STERiEAUX Undead Ch. 6

Chapter 5



The bass rattled everything.

Stars pulsated more intensely, meteor fields shook with every 808. Somebody had patched an old NASA satellite through to the soundboard. The party could be heard anywhere within a lightyear of Pligar Six. Stereophonic scenescapes sprawled out in every direction from the center of the nebula. Hoards of fluorescent ravers swayed rhythmically with the most current in astro-hop.

Sylver Sterieaux made his was through the crowd of ragers and ravers, looking for something.

His was a household names around Pligar Six, notorious. Sylver, along with a few other riotous partiers had caused the “dormant” volcano on Pligar Three to erupt incandescent lava at the peak of one particularly extravagant bender. Sylver had been close party buddies with all 27 sets of Rok and Ravebotts back before Bottuia imploded. That had come as a shock to everybody.

Bottuia was said to have been indestructible.


RAGE! RAWR! GROWL! Barbaric gurgle…zombie spit. None of my existential pontifications could restrain the blood rage. None of my soul searching insights could keep me from lashing out at whatever hunk of metal it was that had resuscitated my undead body back to un-life…


“Don’t…you…be lookin’ at me crazy…” – Outkast

RokBott 10o had never personally encountered a zombie before.

RokBott10o’s internal programming had alerted him of a zombie infection present as soon as the saliva projected from the zombie’s mouth landed on the bott’s shiny exterior…however, a rare lag in processing caused the information to go unnoticed by Rok until the heat of the moment cooled. His self-defense software did recognize the all-too-obvious “zombie lunge maneuver” though, and swiftly switched on a series of precise counter blocks and blows that rendered Zombeatnik useless for the foreseeable future. At least the humanoid was in one piece and breathing now.

Progress was being made.


Grok had seen enough.

Somehow, one last, primal, intrinsic, survival instinct had white-knuckled it’s way through the cosmic trip and was now demanding it’s refund.

The ancient man gathered up his energy and with all his might roared…


Neither the strange metal, fire-breathing warrior nor the blood-crazed man seemed to pay him any mind.


Urogk jumped awake. Some far off, barbaric belch had snapped her out of post-coitus comatosis.

She had slept in past the rising of that holy golden orb that brought life to her existence…past the chirping of the birds, chattering of the animals, blossoming of the flowers, symphonic movements of the wind…she had slept in through all of heaven on earth as it unfolded without her for the first time during her short, profoundly wonderful tenure on this wonderful planet.

She had been missed…

….by whom, you may be asking…



“Dr. Sterieaux, genius mastermind behind BottCo’s founding invention, the Dimensional Wave Projectile Cannon has publicly apologized for inventing ‘Pandora’s Cannon,’ as it’s now commonly called.” Headlines all over the intergalactic news reels circulating throughout the many realms of this known universe read similar stories.

You see, the BottCo. (Inter)Dimensional Wave Projectile Cannon became the bane of Dr. Sterieaux’s existence the very moment he invented it. Albert Einstein would probably say he could relate…relatively. The cannon emitted a frequency that rippled out and created static between dimensions, tearing the time/space continuum and, in theory, dissolving whatever it was aimed at into another realm of existence entirely.

The UN had commissioned the invention and then aimed the cannon (albeit the prototype) up into the black underbelly of the cosmos and fired it at a chunk of space rock the size of Brazil that was on a collision course with earth.

The blowback caused the hairs on the back’s of every neck in the world to stand on end.

“The earth will completely pass over the meteor in the safety of our own dimension, our own reality undisturbed…”

Dr. Sterieaux hoped this would be the outcome of his cannon’s use.

Buuut…it wasn’t the outcome…not by a long shot.



Grok and Urogk lived back in the time of the last Golden Era…the age of the gods.

Powerful sentient beings walked the earth freely with their creation.

Urogk had been loved by the likes of Apollo, had been the sparkling twinkle in the eye of Dionysus, and, probably most notably, was the favorite baby mama of Thor. That’s right, lassies and lads, Urogk had birthed a child by the god of thunder.

Had Grok known about this?

Nope…he just liked to watch her bathe in the nude under her waterfall.


I woke up in RokBott’s spaceship.

RaveBott1Xx lay beside me, unconscious. This was now an ambulance spaceship.

Rok was smoking a joint when I came to, his feet kicked up on the dash of the intergalactic cruiser.

He was playing “The Horizon Has Been Defeated” by Jack Johnson.

“…and people are just animals with too many tools to build all the junk that they sell…”


Grok, still in fourth (or higher) dimensional frequencies, was really losing his shit now.

