@Natty:
Talk about almost getting kicked out of the library….I LOL'd when reading this.
What did your roomate say after you told him? Did he doubt your explanation?
Here's the extended version for those curious.
The dream was your basic horror scenario; surrounded by hordes of the undead, my gun had just run out of ammunition echoing that ominous click in my mind. Refusing to give up to my zombie attackers, I throw down the weapon, yell out a conan-like warcry, and dive headlong flailing my arms like a drowning five-year-old in the deep end of the pool.
At this point I wake up, cold sweat, heart still pounding. However, when I'm in my 'between' state, everything seems distorted and my memory only recollects the last few moments of my dream. Rather than wondering why I'm in my bed, inside my apartment with the sun blinding my eyes, I'm just grateful I got away from the undead horde. I take a few shaky steps, still feeling the adrenaline pulsing through my system with every heartbeat.
Then I hear it. A slight groan just touches the edge of my senses. You know that feeling you get when you hear something that you know is bad news, like a dog growling behind you, or the shocked yelp of your mother as she walks in on you masturbating, something that shocks your nervous system so hard everything goes back to caveman instincts fight or flight, that's me.
I jump back immediately and turn to look where the sound came from. A normal person would see their roomate, shabbily dressed in a tattered robe and sweatpants coming the down the hall, groaning and shaking his head from the huge hangover he got (and I should have had, goddamn designated driver) last night. But not me. As far as I'm concerned zombies walk the earth, and they had tracked me with their zombie senses to my home. All I see is a shambling mass of dead flesh, head bobbing slightly upward with akward groans escaping its now useless lungs.
I can't say anything I'm so scared, but I've got nowhere to run. A smarter person might have gone back to their room and locked the door, but the last vision of my dream was still fresh in my mind. I didn't run from a hundred zombies then, I'm sure as shit not going to run from one now.
I charge forward, close distance, rear back with my arm and drive my fist into the zombie's jaw, all the while thinking 'You won't take me alive you dead motherfucker!'. As soon as my fist impacted with the bone of his chin, I knew I made a terrible mistake. I've found there's one sensation that never appears in dreams and that's pain. As soon as my body feels pain, I'm snapped back to reality so hard I get mental whiplash. Needless to say, as I felt the jolt of pain course through the knuckles of my hand and my roomate crumple to the floor in a heap I was wide awake.
After making a collosal blunder such as this, in most people there will be an argument between panic and morality. Such was my case as I watched the mass of limbs that was my roomate lie motionless on the floor. Morality told me "Archibald, you've done something very stupid. You need to apologize to your friend and tend to his injuries; he could be seriously hurt". On the other side, Panic stated, "Oh fuck man. Fuck, shit, oh fuck we killed him man. We got to chop up his body and get to a pig farm quick man. We ain't going down for no zombie shit! Fuck he probably deserved that shit anyway!" In reality, I should be thankful that there wasn't anything blunt nearby or I could be telling you all the story about the time I have my friend a full, frontal lobotomy. Thankfully, before I could make the situation any worse, my friend rolled awake. Though I paraphrase the following conversation, it went something like this.
Me: A-Are you alright man.
Him: Yeah…fuck...oh god man...what the fuck happened.
A quick jolt runs through my brain connecting the evidence together like Holmes. He doesn't know I hit him.
Me: Oh man...Um...ya hit the fuckin' wall dude.
Him: What?
My stomach sinks. There's no way he's going to believe this, but I'm already started my lie, and if my dad taught me anything it's to follow things through.
Me: Yeah...you just tripped...and fuckin' smacked into it. Ya gotta watch where you're going.
Him: Oh...are you fuckin' serious.
My roomate, amidst groans of pain starts chuckling, still holding his chin which at this point had begun to swell slightly.
Him: Dude...I must still be trashed...I had so much last night...I'm fuckin' retarded.
Morality: Now this is just wrong-
Panic: Fuck you man, he's buying it.
At this point, I start to laugh along with him. Not because the situation itself is funny, but out of sheer disbelief that this is going to work.
Me: Oh yeah, you were just walking along and like...tripped over the carpet or something...and you landed akward like chin-first into the fuckin' wall.
Him still laughing: Fuck, I got so fucking wasted. Oh, help me out man. You think I should get this checked out or something, hurts like a bitch.
Me: No, no, I'm sure it's fine (At this point still fearful that some CSI-like doctor will be able to detect the knuckle residue from my huge hands). Just sit down a minute man, I'll get you some ice.
I move him into the couch in a small room and plop him down on it, fetching some ice and coffee like the great friend I am.
Me: Ya gonna be ok man?
Him: Yeah dude...just fuckin' hurts man.
Me: Alright, you take it easy.
As I turn to leave, the coup de gras of this situation strikes. The one phrase I will never forget from that moment on. The one thing he said that almost that made me want to convulse on the ground laughing so hard I thought my sides would literally split.
Him: Hey Archibald...you're a really good friend.
Yeah, I'm going to hell, but at least I showed those zombie motherfuckers what's up.