in, I still had a plan. I tried to voice a couple injustices I had suffered but the dean kept cutting me off at the pass. He was blindly supporting that illiterate fuck-nugget, which I’m pretty sure showing bias like that isn’t allowed but who was keeping score anymore?

My plan was more or less useless now that the dean seemed to have chosen his side in the argument before I even said two words. He was sucking the bitches cock already and was ready to deny my appeal before his seat was even warm. I was rattled. It was over before it even started.


Then the fucker patronized me.


Few things piss me off more than being patronized. It would take too long to list them all, but the highlights include: The 2007 NFC title game, all of 2004, accidentally eating a mushroom and many things pertaining to my brother. The dean, while talking once again over how he doesn’t see much hope for my appeal, decided to put it in a way he thinks I might understand. He mentions that I’m a Criminal Justice major and says something like how the burden of proof is on me. He talked real slow so as I wouldn’t fall behind and used hand gestures and a condescending tone.

Oh, it’s ON now, bitch.

Moments ago I was rattled and thinking about just giving up to save face. Now I was just angry. Does this cock sucker realize who I am? He did not just talk to me like I was 10. Time to put the smack down on this fucking meeting. I was armed with a couple tests, a detailed understanding at how inept the teacher was, a high charisma score and now a strong desire to wipe those faggot ass smirks off both their faces. Halftime was over, time to mount my comeback. Time to go to work.

I grabbed the nearest test and flipped the pages to show a particular problem on it. It was one where I got the answer right but still got 9 points knocked off for “not enough work shown.” I then began a detailed analysis over how I (1) came to that answer and (2) how the “little work I had shown” was still enough to show that I came up with the right answer on my own and deserved full credit. It was verbal poetry, and it was fucking beautiful because the dean had nothing to refute my argument with. The teacher couldn’t say shit either because I was talking math, something she had no idea about. They decided to credit me the points and increase my test grade.

Then I did it again.

And again.

And yet again.

Next thing I knew, I had bumped my grade up beyond passing and all the way into C+ territory. I then grabbed the other test and worked my magic on that as well, the entire time doing the math in my head and calculating how these grade increases were effecting my overall grade. Why was I doing it in my head? Because I DON’T FUCKING NEED TO WRITE MY WORK DOWN!

I came in with a grade so low, it was more of a G- than an F. Now I’ve got a nice F+ going. A little more and we’ve got a D, children, and I can go home happy. Unfortunately, the dean caught on and put the kibosh on my whole operation. Then he just ended the meeting. I objected, but he spewed some bullshit over how he didn’t think I had much of an argument and was just wasting his time now. I referred to the increased test scores and mentioned that the teacher pulled the same shenanigans on the final. If I could just pry the God damn final from her hands and show a couple examples from that, then I’d have my God damn D.

Nope. Like the Jets, I had simply run out of time. One more chance, one more drive and I’d have success. Not to be however. I had an F+…but it was still an F. To make myself feel better, I took all my paperwork and notes from the class down to the lake and set fire to all of it over the coarse of the next couple months. I also vowed to murder a cow in cold blood, just to spite India.

-----------

In the end though, it really didn’t matter. I graduated on time and walked off with my middle finger to the school. The teacher meanwhile “decided to retire” at the end of my sophomore year. Turns out I wasn't the first nor the last to complain about her or her lack of teaching ability and she was probably fired as a result. I like to think she’s dead in a ditch somewhere. A car hit her and she tried calling for help, only she couldn't speak proper English and couldn’t communicate where she was so the paramedics couldn’t get to her in time. Morbid I know, but it always brings a smile to my face.

As for the Jets…who cares. I’m not a Jets fan. The Packers were gonna win the Super Bowl anyway, so I won either way.

Our Town of the Dead [Act III]

[...Posted by Ted H]

Holy fucking shit, it's done!