He ran straight through RokBott10o and Zombeatnik, and although RokBott’s extra-dimensional frequency detection softwares registered activity and “bleeped” and “blooped” a few warning signals, neither the bott nor the zombie were phased in the slightest.

This is finally when Grok remembered the large, god-awful tasting mushroom cap that had been stuffed down his throat. He knew that certain varieties of fungi were lethal. He had watched his uncle Griylch keel over and die after swallowing a mouthful of bright green mushroom caps.

Grok assumed now that he was, in fact, dead.


“I wouldn’t wish scientific prowess on anyone…we should’ve all just kept climbing trees.”

-Dr. Quincey Sterieaux to his kitty on a particularly bleak night.

Soon after the DWPC was fired at “Brazil Nut”, the nickname given to the now quantum phantom meteor, strange things began happening to life on planets elsewhere in the galaxy. This newest tear in time and space had shifted, moving moisture into dehydrated galaxies in remote corners of the cosmos. Planets began the slow germination process that would lead to sprouting alien nature, alien life…aliens…


Grok hovered silently beside RokBott10o and Zombeatnik, now barely paying them any mind. His own mortality had seized his mental processes.


Grok most definitely believed in the existence of ghosts and the spirit realm. In the Golden age, this information was widely known, accepted and assimilated into daily life as common knowledge, as say, sidewalks are commonly accepted as good pathways to walk on. Grok had witnessed several hauntings by his dead uncle, like the time when his good ol’ uncle Griylch made all the bats in Grok’s cave fly out in a fit of rage mid-day while Grok was doing some cave cleaning. Ol’ uncle Griylch had been quite the prankster in life, and, as it seemed, in the afterlife as well.

So now it was his turn to do some haunting of his own. He snuck into RokBott’s spaceship just as the cargo doors were shutting. He could have simply passed through the doors, but Grok was still getting used to this whole ghost business…he’ll get better at it eventually.

Grok heard the smooth tones of Jack Johnson wafting through the corridors of the spaceship’s cargo hold…

“…and there were so many fewer questions when stars were still just the holes to heaven…”


Earth also was affected by this audacious display of mankind’s (or at least the very rich, the UN and BottCo.’s) will to live on….affected by strong, sudden shifts in gravitational pulls, in tectonic plates rubbing together too roughly, the planet having been drained of all it’s oil…oil burned and spilled, polluting the water, oil manipulated into substances more foreign to life than the new moss growing now on Pligar Six…affected by the intensity of the sun’s rays, after burning off what was rest of the atmosphere with nuclear war…yes, nuclear war took place after Dr. Sterieaux swore to dismantle the DWPC, incinerate all parts, plans, drafts and sketches of the project and to devote his life to restoring a balance in life.

Nations sought the power attached with possessing the dimension bending cannon, as did mafias, cartels, radical religious sects and renegade mercenaries of all kinds. They killed each other in the process of getting it.


By the time, “Symbol In My Driveway” began, RokBott realized that I was sitting upright, staring blankly at the strange scene before me.

I spoke.
“What the f@#k are you?”

Instead of answering, RokBott10o simply extinguished the roach in his hand, pointed at the small inscription on the bottom right corner of his torso which said in etched lettering, “RokBott10o.” Then he flicked the roach at me, turned towards the navigational panel of his starship and hit the big red button that said simply “GO!” and we were off…blasting through the atmosphere of this once beautiful planet.

“…got a phosphorescent secret…don’t you tell nobody else…”


Sylver Sterieaux finally found what he was looking for…the keys to his all-platinum-everything BottCo. PanGalactro2000 space cruiser.

He had to get to earth…fast.


STERiEAUX Undead Ch. 5

Chapter Four



“Mankind has taken nature and created rubbish…
Trash…and big piles of it…
And all this junk has proven to be both our legacy and now, our greatest enemy.”

– Dr. Quincy Sterieaux, during the Earth Evacuation Conference


Contorting, twisting, shredded bits of flesh and brick and mortar all exploding out into eternity, all erupting from one lonely little brick wall and there also was my contorting, twisting body along with it, and all in slow motion, and also in hi-def 3D…

And then I landed in a ditch left from some other projectile missile, launched in some other time, ruins from some other war…
Had I been fighting?


“The moments seemed lost in all the noise” – YES

RokBott10o kept his jets on 100%, fire streaming out of his packs, creating a smoke tail that lingered, slowly dissipating into what was left of Earth’s thin atmosphere.
His infrared vision had Zombeatnik locked in its sights, and scanners were beginning the process of evaluating his molecular make-up.
If there were traces of any psychedelic drugs in the specimen’s system, RokBott would know he was on the right track..

Yes, this whole saga would be much different if not for one plastic grocery bag that got stuck in RokBott’s left intake valve, stalling the Bott just enough to allow the torpedo to score a direct hit.


