The Fuckno Wars Chapter 12 INCHES

“Please don’t tell me everything will be wonderful now.”  -Arthur Alexakis, 411 B.C.

Nothing would end up well for anyone.

THE FUCKNO WARS

 CHAPTER 12 



INCHES

Civilian  by Wye Oak

Glinty McFlintlock’s Cabin On The Moon was the shack that had gone missing in the desert.  141 Mettle.  The hearse in the desert and the carriage on the moon were married to each other.  The fat punk rocker and the old cowboy preacher ghost were connected by blood, and also Tellesco, whom was now known as No One,  The King Of Tears.

THE KING OF TEARS

A young man who was descended from the kings of Scotland stood before his army of Blue Faces in a secret cemetery.  He held a young child on his back, and she could finally see.  She held sight that No One could see at all.

A young punk in a corridor high up in the drowned mansion witnessed the power of the Blue Faces.  There were now many more of the enemy running up the stairwells to do one thing.

Kill.

A little punk with the heart of a lion decided to fight, after all.  He had only his bare hands.  He would get that small pick-up truck parked and running by the power station, because he understood that when it comes down to the bare essence, one must ride or die.

A young man who had served his time, and also the time of his best friends, well, he drove a large semi-rig to save them.  He would cause great damage.  He was haunted by a dead girl who spoke in sibilance, and she frosted the air with her presence across the seat from him.

The Purple Robes were on their way as well, for this was the nexus of the first engagement of the Fuckno Wars.

And yet, there was something else happening.

It was the viral spread of the curse of the diseased Walkin.

Sven infected Seen, once known as Sean,  and his infection spread like wildfire.

That was the cause of the destruction of the desert megalopolis of Fuckno.

WALKINS ARE WELCOME

Seen, the Walkin who now infected Sean, our lost friend, had been infected by Sven, the serial killer.

The Walkin infected the soul of each person he now killed, in his rampage.

The bodies he left behind would be discovered, and they would be ugly to see.

However, this is not a tale about the living dead.  The dead cannot simply become undead.  There is no such thing as a zombie.  This is a tale about Walkins, of which not much is known.  There is a knowledge gap about Walkins.

Please allow me to fill in your gap. 

Evidently, the folks who had met their end in such an ungraceful manner at the hands of the infected Walkin were now left without their bodies.  In their departure, they had become infected by him.  He was a Walkin without a true north anymore.  He had eaten the flesh of the dead.

They acquired both the knowledge and the diseases of each other.

Addict, thief, serial killer.

Now they went looking for new bodies to inhabit. 

Now, they were Walkins.

They did not bother with the dead.

Walkins seek living bodies of those who have temporarily left, gone away, taken a dive, succumbed, passed out, blacked out, in a coma, or even just day-dreamed.

Always mind your leather.

Your leather is your skin.

There were plenty of hollow souls in the south of Fuckno, and that was like a parking garage of automobiles with the keys in the ignition, and the engines running.

That there, my friend, was how the Walkin built an army.

He simply hadn’t intended to do such a thing.

The Regulator   by Clutch

THE BIG TRUCK

The gleaming black semi rig hummed on the old, crumbly tar, lit by the red moon overhead.  It had lost its trailer, but it had gained a passenger.

The young man at the wheel looked over to his hitch hiker, and she pointed left.  She indicated the lane to head toward the drowned mansion.

The heavy engine vibrated the broken, crumbly tar beneath it.  This old road had not been built to hold such a huge beast.  Chunks of tar weakened beneath the giant wheels and fell apart.  The big truck was making a mess of the skinny road.

The young man nodded at the direction his cold passenger pointed towards, and then he put that huge bitch in gear.  He would have to go slowly.  He would have to inch along.

He didn’t need to wake the neighbors, nor alarm the purple robes before he arrived.

Inches, baby, can be miles long.

You got it ?

Let’s go.

On Sunday.  I got a surprise for you.  Me and my favorite redneck ‘Tucky been working on something for you.

First him, and then me.

The Fuckno Wars will commence tomorrow.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

Chopin’s Opus 27 Numba 2 in D flat major, from a Stradivari Quartet.  Them fiddles are those fancy violins, you know.  I once knew a dude called Lenny Sostenuto, so perhaps he should be included in this tale.  He will go to sleep slowly, if anything at all.

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