The Stairway and the Sexists

 

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 It was time to run.  Laura Lee was first to notice that they indeed were zombies, when none of them whistled or made catcalls because her skirt had blown up from the wind.  I followed her back into the building, making both catcalls and whistles.  Hey, times might be tough, but I’m still a man and I have needs.  

We panicked and pressed the elevator button so many times, I think it got confused—the doors would open and then suddenly close as it rose and then would stop and come down again, finally just leaving our floor altogether.  We were so frightened we practically jumped down the stairs, flight after flight, not caring if the zombies were lying in wait or were just too damn lazy to climb a few thousand stairs.   We must have made it down 20 flights when we started to lose our breath and noticed we’d passed our floor – the one floor we knew didn’t have any zombies.    It was too late to go back; the zombies from the roof were on their way down.   In fact several with damaged legs, hips, knees, or had night blindness, had tripped and were rolling down—very close behind.  In fact one had rolled past us.  He crashed into the wall on the level blow, rose, brushed himself off, and started climbing towards us.  Others were now either rolling past or crashing into walls just above.   We were surrounded.  Their moans chilled my bones especially my weakened right femur, the result of a tennis brawl.  A few high notes cracked the screen on my iPhone 17S, one that not only answered your questions but did blood tests, urine analysis, and checked your dog for worms.  I could hear teeth chomping on the stale air in their rancid mouths.  Their stench was so bad Laura Lee couldn’t smell my garbage-soiled clothes.  A tall zombie, with tattoos of steroids being injected into muscles covering his mammoth biceps, pounced on me, while other zombies were tearing at Laura’s Lee’s clothes.  I tried not to look as one tore off her blouse, revealing a see through lace bra.  Ignoring the zombie who was about to swallow me in large delicious bite size chunks, I turned toward Laura Lee and her zombie attackers and yelled.  “Rip off her skirt!” A set of teeth, taxi cab yellow, yet unusually straight, was about to make me one of their brethren by oral initiation, but stopped.  A dart sunk into his head and he fell.  Darts, pool balls and cues smashed through skulls and zombies fell and rolled down the stairs. 

Then I heard a real voice, slightly drunk, but human said, “Come on, get out of there, and grab a few of the darts, we didn’t finish our game yet.” 

I yelled back, “How about the pool cues?

“If you play pool, you’re going to need your own cue.” 

I grabbed a couple of cues, any darts I could find, and then helped Laura to her feet.  Although, it was easily within reach, I left her blouse.  OK, I’m a sexist pig.  But at that moment I needed something to think about ravaging as opposed to being ravaged myself. 

A tall guy, who would be a distant loser in a beauty contest with a zombie burn victim, but only if he won the talent portion of the show, pushed us through an open door into a hallway.  He was followed by a six -pack of guys who would have certainly lost a smell competition with zombies even if they rose from the city dump.   They led us to the open entrance of a bar.  People, actual living people, were drinking alcoholic beverages and playing bar games as if life were still going on as usual.  I was not in my normal state of confusion.  I had entered a myriad of thoughts swirling around, blending with each other like hair down a drain after a mixed race orgy in an all men and women’s shower.   I was about to ask my saviors a question, which Laura Lee stole before it could leave my mouth. “Why do you guys stink like a zombie’s afterbirth?” 

She didn’t use the same words as I would have, in fact I was thinking of using Spanish, since I’d spent all that dough on Rosetta Stone and it might be my last chance to use it. 

“Sorry, but that’s what happens when you leave southern politicians in the same small space for too long.  We piled into a closet when the dead starting rise to the supper bell,” he said with a mile long drawl and a voice that wasn’t used to telling the truth. 

“Yeah, we were at a political fund raiser and had stopped here to spend our bribe money on a few beers.  We heard some screams but thought it was just a woman getting raped who was pretending like she didn’t enjoy it,” he laughed a lecherous snarl suited for a dark alley. 

I held Laura Lee back from stream lining this guy’s body, so he wouldn’t be weighted down with genitals, but I couldn’t stop myself from kicking him in his field of dreams.   He collapsed like a coal miner’s lung.  The other’s just laughed and then the lead savior spoke out.  “Bobby Bob, I told you not to talk like that. Northerners don’t think women enjoy involuntary sex.”

I was ready to do my Rockette thing again when Laura Lee jumped in front of me and spoke out. “Yes, we northern ladies are spoiled and not used to be beaten into submission.” She was being sarcastic and knew these guys were too dumb to notice and would see it as a peaceful gesture.

“If more northern gals would think like that it would make slipping Rohypnol in gal’s drinks a lot more fun.”

“Actually, I’d prefer getting raped on Ketamine, I enjoy it even if the guy has a small dick.  I bet you know that from experience,” Laura Lee said and then winked and did a pirouette.

The guys laughed and eyed her up and down and even walked around her. One guy pulled out a tape measure but before he could wind it around her, Laura Lee said, “You don’t’ have to measure your dick, I’m sure it’s nearly two inches,” then mimed like she was trapped in a box.  

The guys laughed slapping each other on their backs and then the big guy spoke up, “Here, if you ever get tired of saying no to him.” He handed her a business card.

I was quickly losing my temper so I segued into another subject. “I’m going to buy my little lady here a drink.”

The tall guy spoke up. “Bloody Mary goes with any kind of roofie.  The little lady here won’t even taste it,” a fellow misogynist stated.

I thought he had to be joking and was about to come back with a witty retort, but the look on his face said he was dead (brain cell) serious.

Laura Lee, not wanting to see me get beat up until she could record it on her iPhone, which she later used to take some award winning photos, blew them a kiss and then dragged me away from the group singing, “I’m A Woman,” correctly figuring they didn’t like a gal who could spell woman.