Ok, so maybe I wasn’t actually attacked. And maybe this is an incredibly short story, but that doesn’t mean it does not need to be told. I’m walking home yesterday, in my 37th block out of 40 and some change, in the sweaty home stretch, when I hear an average call of “Miss, can you spare any change.” I honestly don’t have any. For real. Like no joke. Dead ass. Maybe there was 3 to 6 pennies in the far crahvasses of my white, faux crocodile purse. But it’s fuckin’ hot and I have Pinkberry melting in a bag at my side (hence the no monies. Although, kidlets, I will tell you this, they are doing a frequent buyer card where when you buy 5 you get one for free!!! Yey, for poor Pinkberry lovers everywhere!) So I look up to at least tell the dude I don’t have any change, I figure it’s better to be honest than ignore the poor guy. Then I realize he is a member of that fair race: the undead.
He is painfully hip from the waist down: intentional but oh so nonchallantly torn stockings covered half way by beat up combat boots that would make even Daria drool.
He has covered these hole-y pantyhose with a red and yellow tube shift of some sort. I missed whatever was covering him from about the top of his ribs to his shoulders. Whatever clothes were involved were way less important than the red paint/fake blood/demented demon sweat that was covering his clavacles. Upon further inspection, and it’s in about 1 and a half seconds, I notice that this crusty red curry that is all over him is actually weeping from his dead and ironic eyes.
And, to top off this whole breathtaking ensemble, is a cheap and chic (Moschino, you ask?) gauze veil wrapped ever-so swiftly, but surely, around his forehead and eyes. If eyes are the window to the soul then these had a view of nuclear waste dump. So then, just as I’m trying to figure out where such a creature comes from and why he’s so close to not only a church but more importantly, my house, he belches out a response. “Excuse me? Come back here…” it starts to trail of here because I probably started walking faster fearing his crusty neo-goth zombie wrath, but I’m pretty sure I heard some kind of a Steven King curse involving lots of spit and hissing.
I managed not to get run over or spontaneously combust on my way home and my Pinkberry, although slightly melty, was ever-so delicious. So mayhap he blessed me or maybe he’s just an overheated zombie hipster, looking for the perfect Rob Zombie-ette to spend the long summer nights with. Sorry my spangled majorette vest and bougie nails didn’t cut it. Oh well, keep on being creepy and your necro-Elvira will come, I’m sure of it.