Zombiez! (2 page)

THE CRAZY LADY

Rose Fitzgerald Walker-Hughes held the small
brown bottle in her leathery and yellowed hands, pausing to feel
the power that accompanied the decision whether or not to take her
crazy pills. This was her daily morning power trip, and it always
went the same way – looking down at the bottle, tilting it so the
tiny peas inside rolled from one side to the other, and allowing a
feeling of absolute power to flood into her inner mind. She had
total control over her day, one way or the other. If she took the
pill, it would mean lucidity and productivity; if not, it would
mean scary yet somehow comforting voices and making the lives of
those around her a living hell. 99% of days, she took the pill.
Today, she plucked one of the peas out of the bottle and threw it
right in the toilet.

She looked up at herself. Her face seemed
different already, older and wilder and wrinklier. When did she
become this old lady? She couldn't possibly be having
hallucinations this early, though, could she? The pills were
supposed to last for 26 hours, and she had taken one exactly 24
hours ago. Would pills lie? She shuffled to her bedroom and peered
inside her clothes closet. No, none of her Red Friends were peeking
out amongst the dresses and slacks. She decided to go back and
clean her bathroom mirror, reasoning that it must be dirty if she
didn't recognize herself in it. Subconsciously, she knew that she
was having crazy-person thoughts, but didn't mind because that was
the kind of the point of flushing the pill.

She bent down and reached underneath the sink
for the glass cleaner. The spray bottle was almost empty! Welcoming
the feeling of disgust at this discovery, she threw the bottle
against the bathroom wall. The spray-top of the bottle popped clean
off and careened into the bathtub, and blue fluid sprayed
everywhere.

“Cleaner cleans, but what cleans the
cleaner?” she thought to herself as artificial blue droplets
crawled down the bathroom walls. She unwound some towels and began
to wildly wipe down all the surfaces of the bathroom – the walls,
the floor, the bathtub, and finally the very mirror she was there
to clean in the first place. It took a while, but she couldn't just
leave the cleaning fluid running down the walls while she was off
doing her crazy-person things for God only knows how long.

When the manual labor was finished, Rose
looked back at the mirror and saw her own face staring back at her
in utter confusion. This was always how it started – with her own
face and confusion. She closed her eyes, turned around, and calmly
walked to her bedroom. She then tried to pick out something from
her clothes closet, knowing exactly what (else) she would find in
there. A stereotypical-looking red devil-creature danced amongst
the hangers, wordlessly picking out an outfit for Rose to wear. It
grabbed a floral tank and some jeans and expectantly pushed them at
her hands. It did not phase her, this little red creature, because
she knew it was only a figment of her imagination caused by an
absence of psychoactive drugs. She had been living with these
little guys for at least 30 years, and they always looked the same
– exactly like the logo on the packages of “deviled ham” that were
ubiquitous in her childhood home. She took the clothes without
complaining. The Red Friends were okay at picking out stuff that
matched, and she didn't want to start the day with a ruckus. How
many times had she woken up on the bedroom carpet with piles of
slashed clothes around her, each arranged in the shape of a smiley
face? No, they didn't like it when you ignored them or their
suggestions. For that matter, neither did Rose.

She put on the springy outfit and turned to
face the closet on the opposite side of the room, The Closet of
Crazy. Rose knew that a world of brightness and possibilities would
appear when she went inside and closed the door. Insanity did not
always mean wearing tank tops in Winter and being oppressed by
imaginary food mascots; sometimes it meant sitting in a giant
imaginary farmer's field with a bunch of imaginary cute baby cows
and eating an imaginary feast with an imaginary suitor, all
localized inside a 3' x 7' space. It was kind of like being hooked
up to a Virtual Reality machine where you couldn't take the goggles
off.

Rose only threw her pill in the toilet on
days when life was too intense for her to handle. Reality never
really felt comfortable to her in the first place, with its Fate
and its Other People and its Responsibilities. She grew up in an
unreal world caused by chemicals in her brain, and it's only
natural that she would feel at home there with the cute little
angry red creatures and all the other stuff her mind invented.