All in all, if you knew what comprised the original version of this travesty, then you would agree that this version is way better. I'm a bit on the fence over it to be honest. The original had a constant theme of chaotic stupid to it that made it a cute diversion to the seriousness of the original. This remake retained some of that original humor but I forced more drama into it to make a better overall product. At times the theme is bipolar and it suffers. Then theres my attempt at romance towards the end....

A few more things I wanna say about the play Ill hold off on since it requires a bit of spoiling. Next week maybe? Until then, please enjoy the fruits of an almost year long labor...

--------------------------------------------------------

[Our Town of the Dead]

Act III

At the far left of the stage are a row of chairs. No one enters to accompany them. The STAGE MANAGER takes his usual place in the middle of the stage.

STAGE MANAGER:
Oddly enough, this is the safest place in all of Grover’s Corners, the cemetery. Of the dead that stayed behind, few if any are left now. While some of the living deemed it necessary to abandon Grover’s Corners, others felt the need to fight. Valiantly they fought, in vain, but it showed the resiliency of some who refused to resign to the fate of an undead takeover. The pushback was over almost as quickly as it began, but the survivors weren’t ready to surrender their home. So while George and company try to escape, others have different plans.

Enter DOC GIBBS.

Take Doc Gibbs for instance. Sure he could escape, but he felt it more important to understand what exactly happened. Not an advisable idea, but given how we last left George, it seems father Gibbs chose right, at least for now.

DOC GIBBS:
Now I know that lab was around here somewhere.

Enter a CRAWLING ZOMBIE as it moves across the floor and grabs DOC GIBBS’ leg.

CRAWLING ZOMBIE:
I just knew a fresh meal would find its way up here eventually!

DOC GIBBS:
What the fuck is this shit? I don’t get a named zombie? Just a faceless throwaway?

CRAWLING ZOMBIE:
Hey buddy, we’re fresh out of named people to toss into this play.

DOC GIBBS:
Well what about Joe Stoddard? His corpse hasn’t shown up yet.

The STAGE MANAGER tosses his script into the air and storms off stage.

STAGE MANAGER: *off stage*
Does anyone fucking read the script?

Enter JOE STODDARD running up to DOC GIBBS with a shovel and slams it onto the CRAWLING ZOMBIEs head.

JOE STODDARD:
Doc Gibbs? What the hell are you doing here of all places?

DOC GIBBS:
I’m looking for that laboratory that Willard and his friend had been using. I just know that whatever’s inside is the cause of all this.

JOE STODDARD:
You mean Birkin? I know the lab. Follow me. I’ve managed to kill off most of the stragglers up here but the occasional one pops up from time to time.

DOC GIBBS:
Lead the way, Joe.

Exit JOE STODDARD and DOC GIBBS. Enter the STAGE MANAGER.

STAGE MANAGER:
I believe we’ve let you folks dangle long enough over the fate of George Gibbs and the rest of his party.

Enter GEORGE GIBBS and JOE CROWELL sprinting over and closing an imaginary door behind them.

GEORGE:
Help me block the door!

JOE:
What good will that do? Soda shop has mostly windows. If anything, you want to block out only exit! Just lock it for now!

GEORGE:
Alright, done. We can’t rest here long, those things will break through any minute now.

JOE:
At least I can catch my breath. How you doing on ammo?

GEORGE:
Not much left. You?

JOE:
Empty like your sisters head. Where is she, anyway?

GEORGE:
We all got separated. I don’t know when we lost her or Mr Webb but I wouldn’t hold out hope.

JOE:
You’re a real optimist, you know that George?

GEORGE:
Yeah well you’re not exactly the person I’d like to die with.

JOE:
I still blame you for all this.

GEORGE:
If I was somehow behind this, why would the undead want me dead too?

JOE:
They wanted you alive, same with Webb.

GEORGE:
Still, why would I try and keep you alive then?

JOE:
So why are you back, then?

GEORGE:
I…got a letter. Someone urged me to return, just for one day. I told them when I’d have a chance to come up and here we are.

