| >> | Primary Weapon > Diamonds Handgun > Mauser Mods > Handgun scope Close Range > x8 land mines Survival: Last bucket of motherfuckin' K-fry Clothing: Football Gear (yes) Start: Rooftop Transport > Old school race car Sidekick > Should have been Bryan Cranston Twist > Rainy weather, harder to detect, but diarrhea or someshit. Boss > Zombie Overmind ( Can walk through walls for some reason, needs a line of sight to attack with telepathy, but maybe he can read my mind and we can reason shit out, if not, it's ok, I'm on a roof, he can't fucking fly)
I'm not very fucked, maybe just slightly.
I survive on the rooftop with the bucket of K-Fry, it'd last me a while, assuming that it's an original recipe, and family variety. After things start looking dismal on the roof top, I scout out for my old school hot rod that I had just traded half of my quantity of diamonds for, before the holocaust began. I notice a few survivors' heads exploding in the distance while observing it with my scope, and recognize a small nerdy child that used to go to my nephews high school. He's got glasses, braces, the works. Unfortunately for the cave-troll virgin that is him, he has joined the other side. But all of those years spent modding Oblivion and masturbating to progressively harsher porn has warped this boy's mind into a telepathic phenom, and he can now control telepathic wave-lengths at short distances. I observe his butt hurt expression whilst he implodes the skulls of the scarce living. "He's a doozey" I say aloud, chuckling at my originality. Days pass, and I decide it's time to retrieve my vehicle. On the way to my ride, I see an old friend of mine, B-ry Cranston, busting domes as he rolls through the suburban street in a well fitted R-V. He pulls over after decimating the asses of the un-dead, and yells "It should have been me" through the window. I know this guy still holds reason. I sprint to my Hot rod, but suddenly feel the tireless burn of fluid feces lashing it's way towards my rim. I've got to make this ride. As I near the vehicle, the burning turns into a cool sensation as the soggy stool slides down my left leg, staining my torn slacks further. No matter, I'm in the comfort of my 1920's packard roadster, set to blaze the new frontier of contagious death as I see fit, with all of the blue meth a post apocalyptic doom rider could dream of. |