Flavour Bud Unliving
Originally written for #TeamFantasy in WalkingWithZombies' Zombiepalooza Anthology
1
The Volkswagen Camper van coughed and farted as it hitched along the darkened highway. The headlights cut a yellowish swath through the night, weakening every few seconds when the right headlight flickered. When the light was strong, both sides of the road were revealed to be overgrown with shrubs and trees of all denominations. Smoke drifted around the inside of the van, making its two occupants' eyes sting.
Dogan, the driver, steered the vehicle with his knees. His hands were too busy twisting up a joint. "If you have to eat shit," he said, "best not to nibble. Bite, chew, swallow, repeat. It goes quicker."
"Uhhhh... what?" asked Jasmine from the passenger seat. A stripper Dogan had picked up a couple weeks back. Both ends did some primo work: great head, great ass.
"Nothin', baby. Just thinkin' out loud. Tryin' to sort some shit out, is all." Dogan sparked up the joint and took a long drag off it. He whistled and moaned. "Oooooh, baby. Now that's some flavour bud. Better believe it."
"Uhhhh... what?"
"Nothin', girl-thang. Take a hit off this and feel the bliss. Talkin' old-school right quick like this." He took his other hand off the wheel and flailed it about with some perceived rhythm. "Yo, check it. When I fly like an eagle, I shit on your car. It's dark like an Oh Henry! chocolate bar, nutty like Rosie O'Donnell or Roseanne Barr, and just as warrd. That's a weird word, mothafucka, 'cause I'm a blur like that Robin Thicke mothatrucka. Growin' dope in my dead daddy's field and tellin' Mommy where to shove it and how to find her yield. I'm a hard line. A fine-dining no-entry sign. Nobody gets past me without breakin' the law, naw. Blood-suckin' bitches don't stand no chance, naw. Like Buffy, I drop them vampires and scratch them itches whenever I dance, yo. It's a party in my pants, yo. Now let's take the stance, yo. And rumble. Yay-uh."
Jasmine blinked twice and said, "Can you stop?" She turned up the radio to try and drown out Dogan's horrible attempt at rapping, which he always did and it sounded awful. Unfortunately the radio was broken and only got one station: Rodney Nugotti's Nu-Metal Noogie Hour, twenty-four hours of nonstop nu-metal from the early 2000s.
"Yo, yo, yo, homeslices," Rodney said through the radio with his high-pitched voice. Jasmine imagined he probably had a permanent grin on his face. "Rodney Nugotti here, the noogster himself. We're deep into hour fifteen of our nonstop nu-metal bash. No advertisements at all. Just the way you dudes and dames like it. Our sponsors at Rexall want you to know that life doesn't have to hurt. Just come on down and get some Cipralex or Prozac, and the smiles will follow y'all to bed, bath and beyond. It'll be like a Mike Tyson knockout punch to your crippling depression. That's Rexall, where your health is our priority. You see, Rexall is more than just a pharmacy. Rexall is your friend. Rexall. Helping you help yourself. Rexall. Anywho, it's time to continue our nonstop, advertisement-free nu-metal hour. Let the noogies commence. This next one is a deep cut called 'The Fear,' by—you know 'em, you love 'em—Skindred. Bark with me, boys. Oh, and girls, too."
Electronic-sounding drums pounded out the van's speakers, followed by reggae guitars and a guy shouting "Ow-ow-ow-owwww!" Jasmine wondered if that was Rodney barking or if it was part of the song. The guy whispered some lyrics, and then another guy—this one sounding Jamaican—rapped something nonsensical.
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