Post by 23skidoo on Oct 2, 2010 8:51:30 GMT -5
I was dead, and brains were becoming more important than looks in women for me.
This was a bad state of affairs and had to be rectified.
So where do you go when the city's gone to shit and you need to get a needle? Where other than Maltons most famous RP - St Swithuns Churvh in Yagoton, operational hub of the YRC.
They did not disappoint, even with a mini horde rampaging at Bale Mall the service was swift and painless. Once human again I decided to show my appreciation by lending a hand and working the line.
Then, after about a week of injections and chit chat I popped into the church to find none other than Nickolay, my drink sodden friend and fellow newsman sleeping one off in the confessional.
I gave him a kick and a slap, tried pouring holy water on his head, even blew a conch right into his ear, but nothing. I've seen him like this before, shortly after the Russians retook Stalingrad, and short of Hitler sticking a trident up his ass nothing was going to bring him round!
Pulling a blanket around his shoulders I left him to his coma and popped back into Whatmore NT. I asked if the good people there could keep an eye on my classy colleague and patch him up if any of their clients got bitey. Most were on board with this but the doom mongers were having none of it.
'He'll draw in the wrong sort of zombie!', 'It'll be the end of us all', Kill the bastard!!!'
Every day their venomous voices were coming through louder and louder, wailing about their need to cleanse the church of the living by any means necessary. I did what I could. If I saw them shaving I'd replace their mirrors with my naked arse and ask if they could tell the difference. I bent their needles and stole their booze. I argued with the logic of Socrates and the passion of Plato but it was futile. Like demented zealots they were determined to kill Nickolay for the crime of sleeping one off in a church.
What happened next was grim, but there was no way these fuck wits were getting to shoot their load over this C4NT. I mixed a little vodka with my buckshot and emptied both barrels into Nick's still sozzled head. The deed was done, the blight removed and forever more will the News Team view certain members of the YRC with a sense of scathing generally reserved for Mantooth and his Channel 2 ilk.
I know that the majority of them are a classy bunch, but when you have an open door membership policy that doesn't vet applicants on looks and style then what can you expect.
Me and Nickolay have chatted since, and he knew why I did what I did and was glad it was me rather than one of them.
2 days later Whatmore was overrun by the dead, but I was there and saw Zeus riding a horse called Justice at their head.
Stay Classy Malton....or else!
This was a bad state of affairs and had to be rectified.
So where do you go when the city's gone to shit and you need to get a needle? Where other than Maltons most famous RP - St Swithuns Churvh in Yagoton, operational hub of the YRC.
They did not disappoint, even with a mini horde rampaging at Bale Mall the service was swift and painless. Once human again I decided to show my appreciation by lending a hand and working the line.
Then, after about a week of injections and chit chat I popped into the church to find none other than Nickolay, my drink sodden friend and fellow newsman sleeping one off in the confessional.
I gave him a kick and a slap, tried pouring holy water on his head, even blew a conch right into his ear, but nothing. I've seen him like this before, shortly after the Russians retook Stalingrad, and short of Hitler sticking a trident up his ass nothing was going to bring him round!
Pulling a blanket around his shoulders I left him to his coma and popped back into Whatmore NT. I asked if the good people there could keep an eye on my classy colleague and patch him up if any of their clients got bitey. Most were on board with this but the doom mongers were having none of it.
'He'll draw in the wrong sort of zombie!', 'It'll be the end of us all', Kill the bastard!!!'
Every day their venomous voices were coming through louder and louder, wailing about their need to cleanse the church of the living by any means necessary. I did what I could. If I saw them shaving I'd replace their mirrors with my naked arse and ask if they could tell the difference. I bent their needles and stole their booze. I argued with the logic of Socrates and the passion of Plato but it was futile. Like demented zealots they were determined to kill Nickolay for the crime of sleeping one off in a church.
What happened next was grim, but there was no way these fuck wits were getting to shoot their load over this C4NT. I mixed a little vodka with my buckshot and emptied both barrels into Nick's still sozzled head. The deed was done, the blight removed and forever more will the News Team view certain members of the YRC with a sense of scathing generally reserved for Mantooth and his Channel 2 ilk.
I know that the majority of them are a classy bunch, but when you have an open door membership policy that doesn't vet applicants on looks and style then what can you expect.
Me and Nickolay have chatted since, and he knew why I did what I did and was glad it was me rather than one of them.
2 days later Whatmore was overrun by the dead, but I was there and saw Zeus riding a horse called Justice at their head.
Stay Classy Malton....or else!