The ancient man grunted.

. The ancient man hadn’t seen RokBott10o coming at all.
So when he saw the strange, fire-propelled being soar past and devour the jellyfish without even stopping to savor the victory, Grok kinda lost his shit for a minute..



My last memory was being a numb, throbbing ball of pure energy.
I felt my pineal gland wink open. I could feel the stream flowing, coming and going freely.
I remember leaving my body and looking at it, a mangled heap of bone and flesh.


RokBott10o came equipped with first aid and CPR software’s standard, of course, so the bott lost no time in trying to resuscitate the poor humanoid.

“Lord, raise me up…from the ground…
I’ve been here too long.”
– Matisyahu


Now Grok grunted, mystified.

He noticed some fuzzy looking balls of light hovering close by, like stars that hung down underneath the clouds.
Grok was well accustomed to reading the stars. He had never seen the likes of these.

They had faces too, like the moon.


I saw Shoshanna.
She was a fuzzy ball of white light, her face smiled radiant.
She motioned for me to come towards her, towards the heavens.
I looked back one last time at my old self and saw another fuzzy white ball floating towards my body.

I didn’t recognize it’s barbaric looking face.


He shouted out to them.

The closer orb hovered back down to the pile of rubble and spoke to the ancient man.



“Blow back derelict wind…” – Beck

RokBott smoked a joint in .024 seconds and exhaled a ghostlike haze, mingling then with the smoke and fumes from the crash, and seemed to mellow everything out, if only ever-so-slightly.


Though strangely phrased, the ancient man understood the essence of the fuzzy ball of light’s message. The orb of light had said that he meant no harm to Grok. He said that his name was Zombeatnik.

Grok spoke.
“Grok hrgh yrak dha ghrakk rokrawl…”

He wanted to know who the fire-breathing warrior was and how to catch those strange jellyfish.


Rok held Zombeatnik’s head, tipped back; airways open, waiting for signs of life to appear. If he had known of the irony of his current situation, trying to revive a zombie, RokBott may have chosen a different track to spin, say “Novacane” off the same album…more angst…or maybe Bad Brains…all the stress was affecting his music selections…static was messing up his signals.

Anyways, RokBott hadn’t felt a pulse.
He had electromagnetic pulse hardware built into his turntable torso, as all Bottco. botts did, all standard.


The voice of my love distracted my attention away from the ancient man’s jellyfish riddle. With a beautiful wisp, her light pulsed out from itself like silk smoking out from a bonfire. She wrapped herself around my soul and drew me in, embracing me…penetrating every photon of my being.


Grok watched this supernatural, cosmic firework light show and felt himself tremble with cosmic awe.




RokBott10o flipped the switch and send shockwaves pulsing through Zombeatnik’s poor, decrepit body.

“Anarchists just wanna have fun.” – Hella


For whatever reason, I was pulled back in through my third eye. I wish my little fuzzy ball of energy could have gone somewhere, anywhere else than back inside this rotten skull.
Is this perpetual hell?
Is it?


“To transcend hell, one must dig.”

Cedric’s ego rarely grabbed hold of his own words…these seemed prophetic…of some use to someone.

Troubadour winds, indeed…


Chapter 6

STERiEAUX Undead Ch. 4

Chapter Three



These days,
Cedric the Wise Himalayan meows meditatively, waxing pious almost solely to four-feet-long mutant cockroaches. There isn’t much else left on the planet…maybe a zombie or two still stumbling around…but mostly just cockroaches.

Hey, at least they’re zenned-out four-foot-long mutant cockroaches…



As any wandering spirit will tell you,
the phenomenon of roaming the earth without a body isn’t an easy one to get accustomed to.

Grok’s hand passed through the charred stick.

Grok grunted forcefully.


All work and no play makes Rok a dull Bott. He had been blazing the trail, searching for E for a long time. RokBott needed to blow off some steam, so to speak. He pulled out his grenade launcher and blew up three peaks in the Rocky Mountains.

“Lights out…guerilla radio…” – Rage Against the Machine


What’s that sound???


Back at the cave,
Urogk had been overtaken by basic animal instinct.

The barbaric grunts and groans bellowing from deep inside Grok’s chest only made her more passionate in her attempts to revive the ancient man.

She mounted him.


It sounds like music…
…and it smells like marijuana…
I had completely forgotten about marijuana…



Cedric the Wise opened his eyes and saw that the assembly was very much at peace.

He withdrew from the gathering to his quiet place, to his little rug, to the rug that Dr. Sterieaux had given him when he was just a kitten. He looked out from his mountain top and enjoyed a time of inner peace.

A single whisker picked up on a vibration from some distant corner of the cosmos.


