“And there were still creatures yet beyond all of these,
Who saw, heard, smelled, tasted, felt and understood…
The light, sound, scent, flavor, sensation and complexities of life…”
Cedric’s words slowly floated above the heads of those gathered, the assembly attentively studying the words as they drifted along.
Now, Grok didn’t intend to travel in time.
All he really wanted was some lovin’.
RaveBott1xX was ALWAYS in party mode.
It’s not like she really had much of a choice…
The Bottco technicians designed her to be powered by E…not electricity, but ecstasy. I’m not sure why or even how that’s possible, but they figured out a way to make the fluorescent Bott come to life only when she was rolling on ecstasy.
Rave was the pride and joy of the Dance Hall division at Bottco. Spin a record and there she’d be, glow sticks in hand, pulsating in perfect harmony with the beat. She came programmed to groove along to any style of music and in any dance style possible.
In her pursebott, she carried pink duct tape, glitter and a bottle of water, because E makes even botts thirsty.
Urogk was bathing underneath a waterfall, near her nice litle cave…
Grok gawked from behind a bush.
Four broad, block-print letters spell out the last remaining artifact of the English language, “JAZZ.” They’re painted on the wall here at the club. I like to think that this brick wall stands as a memorial to all those dim-lit nights spent nodding along blissfully to long riffs plucked out smooothly on slinky double bass strings, poured out of saxophones, rolled off snare drums, splashed out of shiny, bronzed cymbals and coaxed beautifully out of cold ivory keys. I’ve been leaning on this old brick wall and staring off into space for years now, just trying to catch a note.
Hey, it’s not like there’s much else for me to do. I haven’t had a meal in over two hundred years…let an un-dying man wax poetically if he so pleases.
You see, RokBott was never intended to serve any “real” purpose or to accomplish any quote-unquote real task. Neither of the models in his line were designed for anything in particular, “really.” Rock and Rave were meant to be simply ceremonious creations celebrating the ingenious ingenuity of the mighty Bottco technicians.
It’s important now to establish a few things.
First of all, this is just my account, my remembrance of some randomly improbable lives being lived within the infitite potential of the universe.
Secondly, Although I think in English, only harsh growling sounds come out when I try to speak. The zombie virus did something to my vocal cords. I catch myself humming Sam Cooke tunes sometimes. A Change Gonna Come comes out sounding more like a monkey gargling boiling water than anything. My motor skills are shot to shit as well, so no writing for me. I’m memorizing this story as I go, just something to do to keep myself entertained. I draw on the brick wall with a burnt stick sometimes, a bunch of harsh looking scribbles.
Third. I’m extremely hungry. I don’t know how long a zombie can survive without flesh…but I’ve been waiting either to eat or to finally die for centuries now.
…and the fluffy golden Himalayan house cat purred…
Urogk was a woman.
She knew well the intentions of Grok.
Of the 27 sets of RB10o and RB1Xx, only three remained in functioning condition for longer than four years. All but one of the RB1Xx models’ motherboards fried before Rock and Rave’s first anniversary. Too much E in their circuitry.
This was a bone of contention within the Bottco family of technicians for quite some time. If there was something to blame for this tragedy, it’s safe to say now that it was over-ambition in design…
Grok was not a subtle hunter.
Neither was Urogk frightened prey.
The last person that I ate was an old man hiding in his bunker/panic room type thing, dug out of the basement here at the jazz club, 200-some-odd years ago. He had been listening to Giant Steps by John Coltrane down there on an old stereo record player, all rigged up to a pedal-bike-driven generator.
Bottco only lasted for another two hundred years after reaching it’s pinnacle of collective achievement with Rock and Rave.
The factory came to an untimely end when it’s home planet, Bottuia, imploded upon itself.
All Bottco botts were incinerated, along with everything else for that matter.
Grok approached Urogk from behind. He grunted.
Urogk growled. She turned.
Grok breathed heavily.
Urogk growled louder.
