Post by Immanuel Taylor on Aug 6, 2009 0:14:12 GMT -5
Painkiller I
It all happened so swiftly. The horrendous mutation of a worldwide inconvenience to an eccentric catastrophe, a insipid and straightforward yet ravenous disease, known globally as the “Swine Flu”, that somehow managed to embrace its gangrenous label even further by not only infecting and weakening people but turning them into unresponsive yet bodily moveable cadavers. The literal definition of a “zombie”. An amusing amalgamation could be initiated between these “zombies” and Lincoln Daggerson’s personality. In many yet not accurate cases, Lincoln is a zombie himself. Strictly metaphorically though. He is emotionally unresponsive and quiet, a far cry from the basic behavior of humans. On the other hand, Lincoln didn’t exactly go after people with the hope of grotesquely cannibalizing them. He may have been a bona-fide recluse, but he knew how to retain the customary needs of a human being.
This whole fiasco commenced when the petite yet growing number of eccentric medical experiments that involved miraculously introducing sentience into the lifeless bodies of human cadavers along with an attempt at a cure for those embedded with the swine flu. The deceased human appears to have been brought back successfully to the realms of reality with the exception of any sort of control over their limbs or free will in general. A painkiller for their diseased or deceased state. Predictably enough, these ill-fated experiments in the name of innocent science resulted in disastrous consequences that are gradually ascending to this horrifying incident’s apogee. News reports surfaced as frantic pleas emerged and shot through the atmosphere, usually in the form of news anchormen and anchorwomen attempting to reason with the befuddled viewers to remain securely in their respective residents. Naturally, the opposite would commence.
Daggerson, although mostly empty, did notice the news reports but did not bestow upon them any level of venerable importance. For all Daggerson cared about, which wasn’t much, these fervid reports were insipidly “sources of sound” that would be instantaneously forgotten and neglected in Lincoln’s emotionally crippled mindset. A more personal fervid and frantic call came in the form of Commissioner Warrior attempted to digitally communicate with The World Champion. Unfortunately for the Commissioner, Lincoln has purposefully left out any form of interaction with the outside world in regards of his petite yet sufficient apartment flat. No phone, no computer with internet access, not one meaningful manner of communication.
That probably explains why Daggerson is currently swaying through the streets of Bakersfield so feasibly. A very uncomfortable vibe is continuously emanating from the atmosphere signifying tainted usualness. The sun is shining bright but said brightness isn’t fulfilling. The streets are clean and that’s exactly the issue. This is Bakersfield, situated in California and that is a state where tranquility and solace are figurative plagues. An ambush of redundantly busy and preoccupied individuals would infest these streets at the dawn of every single day, but such is not the case at this particular and eerily peculiar moment. Everything is so quiet. Unfortunately, the specific definition of “quiet” in this case doesn’t rest upon the ordinary meaning of that word. There’s something lurking. Both figuratively and perhaps soon enough, literally.
Daggerson’s destination was originally the EUW-oriented gym in the infamous Suicide Zone but due to purely spontaneous incentives, Lincoln abruptly decided to make a short yet insightful stop at the obscure, petite motel Alan Lisa-Fisher is currently stationed and hiding in due to his debt with the ambiguous Czar character. The streets are painfully vacant aside from a diminutive amount of automobiles, with stacked and tightly wrapped luggage on their uttermost tops, hastily making their way through and possibly out of Bakersfield. The emptiness continued to linger on as Daggerson closed in on Motel 6.
Lincoln Daggerson had subconsciously appointed himself as Alan’s tutelary due to the boy’s emblematic last name, “Lisa”, which seamlessly correlates to the main component of the Lisa Cameron incident. Lisa Cameron herself. Even since her murder by the hands, or firearm to be exact, of Detective Joseph Toreno, whom had originally been seeking Lincoln himself, Daggerson had shunned himself off completely. Plunging even further into his own personal “abyss”, no pun intended, he metaphorically mutated into a complete recluse not only from society but from his own mental workings. Alan’s last name, “Lisa”, caused a certain figurative and very petite “lightbulb of familiarity” in Lincoln’s system to switch on. Ever since then, Daggerson has unintentionally involved himself in Alan’s perilous drug-debt with this Czar character. Of course, if this zombie mumbo jumbo has any truth to it then perhaps this Czar character shouldn’t be worrisome anymore. Unless he is attempting to feast on the World Champion’s deranged mind which would be plain rude.