JOE:
I still call shenanigans.

Both men pause to hear REBECCA GIBBS screaming off stage.

GEORGE:
Rebecca? She’s still alive!

JOE:
A lot of good that does us. Unless you got a plan, then we’re still stuck with no gas and no clue.

GEORGE GIBBS stays silent a moment before slowly standing up and handing JOE CROWELL the shotgun.

GEORGE:
I’ll distract them. Get to Rebecca, get the gas, and get the hell out of here.

JOE:
What’s your angle, farm boy?

GEORGE:
You said it yourself, they want me alive. I won’t be able to distract all of them, but hopefully enough will be preoccupied so you can sneak out the side.

JOE:
You plan on surviving, or am I leaving without you?

GEORGE:
I think you’re right. Me being here right now probably isn’t a coincidence, but I need to make sure. And if I’m right, then I doubt I’ll be leaving. Don’t wait for me, but make sure you leave with my father.

JOE:
Let’s get this done then.

JOE CROWELL exits while GEORGE GIBBS opens the imaginary door.

GEORGE:
I surrender. I’ll go, quietly.

GEORGE GIBBS exits.

STAGE MANAGER:
Well, things are certainly grim for Gibbs, and it would defiantly be a dick move to change the scene on you folks, but that’s just what I’m doing. Time to check in with the doctor, who is just now arriving at the laboratory we alluded to earlier.

Enter DOC GIBBS and JOE STODDARD.

DOC GIBBS:
This can’t be it, Joe.

JOE STODDARD:
Afraid so, Doc. You’re standing in ground zero, after a fire destroyed the place of coarse.

DOC GIBBS:
They started a fire before they invaded?

BIRKIN: (Off stage)
No. Not exactly.

BIRKIN enters.

BIRKIN:
Doctor Gibbs I presume? We never did have the pleasure of meeting in person before did we? I’m afraid to say that this entire mess has been of my own doing. I assure you I am making amends but I doubt you will agree with the methods I will take.

DOC GIBBS:
What happened here, Birkin? What do you mean this is your doing?

JOE STODDARD:
I think it best if you start from the beginning.

BIRKIN:
Right, well, picture in your mind if you will, Doctor Gibbs, a world where death was nothing more than an inconvenience. The brain is such an interesting specimen, and reanimation of the brain seemed like the ultimate goal. You see our brains are capable of functioning without the rest of the body even being alive, it just takes a little ingenuity to make it work.

DOC GIBBS:
To even attempt such a task…It’s…it’s horrific.

BIRKIN:
Yes, well, let it never be said I wasn’t a trailblazer. There was, however, one small roadblock in my theories; If the brain could self reanimate, then there wouldn’t be an issue. I needed a way to artificially reanimate the brain, then find a way to synthesize that reanimation method.

DOC GIBBS:
You needed a subject zero, didn’t you?

BIRKIN:
More or less. The subject was chosen by Willard, claimed that the entire town adored her in life. I didn’t mind. We brought the girl back after months of strenuous attempts, taking great care to never damage the brain more than we needed to. From there we found that her entire body excreted something that was not present before. That was the base of the synthesized reanimation chemical.

DOC GIBBS:
So you…You actually managed to cure death?

BIRKIN:
It wasn’t perfect. Nine out of ten test subjects failed to even show the slightest reanimation in the brain after injection. The others showed limited brain activity and almost no external awareness. Our zero however, she was fully aware and active. Bodily functions beyond the brain were nonexistent so no, I do not believe we cured death, merely gave it pause.

DOC GIBBS:
But how did things go from resurrecting one person to the destruction of Grovers Corners?