“Shoot to Thrill” – AC/DC

RokBott’s navigational software showed a single structure, a brick wall, standing about ten miles out from what was once downtown Portland. His barometric software told him that there was a slight southwesterly wind.

He set his photon torpedo blaster to obliterate.
RokBott took aim.


A sudden gust of wind picked up and the plastic bag flew away along with it.
It blew away in a south, southwesterly direction, as a matter of fact.

Grok chased the flying, land lubing jelly.

His steps were falling lighter than before, thought the ancient man.
He almost felt as if he were floating.
And he wasn’t in pain anymore…

The entirety of this sudden change in reality began to sink in.


Music, marijuana and now…fireworks??
For some reason, the word “Lolapalooza” just popped into my thick zombie brain.


Cedric the Wise breathed deeply.
He purred, content.
His golden mane puffed majestic on the wind.
He closed his emerald eyes again and sensed a journeying whisp drawing nearer.


Urogk could sense that Grok seemed to be slowly regaining consciousness.
She rode him with more determination.


Too late to take it back, RokBott’s infrared life-seeking software alerted him of the fact that there was a warm body resting on the other side of that brick wall ten miles away.

Someone is still alive!
Maybe they know where to get some E.

RokBott1Oo had to beat that torpedo!

“Final Countdown” – Europe


As he chased the grocery bag, a flaming streak of fire whizzed across Grok’s line of vision and headed towards a brick wall, way off in the distant horizon.

The plastic jellyfish seemed to be floating that way, too.

Grok grunted and pursued.


I thought I was dead for real this time.

STERiEAUX Undead Ch. 3

Chapter Two



“…and there were creatures who received no transmissions…
…and there were other beings yet who took no form…”

Cedric the Wise’s face exuded tranquility.


Urogk felt bad.

Grok was a good man, after all. He just had NO game when it came to the ladies.
She decided to go apologize for kneeing the poor fellow in the testicles.

What she found in Grok’s cave when she returned was…



I’m not sure if rational thoughts like these would continue on right now if fresh meat were to enter the equation. I might be right back into the red rage, and who knows for how long.

Fresh flesh does sound really, really good right now…sigh…with a little barbeque sauce…alas…


Grok was bare-ass naked…and the color of moss.

He lay motionless in the middle of the cave, his eyes bloodshot and glazed over. He was grunting and groaning erratically.

Urogk hadn’t known that the mushroom she had shoved down the ancient man’s throat had been the most powerful psychotropic, hallucinogenic, time-and-space-bending substance ever to be ingested.



RokBott was immediately impressed with the sheer totalness of earth’s destruction.
He landed his spacecraft, which still contained the lifeless components of Rave.

“Out here in the perimeter there are no stars…out here we as stone… immaculate.” – The Doors


Urogk knelt beside the ancient man, worried. Grok was clearly in pain. She stroked his head, gently untangled the matted mess that was his hair and felt compassion swell up in her heart…


She couldn’t help but stare at Grok’s quite substantial girth, swollen as it was.
Urogk was overcome with a strange, sudden impulse.


“That we may all become creatures of true reflection.”

Cedric chose to stay behind when a new order of planet Earth’s most wealthy societies chose to evacuate.

He stayed behind in order to disperse wisdom and salutations of peace to whoever may be left on earth…to whoever may be seeking…
99% of the planet was left on earth at that time…

“That we may all reflect the true creation, the true reality.”


“The world has turned and left me here…” – =w=

Rok’s navigational software told him that he had landed somewhere in southern Nevada. He made a mad dash to Las Vegas.

All that stood there was a stop sign.
Every other thing that had composed the city of Las Vegas was now simply lost for the ages.

No E. No nothing.


I remember the last woman I loved. Her name had been Shoshanna. I remember burning my toe on the kerosene heater in the throws of passion. We had been huddled up in the attic for weeks, just trying to stay warm, trying to stay alive.

I still remember her scent, like apricots washed in cotton. I can still hear her unique little laugh too, like a sparrow chirping happily. So yes, I’m gonna say that we had been in love.


While Grok’s mental reality spiraled down through the fabric of space and time, his manhood was also being sucked down, and quite literally so.

Urogk had never tried this particular method of pleasing a man before, no one ever had at that point, as a matter of fact.

It just seemed like the right thing to do.


Shoshanna contracted the zombie virus soon after, on the same day that we made love for what became our last time. Life has a flare for tragic contrasts.

We had been arguing about something. Now, I can’t remember what. At the time, it seemed really important, very heated. I miss getting irrationally angry about trite, unimportant bullshit. Now, I just get blood-crazed at the sight of any living thing…


“Earth must have been so cool back in the day! They had entire cities built around parties. We should totally go there someday, like a field trip. Hit up Vegas and Amsterdam, Bangkok and Paris…too bad there’s not much there anymore. It’s still gotta be pretty dope!”

