“So, if the zombies are coming to town, why exactly are we coming back here?”“Don’t call them that.”“But they are—““No, they’re not. They’re mutants or science gone awry orsomething. Anything but zombies.” “How would that be better?”
— Daniel Younger
“Little is known about the love lives of the undead. Really, past the brain-eating, reanimated corpse angle, not much is said for the zombie’s perspective. So they ate brains—big deal! Sure, they were corpses—so what? Indeed, there was the smell, but whose fault was that?At first glance they were brain-hungry cannibals, (Mmm, brains. Maybe with a little cilantro or a garlic rub—mashed potatoes and brainsloaf—brains pot pie—penne a la brains…) but in reality, zombies were not the mindless man-eaters or virus-addled lunatics jonesing for human flesh depicted in the movies. Just like everything in life—or rather, unlife—things were more complicated. Zombies were, until very recently, people. And with that came wants, desires, longings. Needs.Asher had been troubled by the zombie loneliness until Brenda, the attractive corpse he’d met in a less animated state earlier, pulled him into the cemetery, threw him down on a slab and shagged him silly.”
— Daniel Younger
“There are probably more of us. If we’re all zombies, thenthere’s got to be more. I say we go up to the cemetery and find out.”“Can we get soda on the way?”Nothing washes down brains better than a can of Coca Cola and a little shameless product placement. (Hey, the undead do have an image problem.)“Soda and cemeteries! Soda and cemeteries!” they chanted. “And braaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiins!”“Hey Bernie, you’re getting pretty good at that.”“Okay, you try.”“Braaa—” the zombie belched, ”—aiiinsss.”Earl heaved the coroner’s body out of the way. They headed off for the cemetery, each trying furiously to perfect their own, unique and personal call for brains like an undead choir, out of tune.“Braaaaiiiiins!” “Braaiiiiiiiinns!” “Braaaaaaaaaains!” “Bray-uns.”“That was just awful.” …Away into the night.”
— Daniel Younger
“I’m only doing one more,” Ruby said, scrolling through her phone. “Nobody likes a day-drunk hussie.”“Hey, give yourself some credit. You’ll be a really cute day- drunk hussie.”
— Daniel Younger
“Reggie, you wrapped your sports car around a telephone pole after drinking a bar.” “Yeah… But I was wearing my seatbelt.”
— Daniel Younger
“It’s worth noting here that dragons are magical creatures. It’s also worth following that up with a big, fat, duh.”
— Daniel Younger
“Awkward conversations. They’re the heart of the drug trade. The driving force that keeps criminals out of jail is paranoia. You can think you know people, but the truth is, you never know who they’re talking to. The life of an outlaw: Around every corner lies a cop. In every basement waits a bust. Every friend is the guy who sells you out to keep his own ass out of jail. Sure, it was rare, but you just never knew.The result was a series of shorthand and euphemisms so obscure even the pros often weren’t sure what they were talking about. Sales became pickups. Pot, ganja, bud, or weed became lettuce, green, happy, herb, smoke… the list went on, and changed from dealer to dealer.”
— Daniel Younger
“This existenitalist stuff sure is crap”
— Daniel Younger
“There is a weird kind of anonymity a roller coaster provides: It’s populated, but everyone’s too preoccupied with whirling around the roof of a casino to eavesdrop. It runs a fixed amount of time, has minimal surveillance for lack of a way to descramble the audio, and it’s conveniently out of earshot for certain writer- types who might scribble down the plan.”
— Daniel Younger
“Nice driving, ya doomed fucks!”
— Daniel Younger
“If there’s anything in life that’s an undisputed fact, it’s this: Buildings with strange symbols carved in their lintels are bad news. You rarely find symbols leading to unicorns and fields of candy—and even that’s bad news if you’re diabetic.”
— Daniel Younger
“She waited. She waited so excruciatingly long that she could physically feel the time pass; a binding in her chest, her breath shallow and raspy. Silence seemed to stuff itself in her ears like cotton balls.”
— Daniel Younger
“The Baron was good with two things: sex, and death. And what was sex anyway—what was orgasm but what the French (those cunning linguists of the language of love) referred to as a Little Death? What was life but a ticking clock toward the grave, and how did life start but with an unfettered hump toward morning?”
— Daniel Younger