BIRKIN:
I…I shouldn’t have let Willard choose her…Of the subjects we were able to revive, they all showed a strong allegiance to Zero. As for Zero herself, as time wore on, the potency of the reanimation base she gave us increased, allowing more and more revivals giving her an ever increasing army right under my nose. I was too caught up in my work to notice her longing to truly live again. She wanted to stop the world where it was, keep everyone living in the current moment to “appreciate it more” as she put it. Then one day I wake up to find a group of the reanimated attacking Willard. I escaped, but Willard was done in. Then I find he reanimated as well and helped to raise damn near the entire cemetery.

DOC GIBBS:
There has to be a way to stop this. Grover’s Corners can’t contain them forever.

BIRKIN:
It can and it will. I set fire to the lab hoping it would end this invasion before it began but now I feel more drastic measures are required.

JOE STODDARD:
There’s a damn up north. Birkin and I have it rigged to blow.

DOC GIBBS:
You’re going to flood the town?

BIRKIN:
I know for a fact that none of them can swim. The flood won’t get them all but Mr. Stoddard here is more than willing to stay behind and hunt down the remaining.

JOE STODDARD:
I ain’t got much else to fight for except the town.

DOC GIBBS:
But you can’t just do that! There are still survivors in the town. My children are down there! Maybe we can get word out and bring in the army or something. We can fight back and retake Grover’s Corners! It doesn’t have to end!

JOE STODDARD:
I thought the same thing Doc, but this is the only way to assure they don’t escape and spread out through the world. Grover’s Corners was a lost cause. At the very least we can assure it ends here.

BIRKIN:
Really though, I get the whole small town pride and all but what worth is Grover’s Corners in the grand scheme of things?

DOC GIBBS:
I know it isn’t much to someone like you. But for people like Joe and I and our families, it’s all we know.

BIRKIN:
And all you know is burning. And there is nothing to strive for. Look, I found it quaint when I first got here that you people had set up a time capsule in the bank, so I decided to crack it open to see what you felt was important enough about your town to preserve.

JOE STODDARD:
You…Wait, what?

BIRKIN:
And you know what I found? A couple papers, a bible, the constitution and a few plays. Nothing of the soul of this town. Your paper acknowledged its existence but the capsule contained no evidence you actually lived.

DOC GIBBS:
You obviously didn’t read the one play we put in there.

BIRKIN:
This town was dead long before I decided to resurrect anyone. Should anyone ever bother to return, and drain the lake I’m about to make of it, they can dig out your little capsule and judge for themselves. Now if you excuse me, I’m going to make the final preparations to ensure my mistake doesn’t kill anyone else.

BIRKIN exits. DOC GIBBS takes a step to follow, but decides against it.

DOC GIBBS:
I can’t believe he’s so casual about erasing Grover’s Corners.

JOE STODDARD:
I know it smells something sour, Doc, but there really isn’t any other choice at this point.

DOC GIBBS:
I refuse to believe there are no other options. There’s always another way.

JOE STODDARD:
You thinking we should follow him and do something?

DOC GIBBS:
I will. Joe, I need you to go back to the town and help my family escape. Down the road from my house should be a car. From there head strait to the center of town. At some point you should find them if they’re still alive. Please, I need you to help them escape, especially if Birkin destroys the damn.

JOE STODDARD:
No problem.

DOC GIBBS:
And tell them not to wait for me. Get out as soon as possible.

JOE STODDARD:
Ok, Doc, and good luck.

DOC GIBBS and JOE STODDARD exit to opposite ends of the stage.

STAGE MANAGER:
It appears that time may be running short for Grover’s Corner’s. Now would be as good a time as any to see what fate awaits George.

Enter GEORGE GIBBS being led in by SIMON STIMPSON and PROFESSOR WILLARD.

SIMON:
Well that turned out to be painless, right George?

GEORGE:
I told you I’d go quietly.

SIMON:
Right well, you would excuse us for not taking you at your word.

WILLARD:
That Crowell boy must still have the weapons.

SIMON:
It is, as always, no issue. If you feel the need to though Willard, join up with Warren and hunt down the remaining. All the people we needed alive are accounted for.