At the time of the implosion of Bottuia, the last RaveBott was with the last RokBott at a nebular rager near Pligar Six. When they got the news that Bottuia was no more, Rok and Rave threw back two Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters(*) each and hopped in their pimped out Bottco. Space-scalade and dashed home just as fast as they could at thirteen thousand times the speed of strobe lights…and yes…they were faded, crunk, tipsy, drizunk as a skizunk, pissed, jag, plastered, seeing quintuple…impaired to say the least…and no…they did not have their seat belts on…
I heard his music from nearly four miles away. That’s how heightened a zombie’s senses can be when the bloodlust is at it’s worst, or best, depending on whether or not you’re a zombie.
The old man did have an amazing record collection down there with him…all the real gems.
She had seen Grok coming.
Urogk reached for the biggest object around, an enormous, woody, red mushroom cap growing close by on the cave wall, and shoved it forcefully down Grok’s throat.
Urogk knee’d Grok in the balls and stormed off.
So it was that the first man in history ate a hallucinogenic mushroom.
At times the entire assembly would sit in absolute silence for an hour or more, waiting for the next word, meditating on the previous one.
Cedric’s soft purr soothed his meditative message into cognition. He learned this technique from his one-time master, Dr. Quincy Sterieaux.
Somewhere on the trip back to see if the horrible news about Bottuia was true, the party for the last RaveBott RB1Xx ended tragically when a meteor came out of nowhere and blindsided the Bottco Spacecalade, crunching the entire side of the space ship, knocking open the trunk and spilling out all of RaveBott’s fuel…yes…her stash of E was all adrift at space. Rok and Rave were too grief-stricken, too jacked up on Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters and psychedelic hallucinogens to notice the impact…so they just kept on going.
When they stopped at a 7-11 to fuel up…Rave found out…but too late. Her reserve tanks had been depleted. Her time was now up.
The sweet little bott ran out of E. 😥
The first trip was heavy from the start.
As I gnawed on the old beatnik’s femur, Coltrane’s melodic, sporadic and beautifully chaotic lines came wafting through the air. They hit me somewhere deep inside…deeper than the zombie virus could ever reach.
The music hit my soul.
RokBott was grief-stricken with the loss of his companion-bott. All Bottco botts come with personality and emotional response softwares standard, and it’s all good software too.
He blew up three moons, two rings of nearby Zanzibu 2 and collapsed a meteor field in his fit of rage.
Bottco had designed a best friend-bott for RokBott, but never built even a prototype. It’s probably for the best. His name was to be RageBott10o0 and, well, a grief-stricken RokBott on an intergalactic bender of sadness, fueled by nuclear missles, is destructive enough.
Long story short, he and his spacecraft ended up getting sucked into a worm hole.
Grok felt funny.
As he recovered from the swift kick in the nuts, the ancient man noticed that he could see through the rock walls of his home.
He could see the stars, pulsating through the layers of thick granite that sheltered him from the elements.
A zombie’s soul is probably one of the hardest targets in the universe to hit. It’s so thoroughly buried, shriveled up, decomposing, masked only by an undying bloodlust.
It took RokBott a long time to collect himself.
When he did finally regain his cool, he noticed, and not a moment too soon, that he was crashing through atmospheres of fire.
Solar flares shook his circuitry into survival mode and he skillfully maneuvered his craft toward the nearest worm hole exit, which happened to be the ancient, rarely used Earth exit.
Grok was the first humanoid being ever to use that very same wormhole.
The ancient man watched in awe as the cave surrounding him faded away. The floor became a whirling vortex spiraling downward, taking everything down along with it.
He felt his conscious self melting down through his body…down…down through the thick layers of rock and sediment below him…down…down-y-down, down…down through the molten center of the earth and out to the cosmos.
The old man in the bunker had boxes and boxes of old books down there.
My eyes are too old, too weak, too glazed over to read any of them so I just stare at them blankly and zone out to the jazz.
That’s about as close as this old zombie can come to heaven, I’d say.
I like the way the letters flow across the page, some sparse and scattered, some rolling along smooth like incoming sets of head-high waves of thought, about to crash on the shores of comprehension.
RokBott could only think of one good thing about being temporarily stranded on the long-since evacuated mother planet of Bottco’s technicians…apparently, drugs were EVERYWHERE on earth.
“Maybe I can find some E laying around somewhere!”
RokBott’s spirit-software got lifted. He was going to try to resurrect RaveBott.