And then yesterday her son called up and said
he was moving to fucking Alaska with that shrew of a girlfriend of
his. What kind of person does that, just up and moves halfway
around the world? Who's she supposed to call in the middle of the
night to come over and rub her feet now? Is she supposed to conjure
up a nocturnal foot-rubber out of thin air? Ahh, that evil
girlfriend, what was her name again? Stacy. Stupid Stacy. Stupid
Stacy with her red hair and freckles and gigantic jugs and
unwelcome advice. She could just see the conversations between this
whore and her son now:

Stacy: You know, you're spending way too much
time with your mother. What are you, some sort of mama's boy?

John: No, I really want to be with her. She's
so cool. Why don't you like her?

Stacy: I don't know, but I'm withholding
access to these ***s of mine until you forsake her utterly.

John: Ok, then. Alaska it is. ***s > my
poor crazy mother, that's for sure.

Stacy: My plan is complete.

So you see why it was a foregone conclusion
that Rose would today find solace in the farmer's field amongst the
gently mooing baby cows and the one man on whom she could always
count – John F. Kennedy, the greatest man who ever lived. She tore
at her turkey leg with her teeth as he used his delightful, iconic
accent to compliment her on her choice of clothing. Rose was
beloved and satisfied, and all was right in the 3' x 7' world.

THE SCIENTIST

“There's no such thing as 'Death Panels,'
Reverend. I assure you of that.”

The man in the glasses was lying to the other
panel, the non-death one. The second panel was there to observe and
report on the progress of the first. Unfortunately, there had been
reports that the first panel had deviated from its original mission
of cost-saving and care-optimization and into a real-life version
of the proverbial lifeboat. The second panel, comprised of
community and hospital leaders, was there to determine the veracity
of these accusations, which it almost surely would not, what with
the lies and the political considerations and all.

The man in the glasses was the one
responsible for the aforementioned deviation. He did not respect
the missions of the first panel or the second panel, he just wanted
to humanely get rid of some resource-hogs. He was not a doctor. He
did have a Master's degree in African Cultural Studies, though.

“Nobody used that term, Mr. Greene. Nobody is
accusing you or anyone else of running a so-called 'Death Panel.'
We know that only the most naïve and politicized of souls believe
in their existence. What we want to make sure of going forward, is,
um, that you aren't deciding to withhold medical care to people
based upon your own, or anyone else's, sense of their worth as
human beings.”

“What you described just now is a 'Death
Panel.' Surely you must realize that, Reverend. They are a figment
of the imagination of misguided and hypocritical moral
zombies.”

His plan was to associate the truth with
Sarah Palin and her regressive right-wing brainwashed masses, and
thereby discredit it. This Pastor chairing this second panel was a
known political progressive, and he figured she would want to avoid
being associated with that moose-shooting harpy at all costs. Mr.
Greene hoped she would just give up the whole line of questioning,
but had a backup plan ready in case she didn't.

“Look, Mr. Greene. Morty.” the man next to
the chairwoman spoke up. He knew Morton Greene from college, and
was sympathetic to all his missions. He was a bit frustrated with
how – forgive his crassness –
bitchy
Morty was being towards
the second panel. There was a lot at stake here, and he knew this
needed to be played just right. “Please don't be defensive. This
panel is here to determine the accuracy of some of the statements
the hospital has been getting from others on your panel. I'm sure
this is all a misunderstanding we can clear up, if you just tell us
the truth.”

“Notwithstanding, I will not sit idly by and
be accused of participating in an activity that only crazy people
believe exists. I have a reputation to protect.” Morty looked at
his colleague, noting a higher-than-ideal amount of concern in his
face. Plan B then.

He continued, “And furthermore, I believe
this whole issue is the product of a personal conflict between
myself and three of the younger members of my panel.” he caught
himself, “By that I mean, the panel on which I humbly serve.”

“This is news to me. What sort of personal
conflict?” The Reverend asked, skeptical but hopeful.