“Cuz we pimpin all over the wo-orld!” – Ludacris

RaveBott always dreamed of one day seeing earth.


The details of time/space travel are always up for speculation amongst those who’ve never traversed the continuum before themselves. (*)

In this story, Grok’s soul falls through the wormhole. His physical body remains in the cave, where his unconscious body has unknowingly rounded third and seems to be getting the wave in to steal Urogk’s home plate…so to speak…

While he’s tripping, he’s the time-travelling specter of an ancient cave dweller.
Grok gets spit out of the wormhole and the world is basically dead.



We had been hiding in her house for several weeks, back when there was still hope that the whole “zombie” thing would blow over, hope that “normal” life would return one day.

She stormed out of the house. I can’t remember if I tried to stop her. I hope I did. The stained-glass window in the door shattered when she slammed it shut. That’s probably what attracted the attention of the zombies.

She was blood-crazed, herself, when she came back.


Grok was shocked at what he saw stretched out before him. The earth was scorched. There wasn’t much of anything to be seen.

Trash and ash blew over the land.

He bent down to pick up a plastic grocery bag that was blowing by.
His hand passed through it.


I miss you, Shoshanna.


RokBott missed RaveBott too.
He pressed on.

His navigational software told him that California no longer existed, so he decided to head north.

“On a dark, desert highway…cool breeze in my hair…” – The Eagles

Grok grunted.

Grok was mystified by the plastic grocery bag that he couldn’t catch.
He thought that is was a sort of land-dwelling jellyfish or something.
Whatever it was, it was slippery and highly evasive.

Grok saw a charred stick.
The hunt was on.


A question of purpose keeps nagging at me.

I spend most of my time these days straining my mostly-rotten brain for shreds of memories from a life lived so very long ago, so very dead and gone now, and for what?
If and when memories do resurface, they only end up reminding me of how badly things have gone ever since this fucked up disease has plagued this long-forsaken earth.

What is there possibly left for me to live for?
Why can’t I die?


Continue Reading…




If what they say is true…you are a shadow in the fourth dimension. – MGMT


“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.

“Erryday I’m shufflin'” – LMFAO


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.

Remember that.

“If you will suck my soul…I will lick your funky…emotion.” – Funkadelic


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…

“They’re just humans with wives and children…” – Flaming Lips


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.

“Everything…in it’s right place” – Radiohead


Grok approached Urogk from behind. He grunted.

Urogk growled. She turned.

Grok breathed heavily.

Urogk growled louder.

Grok lunged.



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…

“You may say I lost everything…but I still had my bedazzler…” – Lady Gaga


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.



“Dance…dance ’til you’re dead.” – Yeah Yeah Yeahs

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.  😥



Grok grunted.


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.


“I drop megaton BOMBS more faster than you blink…clouds of smoke…” – GZA

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 grunted.


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.

“Please don’t slow me down…if I’m moving too fast.” – The Strokes


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.

“SpottieOttieDopaliscious” – Outkast


Continue Reading…



Josephus Vice

To Life.
A Love Supreme – John Coltrane


Cedric the Wise Himalayan House-cat resonated pure energy.
His large, green eyes closed as he continued…

“…and there were creatures who saw the sound of life with their eyes…
…and there were creatures who heard the light of life with their ears…
…and there were creatures who smelled the flavor of life with their noses…
…and there were creatures who tasted the scent of life with their tongues…
…and there were creatures who felt the complexities of life with their skins…
…and there were creatures who understood the sensations of life with their minds…”

The assembly looked up, attentively.
The air was thin.


So, George Orwell and Albous Huxley had been on the right track all along. So had most of those “crazy” hippies, “paranoid” conspiracy theorists and “quacky” doomsday prophets, who always liked to “carry on like the sky was about to fall.”
It did.
But not before the Illuminati unveiled their eternal secrets, not before the 3rd World War was waged, not before what some would call the “apocalypse” came and shredded our little green planet to bits.
Zombies eventually ate everybody, even those with panic rooms.
Comets rained down and the stars aligned and the polar axes shifted…seven times…imagine that, John Lennon!
Ice age? Check. California in the ocean? Check. Pleiades visitations? Check. Haziness on the details of events so long ago transpired? Check.



Ancient man travelled through time.
The first was on a quest to find a woman.
His name was Grok. Her’s was Urogk.
How did he travel through time?


“I’m off on the adven-ture…I’m on my way to hea-ven.” – Kid Cudi
RokBott10o and RaveBott1xX used to tear it up on intergalactic levels. Light-year-long benders bounced on and on throughout the cosmos.


