Everyone Un-Died + My Gardener Bit Me: The Oral History of the Zombie Apocalypse

The Sisyphus Of Footwear

Marietta Weiss, 50

Inmate

Triple life is a long flunking time to be locked up.

Especially in a blang-dang shoe closet.

Where the shoes weren't even my snick-snacking size!

I felt like I'm the Sisyphus of footwear.

[Note: Lucas felt compelled to say that it would be more accurate to call herself the Tantalus of footwear. Such a surprise he's still single.]

When I first arrived, it was actually kind of exciting. All those photographer people taking my picture! One of them would say, "Look over here, Marietta!" and I'd look over there. And then another one would say, "Now look over here, Marietta!" and I'd look over there. And then another one would say, "Marietta, look over here!" and I would look over there, too. When it came to looking where I was told to look, I was a natural!

And not to toot my own horn, but — holy macaroni! — do I look good in orange! And chains, too, it turns out! Maybe this is what they mean when they talk about a model prisoner.

Reporters shouted questions at me, asking if I had any remorse for what I did. I said I my only regret was that I didn't chop those stinking zombies into even smaller pieces. The reporters really liked that one. Although I did hear my lawyer groan. "And there goes our appeal!"

Then one reporter asked why I didn't plead insanity. What the Megan Markle? Such a rude question! So I said, "Because, you dumb doorknob, I'm obviously not insane." Everyone laughed and at the time I didn't know why.

But now I do.

Anyway, I walked into that prison with my head held high. Honestly, the reason I was so defiant was that I didn't think I'd be in jail very long. I figured that it wouldn't be a week before more people were attacked by zombies. And when that happened, I'd get a pardon from the governor and an apology from the judge and a gift card from Red Lobster so I could celebrate my freedom with some delicious Canadian Walleye before I joined the fight against those zombie sons of fishes.

Then a week went by. Then a month. Then a year. Then another. And another. And those chunky monkeys were nowhere to be seen! I couldn't believe it: Those baloney brains stood me up! It was prom all over again!

It was a very lonely time for me. I didn't get many visitors. For a while, early on, Ed came every week. At first, it seemed kind of sweet, but then I realized he was just angling for a conjugal. Ha! Fat chance, Charlie! Not after he testified — under oath, no less! — that I was "crazier than a soup sandwich."

He said that he was doing it to support me. My lawyer thought that my only chance was to make the jury think I was nuts and Ed was willing to play along."And besides," he said, "it's not even a lie!"

That really made my blood boil. "Dodge ram it, Ed! I am not crazy!"

"You know who says that? Crazy people!"

"You know who else says that? Sane people!"

"Sane people don't go walking around with a Samurai sword, Marietta."

"Did you forget, Ed, that my Samurai sword saved your stupid life when you were attacked by a pack of flesh-eating squirrels?"

"You know what? I did forget that!"

I swear, that man would forget his head if it wasn't attached to his shoulders. Which it won't be if I ever get my katana back.

That's the last I've seen or heard from that grass-knoll and good riddance, but I was lonelier than ever. Of course, was not the only inmate in the place. There was also "Fingers" in the walk-in cupboard, doing a nickel for burglary and "Goldie" in the mud room, doing a shekel for forgery.

They had a nickname for me, too, but they wouldn't tell me what it was.

I had hoped that we could all be friends, but they were all scared of me because of my alleged murder spree. [Note: Once you're convicted, it's no longer alleged; it's a proven murder spree.] They wouldn't even listen to my side of the story! They just believed the verdict! I mean, really, if you can't trust criminals to not trust a guilty verdict, who can you trust not to trust?

You know?

Once a day, we all got to go out in "the yard," which was basically a covered backyard patio with guard towers and an electrified fence. The two of them would stand together in a little knot, away from me. They would talk in whispers and look away whenever I looked at them.

Then one day we got a new inmate under the staircase. She was in for "acting like she's all that when she ain't all that."[NOTE: That was another offense spelled out in the SPA. The penalty is to remain in prison until "you get over yourself, girl!"] Her nickname was "Beyoncé" and she didn't like me at all.

On her first day out in the yard, she's with the other women. I'm being excluded like usual. (Once again: Flashbacks to prom!) I heard this huge laugh from Beyoncé. When I turned and looked, Goldie and Fingers looked down at the ground like they usually did, but Beyoncé said, "You want to hear a funny joke?" She said it so friendly-like that I actually thought she was being nice to me, so I said I did.

"I just learned what your nickname is. Wanna hear it?" The other two shook their heads tightly, worried about what I would do. But Beyoncè said, "She's built like a tooth pick." Then she got in my face. "They've been calling you Crazy Eyes. Ain't that hilarious?"

"It's a reference from an old TV show!" Fingers said nervously. "It won a lot of awards!"

Goldie nervously added, "The character was actually very sympathetic!"

I'm not sure why they thought that would help, but it didn't. I didn't care about them, though. It was Beyoncé I was mad at.

"Do not call me crazy!"

And she said, "What are you gonna do, Crazy?"

Good gosh! I was so tired of people telling me I was crazy! First, they said I was crazy for thinking that the zombies were coming. And then they said I was crazy for thinking the zombies weren't coming. And now they thought I'm crazy for thinking the zombies did come. Which was enough to make anybody crazy!

"You better back off, Beyoncè. Haven't you heard? I'm a killer!"

"With a sword, maybe. But I don't see one around, Crazy." She laughed. Then she screamed. And then she fell to the ground.

Because while I didn't have a sword, I did have a shiv, in the form of the sharpened heel of a Jimmy Choo stiletto, which now resided between her ribs. "Looks like you're really not all that, you dumb bass stitch!"

When Judge Latin saw what had happened she was furious. "Do you have any idea how much those shoes cost? You are in so much trouble!"

"What are you going to do? Sentence me to four life sentences? I don't give a Donald Duck!"

The riot squad — which was just a retired rent-a-cop named Stanley — threw me in "the hole" which is what they called solitary confinement. It actually was a hole, about ten feed deep. They tossed a tarp over the opening and I was in darkness.

Which, I have to say, also reminds me of Prom.