(I’ve seen a lot of alteration in the way people view the word ‘entrepreneur’; it started with this image of someone struggling to create some kind of business from their garage; then there was an assumption that you were some kind of Internet billionaire; and now there seems to be a frequent image of somebody who’s kind of a rich hipster.
Your Zombie Apocalypse may vary, but in mine, nobody’s really rich, unless “full of iron-rich blood!” counts. And all the hipsters were eaten first. By each other.
It’s hard, trying to start a business when most of your client base is dead. But I’d make it work. I always do.)
DAY 227. Tuesday.
TO-DO
1. Maintain positive attitude.
2. Be a go-getter.
3. Figure out why it’s always Tuesday.
___
6 a.m. Wake up screaming
6:15 a.m. Realize it’s actually other people’s screams. Go back to bed.
6:45 a.m. Wake up screaming. Mutter something that’s unprintable, especially since nobody is making books anymore. Wake up.
7:30 a.m. Wash using stockpile of Handi-Wipes. Put on sunglasses, umpire chest protector, pants. Bash can of food with rock. Remember (again!) to try to find a can opener.
8:15 a.m. Drain bathtub into jars. Try not to breathe.
8:30 a.m. Look for coffee. Realize there’s still no coffee. Bash head briefly with stick until feel relatively alert.
9 a.m. Pick up baseball bat. Leave through garage. Swing twice, knock down zombie, turn slightly, deliver headshot. Lock garage.
9:15 Load Volkswagon.
9:30 a.m. – 10 a.m. Think about how excellent it would be if the Volkswagon had working engine. Listen to endless crackling noises on portable radio and pretend it’s the Beach Boys. Remember to get batteries, life.
10:30 a.m. Push Volkswagon. Pause to slay living dead with bat. Be grateful that there haven’t been a lot of them yet. But there will be. There always are, on Tuesdays.
10:31 a.m. Remember that yesterday was Tuesday.
10:32 a.m. Remember that tomorrow is Tuesday.
10:33 a.m. Why?
11 a.m. Keep pushing Volkswagon.
11:30 a.m. Get winged by survivalist who thinks I passed too close to his shack. Open trunk. Toss him a bottle. Get invited inside for lunch.
12:00 a.m. Ahhh, stewed pigeon and fresh(ish) cigars. Watch television with survivalist. Agree that you get the best static when you point the screen to the southeast. No idea why that is.
1 p.m. Push car to town with survivalist. Put out sign. Start hawking.
“GIN! GIN! You’ve smashed all the stores and searched all the basements! All you’ve got left is hand sanitizer, which will kill you fairly quickly. My homemade gin is guaranteed to kill you slowly! Buy now! Buy now! Will accept cans of food, bullets, and help fixing a Volkswagon! Especially the Volkswagon part.”
5 p.m. Eat well-deserved candlelight zombie-steak dinner with survivalist at the best restaurant in town, namely, “The Only Restaurant In Town”. Sell them remaining gin.
6 p.m. It is dark. Decide, along with restaurant staff, to sleep in the building overnight so as not to be consumed by the living dead.
8 p.m. Well-deserved sleep, completely unbroken by screaming.
8:15 p.m., 9 p.m., 9:15 p.m., 9:30 p.m., 10 p.m., 10:30 p.m. Awakened by screaming, some from zombies, some from other people in the building, some from self.
11 p.m. Drink gin. Fall into stupor.
Wake up next day. Push car home.
Do it all over again.
Next step: Learn to make whiskey.
The unspeakable Villainpunk Jeff Mach frequently seeks new, interesting ways to rewrite this part, and then often ends up just shifting a few words around, going back in time to before he wrote this initially, and hitting “Publish”, so that this is technically new. Don’t tell anyone.
Jeff is a writer and creator who has long aspired to be the sort of person who neither needs to promote his other work at the bottom of his short stories, nor need speak of himself in the third person. Sadly, in both regards, he has failed.
