These stories all compliment my paranormal parodies, especially The Vampire Handbook and my soon-to-be-released Ralphie, the Special Werewolf. Ralphie is part of a Halloween anthology with an awesome group of writers, The Indie Eclective. To learn more about us, visit here.
In the meantime, here's a scene (unedited, sorry) from Melvin, the Dry Cleaning Zombie!
MELVIN, THE DRY CLEANING ZOMBIE BY P.J. JONES
Melvin Metnik had broken the cardinal rule.
Never have unprotected sex with a zombie.
Actually, the cardinal rule for dating zombies was to not date zombies in the first place. But Melvin had always prided himself on being a rule breaker.
This time, though, he feared he may have gone too far.
Once again, he looked down into the toilet water. At the tip of his penis floating aimlessly in the tinted blue liquid.
Damn. I shouldn’t have had sex with that zombie.
He wondered what he should do about his severed extremity.
Flush the toilet and say goodbye to an extra inch of manhood?
Scoop it into his pocket and ask a surgeon to sew it back on?
Or maybe just eat it and hope it grows back? After all, Melvin was getting kinda hungry.
In the end, though, his brain was overwrought from so much thinking. He reached into the bowl and scooped up the small, crusted nugget and slipped it into his pocket, deciding to worry about it later—after he filled the hollow void in his stomach.
He stumbled out of the bathroom and into the adjoining bedroom then grimaced at the sight of last night’s fuck sprawled across his bed. Melvin gagged when the stench radiating from her rotting crotch hit him like a ton of bricks.
Gawd, she smelled. He coughed into his palm while racing for the bedroom door. Once he’d made it to the kitchen, he gulped in the cleaner air. He groaned at the sharp stabbing pain in his head as he vaguely remembered chugging an entire bottle of tequila before taking the brainless bitch back to his apartment.
What in the hell had he been thinking?
This could seriously get in the way of his life’s aspirations, living off government welfare checks and selling pot out of his garage. Only werewolves would be foolish enough to buy weed off zombies, and they were usually too broke to pay for much more than a dime-bag.
They didn’t give out food stamps for brains, so he’d have to get a real job if he wanted to pay the rent and buy more weed. All the zombies he knew worked in dry cleaning.
The chemical smell, the little pins they put in clothing, that gigantic rotating wheel of clothes. What was that called, anyway?
He should have worn a condom, but it was too late now, much too late.