Flesh eating ice cleaner is called a Zombonie.
I had a handful of a highball glass full of a mixed drink that was concocted through random pouring of long necked bottles. The aroma hinted faintly at cherry but its color was a fading brown like an old piece of paper. It tasted bad. All alcohol did, but it tasted bad to a lesser degree and in the world of mixed drinks that meant it tasted good. I wasn't much in the state of mind to argue semantics because my stomach was already numb and soaked in "good" bad liquid and it made my brain send out telegraph to my inhibitions telling them they could have the night off. One of the inhibitions was the one that tells you not swallow drinks that make you cough. So, ice cubes were clinking, I was drinking, and my throat was wondering why it kept burning. All the while the room was a great sailing ship and swayed. My vision was fuzzy like those glamour photographs they take of models. I was drunk, but I wouldn't admit it. I just sat in a fake leather arm chair and sank slowly into it. The conversation that was being tossed left and right about the room no longer piqued my interest and I was contented with drifting off in a stupid sleep.
I woke up in the same black arm chair that I drunkenly decided to make my bed. My face was greasy, my mouth was dry, and I had an overwhelming urge to pee. Miraculously enough, I was still holding half a glass of the now watered down mystery drink and the very thought of bringing it to my lips made my stomach shudder. I lackadaisically set it on the end table in the midst of empty beer bottles and television remotes. It was then I realized my head was slowly throbbing with pain and my joints felt rigid and unused for some years. I half expected to have a fine layer of cobwebs in the folds of my clothing. It was afternoon already or was it? I squinted and kept my eyes half shut. A few bars of thick, golden sunlight burst through the places where the blinds had broken and small pieces of dust danced about with each other until they vanished into the otherwise unlit room. The floor was littered with half alive bodies sprawled out in uncomfortable positions, various food wrappers that seemed to have appeared from thin air, and a deck of red and white playing cards scattered just about everywhere. A pair of socked feet peeked out of doorway that belonged to an unknown someone who must have found the threshold to be a particularly appealing place to sleep. I found myself comparing my bedding arrangement to that of the socked figure's and praising my obviously superior sleeping locale.
The bathroom, which at this point I was very interested in using, was up the steps and down a hallway. This is mundane task under normal circumstances, but at the moment in question my back was a balled up fist and I had to navigate through sea of sleeping persons. I hefted myself from the chair and was greeted by the quiet squeal of floorboards. I plotted a mental course around the obstacles and set off stumbling to the opposite side of the room where the staircase was situated. The house was silent apart from my breathing and footfalls, which was an odd occurrence because it was usually a clamor with conversation or at least the background noise a television set. I traversed the path with little incident but my back was still taut like a tug of war rope as I ascended the even creakier steps. My stumble became an even lazier shuffle through the upstairs hallway and then finally to the bathroom door. I carelessly pushed the door open, because there wasn't a knob to speak of, and made a beeline for the toilet. The seat was up, a tell tale sign that this was a man's house (at least to stand up comedians and popular culture.)
Fulfilling a bodily desire and need is one of the most glorious feelings ever created. This mid-morning urination was no exception. I was let out a sigh of relief to allow anyone who was listening know how satisfied I was with the fact that I was peeing. The door was wide open. The ordeal seemed to have lasted for several minutes, when in actuality it was only a matter of seconds, and when I was finished I flushed the toilet proclaiming my victory over my own body's liquid wastes.
I probed my mouth with my tongue and became frightfully aware that it had the texture of a glass of warm milk. It was thick, creamy, and it seemed as if would cling to whatever it touched. I eyed up the mouthwash and then poured myself a cap full. As it proceeded towards my lips I realized that the clear blue substance in a small cup that smelled of alcohol sent all the right signals and if it had been the night before the mouthwash would have already been in my stomach. My inhibitions were still on the fritz, but not completely awry. My common sense must have been waking up. I swished, gargled, and spit just like they do on TV.
By the time I was done with my morning ritual and I could hear moans and groans of people downstairs. My morning activities were the domino that tipped the day into action as a few souls had awoken and they decided to clamor out of their makeshift floor beds. Thumping, grating, and creaking, all bustled below but no words were uttered. It was if everyone was hobbling around blindfolded swinging wildly with hands and feet like they were treading water on land. I descended the stair case, walking like an old man, awaiting some mutterings and waves from friends and strangers.
At first I really didn't believe it. It was on the very tip of my brain enough so that I acknowledged its existence but not quite that I recognized the ramifications. The concept was teeter-tottering. If I had been able to grasp the gravity of the situation I would have probably bounded up the steps while screaming till my vocal cords were useless flaps of muscle and tried to make a daring escape out of the window like I had seen in so many action movies. As it was however, I stood dumbfounded with my mouth agape like a grown man who's never seen fireworks before with my hand froze in the air gesturing hello.
Blood was everywhere. On the floors, the television, and even the chair that was my bed. The walls looked like some kind of morbid crimson spin art and the hardwood seemingly had conglomerated into shallow, shiny puddles. It was a thick and nearly black liquid.
The cluster of frayed knots that was my stomach jumped to my throat and then proceeded to free fall somewhere near my feet and at just about the same time my knees decided to take a break. I had never seen a zombie before in my life, which may have explained my lack of fight or flight. There was silence and I watched the events unfold from outside my own body in slow motion. In my disembodied state I could see how silly I looked still holding my hand above my head seemingly waving to my inevitable killers.
Everyone who was sleeping downstairs, as far as I could tell, was now a flesh eating monster with ridiculous, yet unnerving, gum ball eyes. If zombies were high tide then I was the shore. They washed upon me with hungry mouths and grabbing hands. I couldn't have let out a whimper to stop them.
Just a little diddy I've been working on. It's unfinished business. Unfinished business always sounds like vengeful wrath is going to be dished out to a backstabbing best friend. I have been actually working for my Grandmother which is an unfortunate turn of events as I am used to slacking off and taking naps on the clock. Not literally of course, because incessant ticking would prohibit me from doing the doze. I cleaned out the front of my father's house and found a few gems such as: his senior pictures, a manual type writer, an army duffle bag, a framed picture of the 1990's summit between George Bush Sr. and President Gorbachev, and a dinosaur fun facts book. Other things that were found and not considered gems are as follows: syringes, random electrical cords, approximately one hundred and eight dremel tool boxes and not a single dremel to be found, a bail of hay, jaw bones of deer, a cow skull, a shopping cart full of Easter decorations, and a manual push mower. My Dad has a crazy disease that makes him crazy, no joke.
Less than a month before I get to hit on and get hit on by the good lookin' ladies. I am going to have my own swinging bachelor pad that is welcome to any girl barring attractiveness and ability to not be annoying. I'm an accepting soul but standards are standard.
Kyle Lee Hufnagel
"I used to think that when people soiled themselves they just buried themselves in dirt. I found out later they only bury their bottoms in dirt."