WILLARD:
Delightful.

Exit PROFESSOR WILLARD.

GEORGE:
What is all this for? Why take anyone alive?

SIMON:
It’s nothing I would do, but you and Webb were requested to still be breathing. If not for the fact that you came with company, that request would’ve been ignored entirely.

GEORGE:
Who would request anyone be captured alive? One of your kind?

MR WEBB: (off stage)
Closer than you may think, George.

Enter MR WEBB. He has a distinguishing bite mark on his neck and has clearly just been turned into a zombie.

GEORGE:
Mr Webb, no…I…

MR WEBB:
Oh George, it’s wonderful. I couldn’t have asked for a better ending to all of this.

GEORGE:
What is this Simon? I though you wanted us alive?

SIMON STIMPSON says nothing as he turns and exits.

MR WEBB:
I’ve been told that Willard may be able to bring my Myrtle back. I’m going to go collect the rest of her. Oh, I can’t wait, we’re going to be a family again!

Exit MR WEBB.

GEORGE:
Mr Webb, wait!

GEORGE GIBBS begins to follow until he hears a noise behind him. He turns and stares silently as EMILY enters.

GEORGE:
No…

EMILY:
Hello George.

GEORGE:
You’re the one who wanted me alive, weren’t you?

EMILY:
I didn’t want any harm to come to you. Not until I had a chance to see you.

GEORGE:
You sent that letter. You brought me back here just in time for this outbreak. Why?

EMILY:
It was the only way. They said you’d left. Changed. When I returned, I couldn’t bare the idea of starting over like you did.

GEORGE:
I…I didn’t start over. I just walked away and never really moved on.

EMILY:
It doesn’t matter now. All that matters is that we’re together again, and not even death can come between us. Oh George, the others said it would get easier being dead, but they were wrong. I couldn’t let go, I refused to let go.

GEORGE:
It just isn’t the same, Emily.

EMILY:
You living never could appreciate the little things. You don’t really notice them until you’re dead, but when you do, you’d do anything to get it all back.

GEORGE:
Emily, this isn’t right. The dead shouldn’t come back.

EMILY:
Grover’s Corners is ours again, George. We can have it the way it was all that time ago. It’s all I’ve ever wanted since I was taken from you.

GEORGE:
You’ve let this get out of hand, Emily. The others don’t just want to live like it’s 1899 again. They want to go beyond Grover’s Corners.

EMILY:
I didn’t…Yes, well, some of the newer dead didn’t share in my dream. I’ve managed to keep them contained to this point. Hopefully long enough for Birkin to think of something.

GEORGE:
What do you mean?

EMILY:
He always said he’d think of something if it got out of hand…

GEORGE:
A way of containing this?

EMILY:
It can’t be contained. Only destroyed.

GEORGE:
So now what?

EMILY:
I’m not sure, but I just wanted to see you just once before I was taken away again. Maybe convince you to join me.

GEORGE:
I don’t want to be one of those things.

EMILY:
I wont force you. My father chose to turn, but I’d never force anyone.

GEORGE:
How is this Birkin destroying the zombies?

EMILY:
I don’t know, but all I can do is give him time.

GEORGE:
Then what can we do right now?

EMILY:
Honestly? After all this time? I really would like to…just talk.

GEORGE:
(pauses) …I’d like that too.

STAGE MANAGER:
Time is running out for all our friends. Time to reveal the fate of Rebecca and Crowell.

GEORGE GIBBS and EMILY retreat to the back of the stage where the lights over them dim. Enter JOE CROWELL and REBECCA GIBBS.

JOE:
C’Mon! I cleared them out but more are coming and George didn’t leave me much ammo.

REBECCA:
I’m filling as fast as I can!

JOE:
How’d you even last this long?

REBECCA:
Mr. Webb distracted them long enough for me to hide at the station. I found an empty gas can but was found before I could fill it.