See, I’ve been undead for going on five hundred years now…very undead. Somehow, I’ve managed to stumble my way through this entire “final” act of modern mankind…a strange testament to the resiliency of life, I have to admit.
I haven’t seen another life form except for the eternal roach in over two hundred years…another example of life marching along, transmuting itself through the ether of endless birth and the release of infite death….all manifestations of life are for a time…life is eternal, so it seems.


Ancient man tripped on psychedelic mushrooms.
The earliest generations of man tripped on psychedelic mushrooms that made the time/space continuum warp, stretch, condense, twist. In this way, “time” as an onward marching force in and of itself didn’t exist.
Sadly, ancient man ate this particular species of mushroom into extinction. It was the first species of anything to be forced into extinction in the history of, well, history…his-story…


“Take anything you want from me…” – Jimi Hendrix

Hear that?
That’s RokBott10o keeping it 100%. He was programmed to spin the most perfect song for each and every moment that he could possibly find himself in. His other functions include rolling perfect joints every time and blowing shit up, so as not to cause tons of damage, but so as to look really badass.

“Rok” and RaveBott1xX, his “female” companion-bott, were both initially to be ingenious manifestations of a childhood dream of one Dr. Quincy Sterieaux; genius inventor, father of several sciences, and…most unfortunately, as it turns out…co-founder of BottCo., yes…THE BottCo….the infamous intergalactic machinery juggernaut. We’ll return to Dr. Sterieaux and Bottco’s fabled stories later, but back to Rok and Rave…only 27 sets of the righteously awesome pair saw the soddering gun, so to speak.

One set for every one of Bottco’s CEO’s adolescent children.


So, this is where my story now begins, well past the end of everything that meant so very much to human beings, now as a long-starved and, most likely, last-standing zombie, leaning up against the one free-standing wall of what was once, long, long ago, a small jazz club in Portland, Oregon.
It’s the only free-standing wall left in the pacific northwest, actually…a relic, just like me.

My name is Zombeatnik.
This is Sterieaux Undead.


Chapter Two

Before The Fire – Ch. 1


For the women who were/are/may-yet-be in my life.


Her hands hurt, hard in the cold rain; creases running rivers through her palms revealed the hidden nature of her life; a banyan tree’s branching limbs stretching out on the microscopic lines of her fingertips reminded a caressed ego that it’s all just passing away anyways. This cold heavy chill sunk deep down into the roots of her central nervous system…tolling her soul.

Initially, she secretly had the intention of remaining forever a delicate little flower; but somehow, a catepillar she became…and bright green, rolly-polly and clumsy she remained until her cocoon moon rose and shone down upon oceans and cosmos alike, wrapping her white-washed, moon-dusted. Once a flower, then a caterpiller…now a great white moth. Her wings stretched out like astral planes expanding, flapping in the cold March air, seeking warmth, seeking home.

Her thoughts however lingered far beneath the dark-and-heavy-springtime-rain-rain-go-away clouds.

The man she’d loved had nearly passed away not yet four hours ago; trapped, suffocating, burning. He’d just barely made it to the hospital in time for emergency surgery. Skin grafts, life support, blood transfusions…the whole deal. She stood at the entrance of the hospital for thirty-seven minutes before she found the strength to push open the door, to go through the motions of being a dutiful “significant other.”

Wheel-chaired patients, aides, nurses, doctors and pizza delivery guys all brushed passed her. All she could do was look up at the tarmac roof. In the cold night, moths frantically swish-swooshed across the fluorescent lighting fixtures seeking heat. She stood and watched her fellow kind. “There they are, struggling with every fiber of their being to reach that stupid fluorescent bulb…and what would happen when they finally squeezed through some small crack in the plastic cover, realizing their nirvana? They’ll get zapped and out their inner lights will go for good.”

Somehow she could relate.

She’d loved him first upon a Wednesday like no other, when earlier she’d found herself’s reflection reciting stories of their future lifetime’s journey together. Earlier that evening, he’d played her a song titled “Just the Same as Your Name” and that moment stays forever suspended in the clear-jelly atmospheres that fueled her fondest memories. His music had her hypnotized, allured her, led her into his masterful hands and the rest for her was simply learning how to tolerate the man that he was regardless of her influence.

