"We interrupt our regularly scheduled program to bring you this breaking report. We take you now to Cliff Danielson."
"Tragedy struck today in ways that no one ever expected to actually happen. Officials believed it to be a seasonal hoax, despite the flood of calls received on the matter. Now, it is known to be true. Ladies and gentlemen, we are being attacked... by the living dead. Hordes of decomposed bodies have risen from their graves and now walk among us, attacking the living to, yes, feast on their brains. We would like to remind our viewers that his is not a joke in any way, nor is it a themed, fictional program. This is real. We advise all of our viewers at home to stay there. Do not attempt to leave to find safer grounds. Officials are dealing with the situation. We take you now to the front of the epid-di-di-dimic with-ith-th-th-..." The broadcast broke to a nearly black screen, but faint outlines of a figure could be seen in the shadows.
"Greetings, Earth people. We are the K'grotzar. As your pathetic informants have already enlightened you, your planet is under peril. This is our doing. You have already witnessed but a sample of our power, and this is only the beginning. War has been declared on your measly rock, and soon your world will be conquered by the galactic empire. Accept your deaths now to spare any suffering." The dripping monster ended its speech with a guttural growl before its signal was replaced by a "technical difficulties" screen.
Wide eye and open mouthed, the onlooker to the television remained motionless from what he had just witnessed. His hand still hung in front of his mouth, prepared to lick the cheesy residue from his fingers left by his bag of fried snacks. The dank, cluttered surroundings created a sea of mess that blanketed the entire level with him perched on the couch like a stranded island. His name is Jethro Duncan, a twenty-something college drop-out living in his step-mother's basement in a small town in the middle of no where. He had just learned that the world was ending. All of the nothings he had accomplished in his young, wasted life rolled through his mind. He could not believe it, that this had happened.
"Oh... hells... yeah!" roared the man as his face sprouted a smile larger than he ever had or ever would again. Frantically, his eyes darted around to the sloppy piles of mastered videogames, the gory ones that his parents did not want him playing when he was young, and begged him to stop playing when he could not keep a job. They passed then to the cabinets on the walls loaded with his father's gun collection. Shotguns and rifles of all makes and calibers beamed behind the glass. Even a prized hunting knives were stashed with them. His eyes then passed to a bowl of pretzels because he was hungry, but then refocused on the belts of ammunition stored with the firearms. He sprung to his feet with crumbs and bits rolling off his bulging gut, indecisive about what he should do first. His thick hands tossed the phone between his face and shoulder as the speed dial for number one was called while he assembled supplies.
"Dude, tell me you were watching TV. ... Yeah, you're right. What else would you be doing? Work?" The two shared a laugh on the brink of the Apocalypse. "So, we're so gonna, right? Get the whole frickin' gang together, then, 'cuz we are gonna tear it up! ... Er, yeah, I meant 'save the world', of course. Heroics and all that junk... So, you got a board with some nails in it?" he squeamishly questioned. "Sweet. Okay, meet ya all at the fountain, buddy. I'll be there with presents." As he hung up, the fat, disgusting slob had been entirely transformed. He was now a fat slob decked out commando style. Jet twirled a shotgun in each hand. Two bandoleers wrapped about each shoulder as two more wrapped around what he wished was his waist, but they could not be pulled that far down. The pockets of his gray university hooded sweatshirt were packed full of shell casings, and several pistols were strapped over his worn jeans. Two rifles tipped with bayonets were stuck in the loops at his back as massive blades stuck out from his pant pockets and boots. Fitting his snug ball cap about his greasy, black hair, and he was almost set for some serious redeadening. The final touch was an old, lead pipe that had somehow migrated downstairs, used as a prop to hold up a shelf of assorted junk that did not belong elsewhere in the house.
"Ma," he hollered up stairs, "I'm gonna be goin' out. If one of us is still alive, there better be dinner ready."
"While you're out, can you pick up a milk?" she called back, unphased by the situation.
"But maaa!" he futily whined. "I'm gonna be saving the wooorld!"
"Two percent," she shouted back, ignoring the protest. "You know how your father hates skim."
"Fine! I hope I do die! Then who will get your milk?" childishly yelled the human armament as he ascended the direct exit outside. "Zombie me, that's who!" No sooner than the door swung open, a rotted man greeted him with a starving groan. A Colt was swiftly unholstered and plugged into its mouth, making a new hole out the top of its skull. As the fiend slid, lifeless once more, from the barrel, Jethro examined the gore splattered weapon with a disturbing pride.