unnamed story (Part 15)

At this point you must be thinking to yourself “If I wanted a character to die every ten minutes I would have read Game of Thrones!” Given my constant whining you even might even suspect that it is laziness that is causing this rash of fatalities.

Perish the thought dear reader!

I am simply relating to you what happened to the best of my somewhat limited literary abilities.

Of course, if this were Game of Thrones I would be forced into some weird convoluted description of the tiger’s glistening penis as he mauled Abby to death so just thank your lucky stars I show such artistic restraint. I doubt that I’ll even get to describe Clay’s penis, glistening or not, despite his being surrounded by a bevy of blonde, younger, petite, perky females.

Honestly I’m not sure I could describe the women like they do in Game of Thrones. Once the breasts got to heaving and undulating I’d end up pulling down the Word program and up would come the porn. I’m not even sure what on a woman would undulate but just typing that word gives me a chubby. I stick to blonde, younger, petite, and perky.

Just the fact that you would accuse me of laziness, just because it was apparent from Part 2 on that I was growing weary of introducing so many people, hurts. Here I am, day after day, spending literally dozens of minutes at a sitting crafting this story purely for your enjoyment and all you can do is jump to the crazy conclusion that I am killing off adored characters simply because I can’t keep track of them and the idea of having so many moving pieces going forward has my head swimming and writing run-on sentences as if the period was never invented.

You know it’s a whopper of a run-on sentence when you’re not even sure when it finally comes to an end if the last part has anything to do with the first part even after reading it back.

Now that we’ve straightened that out, let’s return to the story.

In progress.

Well, not so much in progress as much as where we left off.

Now that we’ve straightened that out, let’s return to the story… where we left off.

Well actually, while I’ve grounded everything to a halt anyway I might as well address the fact that I am a male writer. Actually, not just male but “all” man. My name alone should tell you everything you need to know about my maleness but just in case it didn’t I put parenthesis around the word all. I considered putting them around both all and male but somehow just isolating the word all seemed manlier.

Because I’m male and the majority of people who read crap like this are female I’m sure this entire tale will be told through a lens that they may or may not relate to. The only thing I’ll say in my defense is that this story could easily be retold with a single woman surviving and her past boyfriends occupying the planet with her and, if I’m being honest, if a Hollywood producer approached me with enough money I would gladly allow this film to be made.

First of all, you’d be shocked at how low enough money would be.

Second, the movie would suck ass. It would be like when they made Ghostbusters with a female cast (if anything made by mankind, intentionally or unintentionally, could ever be that bad).

The female perspective ruins everything. A woman would turn this dumb story into The Bridges of Madison County. I’m not certain if that was actually written by a female but I do know Bridges: A History of the World’s Most Famous and Important Spans was, thank you Judith Dupre, and it wasn’t funny at all.

Let’s agree to disagree. You stop you’re whining and I will try and avoid anything overly misogynistic. I realize that you assumed that this was a given but you were wrong.

Especially with the shocking bit of information that is about to be shared.

Denise was not wearing the cute little outfit she’d picked up earlier in the day. She was wearing a t-shirt covered in dirt and grime and jeans covered in dirt and grime and if I were to describe her as disheveled it would be insulting disheveled people everything. And that’s difficult as the disheveled are usually a pretty laid back group.

Now the scruffy, you have to walk on eggshells with those people.

For the next few minutes Denise tried her best to relate the events at the zoo so I’ll try my best to relate her relating.

“We decided to stop at the zoo and let out some animals and bring a few monkeys as housewarming gifts, which I thought was crazy but it was also funny so I agreed. Abby was so into it but even after only one day alone all the animals were really hungry and aggressive and I got attacked by a fucking penguin. It came right at me and I wasn’t even holding the bucket of fish or anything.”

She took her first breath.

Others had wandered into the hallway to see what the commotion was about.

“I didn’t even why I’d be setting a penguin free anyway let alone wildebeest. And wolves! Why do we need packs of wolves roaming around Philadelphia anyway? I know they have a right to live and all but not if they are going to snap and growl at me. We couldn’t even get into the monkey cages. It was like a prison, I swear that the zoo must have thought they were all murderers.”

Another breath. What little blood left in her face made its way south.

“Abby tried to let out the tigers. I knew it was a bad idea. I told her not to but she said something needed to eat the wildebeest in the wild and tried anyway and she got into a part of the cage where she thought there was still bars between her and the tigers but there weren’t and a big tiger just walked around the corner ….”

At this point there was a lot of crying and gibberish. You know how girls get when they are describing seeing someone get mauled to death by a large cat.