Her love had been a cellist/vocalist in an early-90′s jazz/hip-hop ensemble called, “Ambilance.” Their song, “If it don’t smell funky, it ain’t ripe ’nuff for me…” was funkier than a dill pickle stuffed with cheese, fried in chicken grease on a buttermilk waffle smothered in maple syrup AND sausage gravy, served with a side of “…but gottamn that bass line holds it down!!”…and to top it all off, a maraschino cherry. The ensemble never really amounted to much in the grand scheme of Rolling Stone top 40 or anything, though in Ambilance’s defense, as their bassist “Big Marc” so elegantly phrased it, “…the Man did fuck us over.” Regardless of what the critics had to say about their lack of wide-spread marketability, Ambilance made the ladies swoon. Screw the haters.

He had told her all about Ambilance that first Wednesday. She swooned.

“Ahh, yeah you know the music I make really does become a part of me…and the real beauty of it is that once you take it in, then you become a part of it too”…he’d whisper sweet nothings in her ear, her eyes flashing golden nebulas…breasts perking…his fingers quaking tension though the strings of her heart, digging deeply into the rosewood fretboard of the small of her lower back…He took hold of her hair with a firmness she’d never felt. Often, in the heat of it all, the reverberations had a tendency to short circuit her brain’s ability to form coherent sentences…”Ahh the cello’s mellow bellow…a yellow sparrow chirps a friendly ‘helloooo finnnee fellow’…I mean, ahh whatever, let it ride…how’s it feel inside?” She’d drone on, moaning nonsensical phrases of possibility…….Oohhhh….His pressure made her wince in pain. They came simultaneously, and, coincidentally, they climaxed simultaneously concurrent with the rising of the morning sun. Then, yes…also simultaneously, they slept deeply, limbs and hair all criss-crossing like a two-human pretzel, through all sorts of alarm clockery until nearly sunset the following day.

He’d hummed a melody all that magical Wednesday in his sleep as they wandered lazily between states of intermingled consciousness. She subconsciously danced in her dreams to it’s wafty melody. It later went on to become his magnum opus. So, it too was once a catepillar; for it began by be-bumping here and there, wherever, until it found a cocoon moon of it’s own in those sparkling eyes of hers. Three years later that melodic catepillar blossomed into a symphony-painted butterfly and flittered and fluttered over the heads of bewildered, enraptured, esctatic or otherwise pleasantly amused audiences world wide…all because of her sparkling eyes…

He was to her a path leading towards a much-needed home. ”You’ve given me the strength to live my dreams!” She was to him a path leading towards a much-needed redemption. “I’d give my life for you.” Whenever he’d bring up salvation, she’d simply show love. Whenever he brought up impending damnation, she’d simply rolled her eyes in disgust…real punk rock style. He had sensed a burning fate all his life, so he said himself. “I can almost smell the sulfur.” She’d thought this only melodrama…but now a new thought manifested.

“Perhaps, it was simply the heat of preminition…not that of impending pergatory…that had haunted him all along…” She thought again…”perhaps the future had sent a fiery message to the memory of the momentarily-present man of the past…a warning shot…Hey! Don’t get burned!

“Fluorescent lighting isn’t very condusive to abstract thinking.”

She rubbed her eyes. Inside the lobby area now and the receptionist didn’t even seem to notice her, too busy…too, too busy. This night seemed to be “Half-off-your-entire-hospital-bill” night in the E.R. The blue-scrub-donned receptionist, dashing back and forth between two computers, a whole isle of filing cabinets and a leaning tower of clipboards simply pointed at a deli-style ticket machine and gave a, “Sucks, don’t it?” sort of half-smile and went back to digging through her mounds of manilla insurance files like some kind of damned office gopher.

Ohh…this is going to be a long, long night!

*Rippp* She glanced at her ticket ever-so-briefly and found the most current, least mangled and somewhat interesting edition of whatever waiting room caliber magazine she could find. The pile of magazines on the one coffee table looked like a pile of dead soldiers in some strange newsroom war; torn and tattered covers with graffiti’d-in beards on supermodels, beaten up and abused corners, barely corners anymore, wadded up hunks of decomposing paper left to rot. She ended up with a Better Homes and Gardens issue from 2001 about “10 Revolutionary New Ways to Decorate your Foyer to Get Your Neighbors Talking.” She thought back to 2001…

“I can’t remember a single foyer that year…nobody must’a read this one.”

The loudspeaker cracked on.
“#121. #121 please come to the main window…#121.”

Well, that wasn’t so bad, she thought to herself. Her legs were stiff as she got up from the war torn waiting room chair. She stretched. She glanced at her ticket again…

“Oh shit! I’m #211?!”

This thought came bellowing out from somewhere deep. The other soon-to-be-attended-to’s all looked up at her. Some smirked, some nodded, some coughed sickly, some looked as if to say, “Hey, at least you’re not #237 like I am!”

With a huff and a puff she blew herself back down into the well-worn padding of an uncomfortable waiting room chair and re-opened an uninteresting magazine.