JOE:
Then you screamed and I came over and saved you. [to audience] Everyone caught up now?

REBECCA:
Almost full.

JOE:
It don’t have to be full.

REBECCA:
I’m not taking chances. It’s not a very big can anyway. Who knows how much George’s car needs.

JOE:
Fords, amirite?

REBECCA:
Ok. Full.

Enter WARREN and more ZOMBIES. JOE CROWELL fires into the approaching horde.

JOE:
Crap. All out.

WARREN:
Such a pity.

JOE:
You realized I hit cleanup on the baseball team right?

WARREN:
What?

JOE CROWELL swings the shotgun like a bat and hits WARREN in the head, breaking his neck. More ZOMBIES approach.

REBECCA:
Gonna try that a hundred more times?

JOE:
Fuck that shit. Let’s go!

REBECCA:
What about George?

JOE:
If he can’t catch up in time, then that’s his problem. Now MOVE!

Exit JOE CROWELL and REBECCA GIBBS tailed by ZOMBIES. Enter BIRKIN and DOC GIBBS. Lights return over GEORGE GIBBS and EMILY. STAGE MANAGER takes position in the center, checks his watch, nods and looks out at the audience.

STAGE MANAGER:
Well, it’s about that time. The final moments of Grover’s Corners. Birkin is up at the dam, ready to blow it and stop the undead from spreading beyond the town, while the catalyst to the outbreak spends what time she can with the man she loves before she has to send him away. Not many people understand the notion that there can never be enough time to spend with the ones we care about most. Whether death is a surprise or an appointment made in advance, no one is ever truly ready to let go. Some handle it differently than others. Some like George never recover from the sudden blow. And Doc Gibbs, even though he knows what must be done, still can’t bring himself to let go.

DOC GIBBS:
Birkin, stop! There has to be another way!

BIRKIN:
And people like you are precisely why things got so out of hand to begin with. You don’t have the guts to do what is necessary.

DOC GIBBS:
We can reach out for help! The government, the guard, other police forces!

BIRKIN:
By time a proper defense is mobilized, it might be too late. This is the only way to prevent a global outbreak.

DOC GIBBS:
People will wonder what happened here. They’ll come and investigate.

BIRKIN:
And they’ll find nothing of the horrors that transpired here.

DOC GIBBS:
What about you? What’s stopping you from trying again somewhere else?

BIRKIN:
There are lessons to learn here. I plan on erasing this mistake, but not forgetting it.

BIRKIN proceeds to arrange a fuse, ignoring DOC GIBBS.

EMILY:
It’s time to go, George.

GEORGE:
I…I don’t want to leave you again.

EMILY:
I’m sorry I was selfish and dragged you into this.

GEORGE:
There’s nothing to feel sorry about.

EMILY:
You’ll die if you stay.

GEORGE:
I died when you died, Emily. I’ll die again if I leave here. It makes no difference what happens. After you died, I couldn’t bring myself to care about anything else. Then you bring me back here, and any sane person would turn and run at the sight of the zombies, but I fought on. I fought on and helped who I could because of you. For the first time since you died I actually gave a shit about the people here. I can’t leave you again. I don’t even know how I would be able to leave anyway.

EMILY:
Then all there is to do now is wait.

GEORGE GIBBS walks over and holds EMILY.

GEORGE:
I love you. That’s why I came back.

EMILY:
I know you do. And it’s why I asked you to.

Lights go out over GEORGE GIBBS and EMILY.

BIRKIN:
So what will you be doing now that you’re free of this town.

DOC GIBBS:
I…I don’t know actually.

BIRKIN:
I could use a doctor like you. Help prevent things like this from every happening again.

DOC GIBBS:
I’m not that kind of doctor.

BIRKIN:
Neither was Willard, but he found his use. You would be infinitely more useful.

DOC GIBBSS:
You need an assistant or a moral compass?

BIRKIN:
A bit of both I guess. I won’t stop trying to solve the dilemmas of life and death, but perhaps you can help keep things…more containable.