Greeted by a bland yet well-kept staircase, Daggerson found himself nestled deep within the not so convoluted Motel and after rapidly transcending the array of stairs he found himself heading towards Alan’s door. The “12” sign, indicating the low-tier white door’s position compared to the other doors, seemed to reflect and maybe even emulate the sun’s rays and said rays actually ended up reflecting off of Lincoln’s bald head. It was quite a sight and unfortunately it didn’t last long as Daggerson heard a piercing and feeble shriek originating from within the confines of Alan’s room. Sacrificing drama for urgency, Daggerson rapidly unsheathed the extra room key he had wisely bestowed upon his and soon enough he found himself standing amidst an open door and gazing upon what appeared to be a tedious-looking maid.
The young woman, most likely intertwined with a Latin or Hispanic heritage, is idiotically and robotically slamming her body on what appears to be the petite room’s equally bland bathroom door. The seemingly “zombified” maid has her jaw hanging open, in a totally un-gauche manner, and is futilely utilizing her face, coupled with the drive of her body, in hopes of slamming down the bathroom door. Her skin appears to be home to several liver spots, which are oddly attributed to old age, and said skin even appears to emanate a slightly verdant color. Her nails are worse; apparently they succeeded in passing the definition of grotesque by embracing a yellowish urine-esque color. The maid comes to a halt and literally snaps her head sideways in order to make contact with Lincoln’s firm stature.
In an act of abrupt perilous behavior, and undoubtfully stupid, the physically fragile maid began her robotic walk towards Lincoln whom had neglected to acknowledge her presence from the beginning of this coincidence. Daggerson appears to be focused on Alan’s near-feminine shrieks. Daggerson, in his customary workout clothes along with the customary and always worn-out sneakers, marched towards the bathroom door. Lincoln brushed past the zombie, whom attempted to bite a chunkful of Lincoln’s neck but comically failed, and made his way towards the bathroom door before attempting to twist its bronze knob.
“STAY AWAY FROM ME YOU BASTARDS!” shrieked the wheel-chair bound Alan before adding a little masculinity to his demands by claiming he is in possession of a perilous weapon. Daggerson showed no signs of halting his subconscious attempts at unlocking the door as the zombified maid emanates a similar degree of ambitiousness by robotically and mindlessly embracing her quest at feasting on Daggerson’s brains. Due to his years of professional wrestling, Lincoln ends up literally ripping off the door knob from its original place and as a result the bathroom ends up flaccidly swinging open. “NO!” shrieks Alan before hilariously leaping off his wheel chair with what appears to be a plunger in both his hands and pathetically slamming it into Lincoln’s right shoulder. This of course accomplishes absolutely nothing. Alan ends up face first on the floor and is able to tilt his feeble head upwards in order to look up. After realizing it is Lincoln, Alan drops the plunger and hugs the world champion’s legs in an act of absolute relief. Naturally enough, the maid is still marching and shows no sign of giving up her quest for human intestines.
“LINCOLN! OH MY…oh…OH MY GOD! BEHIND YOU! ITS HER, ITS THAT CRAZY UGLY BITCH!” rudely screams Alan, not putting into consideration that the “crazy ugly bitch” would physically hear him had it not been for her mutation. Daggerson doesn’t look behind but instead keeps starting at Alan’s horrified face, focusing on its immense details and flawed yet symbolic details. Alan of course notices this and begins shrieking in a more frequent rapid as Lincoln continues staring directly into his face. The zombified maid, who is embarrassingly slow, finally reaches Lincoln, whom is still starting into Alan’s face without a sense of awareness. Alan continues his pleas as the maid is exactly behind Lincoln. She raises her hand further upward for dramatic emphasis and apparently goes to bite Lincoln in the back of his Lincoln.
