The Dead Walk No More

[Bonnie Blue]

The Dead Walk No More

Blackness fills the screen. A disembodied voice drifts with lilting grace into the scene.


Bonnie Blue: You opened the door, Morpheus; now I gotta walk through it.


Illumination! In the distant background is the interior of what appears to be a vast cavern -- in reality, a papier-mache construct on a wirework frame. Nearer is a large section of greenscreen, and before it, a 1971 Ford Ranchero mounted on a gimbal. There's a bustle in the hedgerow as crew members scurry back and forth, moving props or set pieces from one place to another. Bonnie Blue leans against the hood of the car, watching the activity for a moment before she turns, beaming, to the camera.


Bonnie Blue: Hi, there, Honey Boo-Boo! Yeah, you know I'm talkin' to you, ya coke-snortin', Casey Jones, Old 97 drivin' jive ass motherfucker. That ol' Fourth Wall never does last too long around you, now, does it, sugarnuts?


Riddle me this, Deadman: How a troll be so thirsty, livin' under a bridge?


You say you're hardcore, but it's more like hard-bore;
Jive ass turkey makin' me snore.
Think ya got fiyah, you a two-alarm bitch;
That burnin' ya feelin' ain't your jock itch.


Like mothafuckin' Solomon Grundy,
Gonna get your ass buried on Sunday.
This time you're stayin' down;
I don't fuck around.
Just another manic Monday.


Look, it fit the fucking rhyme scheme, ok? Don't judge me.


At this point, Bonnie stops talking to light an enormous 18-inch long blunt that seems to have appeared from nowhere.


Bonnie Blue: So listen up, Grundy. If this shit was the Walking Dead, I'd be motherfucking Darryl, all with my crossbow and shit. Come to think of it, "Zombie" is a great act for ya. 'Cause ya can't no more rise from the grave than travel through time, right? Except it really fits you. Mindless, rotting corpse that just keeps doin' the same damn shit over an' over an' over. Redundant. Irrelevant. Yesterday's trash.


You ain't Horror-Kore, Honey Boo-Boo. Just horribly corny.


That's why I'ma have to take a rain check on that necro-feel-ya. I ain't interested in no two-pump chump, and I sure as hell don't need to contract Zomborrhea. Thanks, but no thanks.


Since I'd have to satisfy myself anyway, I'll do it by killin' you so hard that even Nekron couldn't resurrect your knockoff Black Hand ass.


And so saying, Bonnie smiles sweetly at the camera. At a gesture, the "set" dissolves away around her, leaving only the girl and the car, parked on a bit of asteroid, with all of the cosmos serving as backdrop. Then, even that fades away into blackness, leaving only one final comment from that mellifluous Southern drawl.


Bonnie Blue: Tempus vindice, y'all...