DOC GIBBS:
Perhaps.

BIRKIN:
Then before we move on, let us do what needs to be done.

Lights go out on stage. An explosion sounds. The dam is destroyed and Grover’s Corners is wiped out under a tidal wave of water. Exit EMILY, GEORGE GIBBS, DOC GIBBS and Birkin. A single light illuminates the STAGE MANAGER.

STAGE MANAGER:
And thus passes away Grover’s Corners into memory. In a way, the town isn’t truly dead, not while it lives on with its surviving citizens. And there’s always the time capsule, should anyone ever find it, which chronicles the existence of a town in New Hampshire. A small town. A quiet town. Our town.

Enter JOE CROWELL, JOE STODDARD and REBECCA GIBBS.

STAGE MANAGER:
This is the end of Grover’s Corners, but not of the play. We’re now at a gas station, just beyond the Massachusetts border.

JOE STODDARD:
Excuse me, do you work here?

STAGE MANAGER: (as a gas station attendant)
Yes sir. Awfully late for folks to be out, don’t ’cha think? Need me to fill up your car?

JOE:
Yeah and do you have a phone I can use.

STAGE MANAGER:
Broken I’m afraid. You’re gonna have to hit up the next town.

JOE:
That’s alright.

STAGE MANAGER:
You folks alright? You all look a bit worse for wear.

REBECCA:
We’re fine, thank you.

STAGE MANAGER:
Where you folks from, anyway?

REBECCA:
Grover’s Corners.

STAGE MANAGER:
Never heard of it.

JOE:
Yeah, well, it existed.

The STAGE MANAGER proceeds to fill the gas tank and sends everyone on their way. Exit JOE CROWELL, JOE STODDARD and REBECCA.

STAGE MANAGER:
I believe this would be a good enough time to close our play. But what of our surviving heroes you ask? Well suffice to say no zombie managed to escape to infect others. Most were caught by the impromptu flood Birkin set, swept away before they could advance. The remaining were hunted down by Joe Stoddard. Spent his remaining days in the area surrounding the lost town, hunting and making damn sure nothing got infected. A lonely way to go, but a guy like that was married to his hometown, and not everyone can simply let go.

Joe Crowell ended up going his own way in life. Never did find himself a new home he could live with so he joined the army. Ended up fighting in the war. Did a good job, too. Hard to be scared of anything else when you survive the zombie apocalypse. Men around him rallied behind his bravery. He eventually died in the war though; tried cooking a grenade in the heat of a battle and bam, all that bravery for nothing.

Rebecca Gibbs hung around with Crowell for a while. Popped out a kid for him but it didn’t make it passed two years. After Joe left her, she tried telling others about Grover’s Corners, even tried bringing people to where the town used to be. No one believed her and she ended up in one of those mental facilities for her troubles. She died there. Didn’t matter how much medication and therapy she was given, she knew what she saw, and all it did was drive her mad.

Birkin and Doc Gibbs both managed to get to New York after the fall of Grover’s Corners. From there though, no one ever saw or heard of them again. Word was that Birkin was trying to play God again, but with the Doc with him it was never as serious a threat.

The STAGE MANAGER pulls out his watch to check the time and nods.

At this point most everything is dead at Grover’s Corners. Sure there were survivors from both sides, but nothing to write home about. The remains of Shorty Hawkins crawled into dry land, but he didn’t last long before Joe Stoddard tracked him down and took care of things. You know it’s funny. People, religions and the like strain and strain at the question of whether or not there is life after death. Some seem to think there is with no evidence, others refuse to believe for the very same reasons. It’s all personal I guess, and I doubt you kind folks came here for a philosophical discussion…

The STAGE MANAGER winds his watch.

Hmm…Eleven o’clock in Grover’s Corners, or what would have been Grover’s Corners. You get a good rest now, good night.

Lights dim.

THE END.