Lincoln’s arm suddenly flings backward and ends up elbowing the sluggish maid straight in the jaw with a force so formidable that it causes her neck to snap all the way backward. This causes a very grotesque and ill-looking bump to surface from the front of her neck as her head is completely lodged backwards. After two futile moments of moving only her fingers, the once useful maid drops down to the ground and simply excels at lying there motionless and presumably dead. Alan opens his eyes and smiles in a mixture of joy, shock, and maybe just a tingle of insanity. After all, zombies aren’t a constant fixture of Bakersfield. Alan hugs Lincoln one more time, while still slushing from his waist down on the ground due to his disability. Lincoln is still gazing at Alan and it finally appears that Daggerson’s eyes are not fixated on Alan’s face but rather on what appears to be his right shoulder. Alan’s glabrous, smooth white skin appears to be interrupted by a vaguely distinguishable and incongruous “reddish” spot.
A bite mark.
Before Daggerson can react, which is unlikely in the first place, another one of Alan’s feminine and orotund shrikes emanate and this time Daggerson’s head tilts sideways and makes eye contact with what appears to be a physically-built man with the same symptoms as the silenced zombie maid. In an act of uncanny agility, Daggerson grabs Alan from the collar of his Quicksilver T-shirt before easily flinging Alan through the bathroom and onto his wheel chair, with minimal harm on his part of course. Daggerson kneels down and picks up the plunger as the physically-built zombified man, whom oddly has several shards of his clothes ripped apart along with several latches of his skin signifying it took a lot of meager zombies to convert him, dashes forward. Lincoln snaps the cursed plunger in half before disposing of the “rubbery” part and embracing the hazardously sharp broken off part of the once-harmless plunger. Unfortunately, the physically built zombie is able to lunge forward at him. Daggerson cagily extends his left arm and grabs the zombie by his neck but the World Champion is promptly driven back-first into the unforgiving blandly and completely décor-less and unfashionable structure of Alan’s motel room. Honestly, the room was tragically ugly and bland. Completely lifeless. And if Lincoln didn’t do something, he would end up the same!
It could be argued that Lincoln is technically emotionally and mentally lifeless and the aforementioned exclamation mark would apply in pure physical terms but this is not a time for insightful debate. Daggerson, still armed with the eerily sharp part of the plunger, persists in fending the physically-built ravenous zombie away before unremorsefully impaling the acrid wooden aspect of the plunger sideways and horizontally into the zombie’s neck. The force of Lincoln’s stabbing results in the bloody sharp stick being impaled all the way sideways into the ambiguous zombie’s neck and even actually making slight contact with Lincoln’s other hand which is grasping the zombie’s neck from the opposite side. Lincoln lets go as the zombie staggers back before tripping over the previously silenced female zombified maid and plunging to his death in a satisfying and dramatically appropriate manner. This time both his and her deaths are also physical rather than strictly mentally that unfortunately led to their bodies living on as walking and oddly hungry cadavers.
Daggerson immediately leapt into the bathroom and dragged Alan out of its claustrophobic environment before wheeling Alan and himself in the process out of the petite motel room and into the probably infested streets. He couldn’t go back to his apartment. Lincoln was empty but not dull, it is common knowledge that low-tier neighborhoods are home to diseases, usually in sexual form, and this one isn’t any different except perhaps regarding the level of hazard. There was only one place. For all his time as a professional wrestler, even before the Lisa Cameron incident, Lincoln utilized professional wrestling as sort of an “escapism” outlet of his not-so-mentally fine life. This time, he was seeking literal escapism. The Suicide Zone would undoubtfully be a grand refugee for anyone fortunate enough to linger and surface in it.
In Lincoln’s case, access would be insipid and so he went while wheeling Alan along. Their quest would be nothing short of cagily, considering the uprising of zombies that would most likely emerge. However, there was an even greater….inconvenience. Alan Lisa-Fisher himself. That bite mark on him. Alan, because of his last name “Lisa”, was the only shred of sense in Lincoln’s senseless life. Forsaking would be simply unfeasible. But whether Lincoln could or wanted to comprehend it or not, a perilous possibility lingered. It wasn’t certain but certainly, and very, plausible.
Alan might be infected.