“Damn…” she thought, “that…” her heart break-danced, “man.”

I. and I, Known as Y. – Ch. 1


“He’s a good man, that Charlie Brown.”

No, Charlie Brown isn’t his real name, but the expression seems to fit. He’s done some pretty interesting things, gone some pretty interesting places and met some really interesting people all along the way. He’s made an honest attempt at an honest life. The only words inscribed next to his name in the Holy Book of Life Everlasting, if said book does indeed exist, should simply be,

“No Complaints.”

Anything else written about him or anyone else for that matter, seems to me now as simply frivolous and as time progresses, increasingly-less important. So as one frivolous and increasingly-less important point begets another, allow me to continue. Oh, Lord…forgive me my frivolousity!

But I digress…

My brother has had an affinity for Laz-E Boy reclining armchairs since he was four years old, the first time he ever sat down in one. If blindfolded and placed inside a foreign living room and told to sit down, “I.” could verify not only the authenticity of said Laz-E Boy, as there are countless hundreds of knock-offs out there, but also the make, model and, judging on the amount of “give” in the cushions and “spring” of the, well, springs, the age of the armchair in question.

He knows a helluva lot more about them, but that’s all that I can remember him mentioning to me right now, off the top of my head. I used to blindfold him in furniture stores and test him out. He never got one wrong. He could usually guess the color correctly too…blindfolded. Some people know all about wine. My brother knows all about Laz-E Boy reclining armchairs.

His obsession with armchairs ended up suiting him just fine. Iihyheai Wynn, my older brother, worked quite happily moving furniture for 23 years.

Iihyheai has also “suffered” from autism. My brother I. is autistic. His brother, me, has probably “suffered” more from being, simply, artistic.

I once told him that since he had autism, then that made him an “autist.” He was quite proud of this. He smiled big.

“Yea…I’m an autist!”

He’d walk right up to someone in the frozen food section and reveal his diagnosis to them as if they had been lifelong friends.

“Hey! I’m an autist!”

If his mark were too polite to simply run away, they might respond with something like…

“Oh…you’re an ‘artist,’ huh?”

My brother would correct them,

“No…my brother, Y. Wynn, he’s the artist. I’m an aut-ist.”

Then, if whoever my brother had had cornered next to the crinkle-cut spuds were either too polite for their own good, or perhaps they were seriously invested into the enforcement of maintaining grammatical purity in the language of the everyday person, (and there are far more grammar Gestapo out there than one might think) then they might persist with something like;

“Hmm…’Ryan’s’ an ‘artist.’ How interesting!” and they’d rush off to find the chickpeas.

My brother got frustrated with people like this.

“Who’s ‘Ryan,’, Y. Wynn?”

He’d look at me with the Questioner’s eyebrow going full-force. What’s the Questioner’s eyebrow, you ask as your outer left brow rises and your inner right brow lowers, wrinkles forming like fleshy sets of incoming waves over the long smooth plane of your forehead, making your wavy brow pay homage to that ol’ faithful levee that held on through the storm?
Oh, never mind.

Everybody called my brother “autistic,” but I think that he simply resided above and beyond all the silly business of “humanity” and its many tangled snares, pitfalls and loopholes. My brother, I. Wynn, simply was I. Wynn. He saw other people simply as whoever they said they were and whatever they acted like.

If and inevitably whenever I’d be forced to explain the irratic behavior of “normal” people like this grammar Gestapo character in the frozen foods isle to my brother, I’d usually just tell him not to worry about it.

“Don’t worry about it, I., They thought that you had mispronounced my name or something.”

Then I. might get slightly self-conscious. His voice would squeak a little.

“Oh, did I say something wrong?”

He really did try his damnedest to roll with the ever-crashing tides of human society.

“No, I., you said everything just fine. 
They’re just retarded.”

Then my brother and I would both have a good laugh. My brother always got my jokes immediately. It varies drastically with everyone else. Our family has always practiced a peculiar brand of comedy. I think its best illustrated by the way our parents chose to name us.

My brother’s name was Iihyheai Wynn. My own name is Yyweilje Wynn. We were born, we screamed, and the sound of our first respective breath in this life became our first respective name that would follow us all the way through it. Mother wanted each first name to be punctuated with an exclamation mark, but Father wouldn’t stand for it. He said that the exclamation mark part was completely up to us.

I’ve never minded my name, neither did Iihyheai, but for the sake of everyone else, I chose early on to simply go by “Y.” My brother, although four years older than me, pretty much just went along with whatever I thought was best, so he became simply, “I.” So that makes us I. Wynn and Y. Wynn.

I’ve always referred to us like this;

“This is I., and I go simply by Y.”