This first panel was essential to the
financial well-being of the hospital, and she desperately wanted a
logical explanation for the reports that one of its members
practically ordered hits on a cancer-stricken elementary school
janitor and a five-year-old with Down Syndrome.

“Long story short, they are in love with me,
and I am not in love with them,” said Mr. Greene.

He wore such an expression of deadly
seriousness while he said it that at least half of the second
panel's members busted out in open laughter. One of the board
members was drinking coffee as he said it, and started choking out
of sheer surprise. His face got hot and red and he gurgle-coughed
violently, spewing coffee out of his mouth and nose and all over
the desk in front of him. Everyone on the second panel eventually
turned their heads to watch him as he continued loudly hacking, his
wide eyes searching in vain for a napkin or paper towel or anything
to clean up the mess that was all around him. The Reverend passed
some Kleenex from her purse to the man who knew Morty from college,
and that eventually made it down to the red-faced man. While still
madly coughing, the man tried in vain to towel off his desk, his
papers, his shirt, and his pants with a small wad of facial
tissues. He would have excused himself and cleaned up in the
bathroom, but he really wanted to see what happened next at the
suddenly interesting hearing. Two minutes later, after being
certain he didn't have to cough anymore, he looked apologetically
at the chairwoman and croaked, “Ok, whew.”

Turning back to Mr. Morty Greene, the
Reverend chairwoman could barely hide her contempt. She had taken
the previous two minutes to come up with a proper question to ask
him, but settled on the word that had originally come into her
mind: “What?”

The idea that a bizarre love rhombus was
responsible for everything sounded better in his head than out
loud, he now realized. He was dead as a fossil here. Even if he got
through this second panel's questioning, he would be closely
monitored to make sure he wasn't indeed attempting to operate a
Sarah Palin-style Death Panel, which he indeed was. His ongoing
mission would be a failure no matter what. He comforted himself
that he at least got to off a few mouth-breathers before the plebes
stepped in and stopped progress. They caught the last two only
because his execution, as it were, had gotten sloppy. It was a
mistake he wouldn't make the next time, for humanity's sake. He
comforted himself that every little bit helped, and that one person
could indeed make a difference.

“You know what, Madame Reverend chairperson?
I think it's best if I resign, just to save everyone on my panel,
er, the panel I serve on, too much trouble.”

“Yes, I think that would probably be
best.”

The Pastor was chuckling a little and shaking
her head as the absurdity of it all began to coalesce before
her.

“But I vehemently deny doing anything
untoward or unethical while I served,” He stood up in front of
them. “and I do maintain my innocence. My resignation does not mean
I am guilty of doing anything wrong.”

She hoped he really was innocent, but it
didn't matter. The community-leading Pastor knew that the important
cost-saving measures implemented by the first panel would continue
if Morty Greene went away quietly. The janitor quickly died before
he could be denied care; the Down Syndrome kid was moved to a
different hospital. Thank Jesus.

THE CONGRESSMAN

The sweat on Albiers Burnett's gray-haired
brow glistened in the white Carolina sun. The sweat on the rest of
his body would have been glistening, too, were he not wearing a
dark suit that covered up everything except his damp, rosy, and
immaculately-coiffed head. He wore no tie, because his handlers
told him a tie would look too formal for the opening of a grocery
store. If you didn't count his constant presence in TV or radio
ads, he was in his old neighborhood for the first time in five
months. He would much rather have been in Washington sitting in his
air-conditioned office with his personal assistant, letting her
assist him in that way she always did. But it was election season,
so he was here with his family instead.

There was a small mass of humanity, about
fifty in all, that stood hot and ready before the dais that held
Dr. Albiers Burnett and his well-manicured family unit. They were
all neighborhood supporters of Dr. Burnett and his upcoming
re-election bid, and many of them held signs emblazoned with his
name in their sweaty Republican hands. A man in the back with a red
beret was not holding a sign. He was, however, looking for one as
he watched the congressman and his family squirm in the heat.