His job was simple. Simple. Just go up the guy’s door, and tell him that he was being kicked out of his house. Then the city waited. Frank didn’t like his job; it was easy enough to tell. Working for a big greedy bank was bad enough, but having to evict the people that the bank was destroying hardly made a guy any more popular. He didn’t even bother to button up his coat, though it was a terribly cold day to be early October.
Frank Billings was 26, with dark hair and green eyes. His suit was stained with smoke and he had a perpetual five o’ clock shadow. A cigarette dangled from his lip at all times, and whenever he wasn’t already drinking plenty of vodka he indulged in Coca Cola. He was a wreck. But such is the result of men whose dreams are not realized. His car was dirty and ill-kept, which was fine since he intended to clean it that weekend. Whenever “that weekend” was, didn’t bother him a bit.
His car rattled up the hill. Whoever this fellow was, he must at one time have been pretty comfortable. The dirt road stretched up al the way to the top of the mountain, and the evictee lived halfway up in what may be dubbed a cabin-mansion. From where he was Frank could see the entire city stretched before him, jaggedly contrasting to the sky, which had by that time gotten to be a weak kind of yellow. It was about 4:00, he assumed. His watch had been lost when he went to lunch one day at a deli, and it fell out of his pocket onto the counter. Apparently, an immensely fat woman with an insatiable hankering for Chicken Caesar wraps had somehow mixed it up in with her sandwich, and devoured the entirety. Rather than wait to get it back he just went without one. It was probably the better choice.
The road continued up, and up, and on either side were thick, impenetrable pine tree forest. If he weren’t in such a bad mood he would have remarked to himself how beautiful the area was. But he was in a bad mood... a considerably bad mood. In the news the Koreans were threatening invasion again, and the UN was hesitant to respond. Worse than that though, he was passed up for a raise for the fourth time.
He didn’t know a lot about the guy being kicked off his property, other than that he was a prominent scientist, and it was rumored he had contracts with the Department of Defense. He wasn’t being foreclosed because he couldn’t afford it that was for sure.
He finally drove to the top of the peak, and he saw as expected a lovely mansion-cabin, with large windows comprising the majority of the walls. He parked the car sloppily in front of the house, and crawled out of. As he swung open the door several empty coke bottles fell out. “Mehh, screw it.” He walked up to the large oak door, and knocked.
The door was already open, and so he walked in. As he did he heard from somewhere in the house the crooning of Frank Sinatra. The inside of the house was warm and cozy, with an orange kind of glow emanating from the wood paneled walls. Bookshelves and filing cabinets were here and there, and papers were tossed all about. If not for the chaos and disorder of the furnishings, it would have been a nice place to sit and relax.
Frank called out "Excuse me? Mr. Duff?" He went from room to room, and all over things looked basically disheveled. Finally, he went into the kitchen. "I get no kick from champagne... Mere alcohol, it doesn't move me at all..." Apparently the record player was in the kitchen. Speaking of the kitchen again, it was perhaps the neatest room Mr. Billings had yet seen in the house. All decked along the counters and larder were good looking foods... devil cake, candy apples, pecan pie, and a generous quantity of Pepsi Cola. He scoffed at the last one. After all, what kind of fool can stand to drink Pepsi Cola, when Coca Cola is so much better? "... So tell me why should it be true... that I get a kick" but across the way was what most enticed Frank: an unopened bottle of absinthe "outta you."
“And what exactly did you think I was planning to do with fifty cases of puffer fish poison!?... Ha, try and say that five times fast and I’ll give you a cookie.” “I don’t want any of your damned dirty cookies! At the moment there are things more important to concern ourselves with!” Outside the studio a dozen zombies had made out of the woods, and spotted them in the tall windows.
“Mary, we have to get out of here now!” “Well hell if I’m stopping you!” Mr. Duff went back to his reading as if they had never been there. They began to race down the stairs, only to find that at the bottom of the flight there were several zombies eyeing them hungrily. “Well that’s nice, back up the stairs!” The doctor looked up at them a moment, only to say “Oh and how are we doing?” “Zombies! On the lower floor!
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