Before I left for Chicago, this site was abuzz with a discussion of
Nick Olsen's very shiny apartment that had recently graced the pages of Lonny. The whole post was prompted by someone referring to me as a Blogland Zombie for hating on Nick's apartment. I love the moniker and apparently a bunch of other people did too.
Julie Warner, the First Lady of appliances in Minneapolis, wondered what an attack of the Blogland Zombies might look like. The last comment posted to that original post painted just that picture.
Bravewolf, a commenter's commenter, penned a story so fantastic it deserves a post of its very own. Without further ado, I bring you Bravewolf's
Attack of the Blogland Zombies.
The middle-aged woman swirled up to the man in a flurry of black lace and garters.
"And what would Sir be interested in tonight? I think that Sir is new to our establishment?"
"Yes, uh, what I mean is that I've never... Mother, you know, would not have approved, but the guys at work, well they've all been here and they said that I should, well, that it was a very fine, uh, establishment here and I, uh..."
"I see, Sir," said the woman briskly. "I know just who would be the best choice for Sir, if Sir would be good enough to indicate which gender he is primarily interested in tonight."
"Oh, uh, girls."
"Very good; I will send Penelope down."
"Uh, thank you very much."
The man sat gingerly against the leopard print pillows and tried to ignore the faceless silhouette paintings on the walls. It was very obviously the kind of establishment that Mother would never have approved of. He could still hear her voice.
"Glossy red paint is the sign of the devil, Matthew, and don't you forget it! Remember that Susan Mae? Her mother told me that not three months after she painted her room a glossy red with white accents, she ran off with that Baker boy, got herself pregnant and he had to marry her! You stay away from that kind of interior decorator, you hear me?"
He stood up suddenly, nearly catching the rough rope of the silver tray on the coffee table and sending the whole tea service on the floor. The round mirror mocked his efforts at calm, showing him a sweaty red face in a rumpled shirt.
"Mister Smith?"
"Yes!" he blurted, whirling around and beholding a beautiful woman clad only in a silk negligee. As she walked towards him, he noticed an unpleasant smell and looked closer. Her skin was grey. Her eyes were dead. She was a zombie. Behind her came Madam's pleasant inquiry, "Is Sir pleased with Penelope?"
"No! I mean yes! I mean, I think Mother needs me to pick up milk!" he babbled as he tripped over a white urn-like pottery jar in his blind quest to find the door and keep track of Penelope's advance, the sexy wiggle turning into a careless staggering shamble as her mouth opened and a low moan escaped her.
The front door wouldn't open. He had opened it himself, not twenty minutes ago. The red walls now seemed like they were melting, running into patches of blue and white and surrounding him with their low-VOC stickiness.
All pretense laid aside, Penelope bared her teeth as her stagger became more violent and she leaped towards his throat. He screamed in desperation and despair as her onslaught burst past his terrified hands and her teeth snapped shut on his-
"Mr. Smith! Mr. Smith! Wake up!"
"No! Mother, I didn't mean to-" he flailed for a moment, still seeing the blackened teeth en route to his jugular.
"Calm down, Mr. Smith. Evidently the new anxiety medication didn't work for you. We're going to put you on your former medication until we can sort this out."
