Hello, and welcome to Sunday Reads (the Thursday edition).
“Debbie Does the Apocalypse” originally appeared in Thirteen Stories and Paintings, my first collaboration with Byron Rempel. We originally met on the late and lamented Google+. I knew no one on the platform and poked around to see if there was anything interesting. I ran into a guy from Manitoba who was doing a Kickstarter to paint a thousand zombie horde. I thought it was cool and shared the link, tagging him in the post. He thanked me and I asked if he did book covers. He asked if I paid for book covers, and a beautiful writer-artist friendship began. One day, he sent me the picture you see below. I responded “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” He replied “Well, write a story about her.”
So I did.
Please enjoy this story of love (ish) and zombies.
When Rob first mentioned it, I flat-out refused. I didn’t care how much money I owed or who I owed it to. I have standards, even if they are pretty low.
“All will be forgiven, Bro. Just takes one time.”
“Who does that, and who the hell wants to see that? I mean, I’ve been with some nasty girls, but they were... alive.”
“Z-porn’s big, Bro. Do it once, the bad men go away. You don’t owe a dime. Hell, make yourself a few bucks...”
“How much...”
“Enough to make it worth your while.” I was tired of running. I made some dumb-ass moves. I wanted out of the hole. I didn’t want to do it like this, but I had to get out.
“Yeah, fine. Tell me where and when.”
He gave me an address for an old industrial park. I got there, and the whole place had the metallic stank of rotting Z. I could hear them chained up in the back. Great. I knew the fluffer would have her work cut out for herself. Rob was on the set. “You’re late.” He was always a jerk, but something in his voice killed off anything I was going to say. He threw me a towel and pointed to a place to change. Taking my clothes off, I looked at my cock. Between the smell, Rob, and knowing what I had to do, a squad of cheerleaders wouldn’t have gotten me ready. Hell, it was all I could do not to puke.
Not that I had a choice. I blew a lot of money at the track. The problem being that none of it was mine, and the guys I was supposed to be holding it for had no problems breaking my legs as a warm up.
Make it go away, I kept telling myself, it’ll be over soon. Z-porn, from my understanding, was pretty short. Not much of a plot, even by industry standards. Just a wham-bam kind of deal. I tried to focus, and stepped out on to the set. It was the usual thing: lots of lights, a bored-looking guy with a camera, a bed. There were a few Z-P touches, too, including chains, fake blood, and a prop piece of wood across a prop window. I stood there as my fluffer got to work. I almost felt bad for her as they led my co-star in.
“This is Big Debbie,” Rob said, not looking up from his clipboard. She was massive, six foot in any direction.
“Dude, what the hell am I...”
“Relax, Bro. We’ve got a system. It’s all perfectly...”
At this point, “the system” included Debbie slamming a moonlighting linebacker into a wall.
Fortunately for Mr. Football, she was chained up, so she couldn’t sink her pearly greens into him.
None of this was helping my mindset at all, nor was it doing my fluffer any favors, although to her credit, she kept soldiering on. At this point, Rob suggested a cocktail while they were getting Debbie ready for her close-up. I figured they’d have a little something in my drink to help me get going. Instead, I was out cold in minutes. I woke up on set, with Rob shoving smelling salts under my nose.
“Rise and shine! Time to make the biscuits.” I was bare-assed and chained to the bed.
“What the...”
“Sorry, Man. Better market for this stuff. I hate like hell to do this, but you aren’t the only one who can’t pick a good horse. Nothing personal.” He turned and left the set.
I screamed and screamed as they unchained Debbie.
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