4.
The Battler heard that there was someone in the neighbourhood who had an axe to grind with him. That was good, since the Battler was looking to polish his fists.
The Battler strolled down the middle of the empty street. Families were peering out the windows in their perfect white houses, each one exactly the same. They had seen the flyers. They knew there was going to be a battle.
Nobody, however, notified the police, because that would mean there would be no battle. They wanted some excitement and terror in their lives. They would only call the police if the Battler and his opponent crashed into the pristine, shrink-wrapped living rooms of their houses; otherwise they would sit quietly with their giant foam fingers and infinite supply of beer, bouncing little Sally or Johnny on their knees. This was the event to beat, and they hoped the Battler would beat it to a pulp.
The Battler tried to ignore his audience. With them watching him through glass, he was starting to feel more like an exhibit than a hero. He walked the yellow line running down the street, each step as carefully measured as the last, a hulking black phantom of frightening precision. Then he stopped. Where the road met the sky in front of him was a ninety-percent complete Axing Gentleman. The giant white axe printed on its torn black t-shirt was the only axe it carried, but that would probably be all it needed: even in this incomplete state, the Axing Gentleman was more muscle than man, and with its newfound zombie strength could knock the Battler’s head clean off. The Battler touched his neck and then tried not to think about it. There was utter silence from the houses.
‘So I hear you have a bone to pick with me,’ the Battler shouted in as close approximation to a booming voice as he could. ‘But I’ll be the one picking bones – out of your body, that is!’
The families pounded on their glass windows and cheered.
‘Graagh!’ the Axing Gentleman shouted back, but only one person cheered for it.
‘All right, that’s enough talk,’ the Battler said. ‘It’s time to disrespect the dead.’
The Battler began rushing towards the Axing Gentleman, picking up speed as he went along. He then put his fists forward as he closed in, but the Axing Gentleman managed to sidestep and smacked the back of the Battler’s head as he flew past. The Battler landed on the road, his head feeling like vibrating fuzz. The only sound he could hear was a hollow ringing, so when he rolled onto his back he was more than surprised to see the Axing Gentleman standing over him – he may have even been a little bit scared. He certainly was not feeling all too brave when the Axing Gentleman brought down a hammer-sized fist, giving the Battler the merest millisecond to roll to safety. The Gentleman’s fist tore up the pavement, sending meat and shrapnel everywhere, and its fist left most of its skin behind when the Gentleman pulled it free. The Battler stood up and looked at the Axing Gentleman’s mangled flail of bones.
He could not think of a clever way to end the fight, which was bad news for him since he wanted to end it right then and there. The Axing Gentleman punched, the Battler dodged, and then the Battler punched while the Axing Gentleman dodged in turn. Such was how it went. The Battler was not sure how much longer he could keep this dance up, and even though his hearing was temporarily damaged he could swear that he could hear the captive audiences sighing. That was when he felt a rumbling start up under his feet and his ears finally popped, allowing him to hear the horn of a large truck as it came up the street. Apparently the truck driver did not get the memo about a battle taking place in the neighbourhood, but the Battler was thankful for it.
He purposefully stood in the truck’s path and taunted the Axing Gentleman with various lewd gestures, eventually coaxing the Gentleman out of his standing place. The Axing Gentleman lunged forward and took a swipe at the Battler, taking off bits of the Battler’s mask as he fell back out of the way of the truck.
The Axing Gentleman took the force of the truck head on while the Battler bounced safely to a sidewalk. All of the families burst from their homes and cheered, heading straight for the Battler and lifting him up on their shoulders. He was raised just in time to see the ad for Charlie Drink on the back of the truck, the most delicious deus ex machina he could ever ask for.
5.
Sometimes I’m a bit jealous of the zombies because they get to live forever, or at least until I come along. I imagine I’ll become a zombie myself whenever I get taken out, which seems to be an eventuality: the more I fight, the more it seems like my battles are nothing but a string of good luck. It won’t be long before something comes along to cut that string.
Do zombies retain any semblance of their former personalities? Is there a single blue spark of electricity running inside them, that little current we like to call the soul? If so, am I murdering people instead of destroying zombies? I can’t answer these questions and most of the scientists are too frightened to try. If this is the end of the world then I suppose that the answers don’t really matter, and neither do the questions in that case. I should really go kiss my girlfriend.
I’m not good with questions and I’m not good with answers. I’m not even all that sure if I’m good with fighting. This is just a hobby. This is just something that happens until I become the president of whatever company my parents want me to be the president of, and then when I’m there I’ll have other people do all the work for me. I’ll just look out the window at the city I tried to save. I wonder how many fires there’ll be.
Why do I do any of the things that I do? Is it to maintain my girlfriend? Is it to live forever? Aargh, thinking sucks. It’s time to fight. Goodbye.
Concluded in Part 4: FINAL SHOWDOWN ON TOOTHPICK STREET
Part 1: THE BATTLER
Part 2: BATTLE AT THE VERY CONVENIENCE VARIETY MART
Part 3: BATTLE IN THE SUBURBS
Part 4: FINAL SHOWDOWN ON TOOTHPICK STREET