Wherein Bram Tells of Being Attacked by Zombies at Faire
Some time before Saturday night (I don't recall how much), Shadow and I had made some casual plans to have a zombie movie night this season at faire.
(For my first interruption of story, I'll explain that we don't plan "parties." When we actually make an effort to plan and take steps to host a party at the Blaskovian Embassy, Willy-Nilly, the plans invariably fall through, but when we are just hanging around drinking and listening to music, people invariably show up and join us. Things tend to happen at such parties, like a couple weeks ago when we hung a guy from the ceiling by his curly-toed boots (you know, like Xmas elves wear), some parachute cord and a wooden dowel. It was a great success and totally unplanned, so we don't plan gatherings; we let them happen organically.)
On Saturday night....after a hot, sticky, sweaty but financially-successful Saturday.....we brought out the lawn chairs, hooked my laptop to the surround sound system hidden in the rafters, and broke out Teh Rums. A good time was in the process of being had by us, and by any and all who happened to stop by.
I was manning the deck clicking through Winamp when I noticed a rattling-in-the-gravel noise, and shortly thereafter the sound of Shadow calling me over, so I left my playlist in the hands of fate (by way of continued interruption, my musical tastes are widely varied, and Ambassatrix Kace has issues with certain urban criminal poetry troupes and performers of which I am fond), and went to investigate.
The newest arrival to the goings-on was a gothy-artsy type woman with a hard-sided concourse case (the wheely kind of luggage with the extending handle....I'll stop interrupting eventually). She didn't give her name and I didn't ask, but Shadow told me she was a makeup artist, and knowing that I am/was also one, he thought I'd be interested.
Her case was full of all the things I remember fondly from the Nightmare. Prosthetics, creams, greasepaints, brushes, powders, stipple sponges and so forth, in an array and selection of colors I found very familiar. She gave her credentials as an alumnus of the Legion of Terror (a haunted house actor and crew guild in Northern Ohio, of great skill and reputation, but of ham-handed franchising ability; they were shut down here in the Queen City before they even began), and we started talking shop.
At this point she told me that she was on site to provide makeup skills for a zombie movie that some of the other rennies were filming after hours on the grounds. I wished her the best of luck, amused by the coincidence of things. I politely declined her invitation to assist, citing a desire to relax and "get my drink on," but asked that she send her finished works shambling down by the booth later so I could look them over, which she agreed to do.
The incident was forgotten for awhile. A drink was had. Music was played. Jokes and ritual friendly abuse occurred, as is the custom.
A shuffling noise came upon the Embassy, the slow kicky-draggy-in-the-gravel chuffing sound.
Out of the darkness, three zombies shambled dutifully towards the booth, eager to impress and hungry for my approval. And brains, presumably.
They looked the part well enough, all sunken eyes, sickly veins and clotted blood. I pronounced them quite skillfully rendered and returned to the counter in the booth to continue my work, leaving the rest of our assembly to marvel at their unlifelikeness.
I was smirking. My back was to them, and most of them didn't know me. It's probably for the best.
On the way back to the counter, I pulled Shadow aside and told him to break out the boffer weapons and be quiet about it (boffer weapons, made by the Safer Sword company, are shafts of hard material, usually wood or PVC pipe, with padding and covering at one end, in the style of a Nerf weapon;SCAdians will be immediately familiar with the idea). He slipped away, and I busied myself at my computer, looking for the right finishing element.
And there it was. Found, cued up, ready and waiting for Shadow to poke his head from the back room and indicate his readiness.
"Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen...
...as popularized in the film "Shaun of the Dead," during the beating of the zombie bartender in the Winchester.
I hit "Play," and as the slow intro to the song floated down from the rafters, I took the bundle of faux-weapons and distributed them to would-be assailants in our party likely to have seen the film.....which I'm sure were many, or at least enough.
Shadow sauntered into a head-on aspect, while I crept around the front of the building behind them, the others filling in.
And then, as the music swelled appropriately, I said: "Alright, blokes, last call at the bar," and we went in flailing.
Our choreography was weak compared to the source material, but we gave it our best go. To our credit, only one of the zombies managed to escape, him having broken character and run off during the intro to the song, knowing full well what was about to happen. The others got dutifully pummeled, and groaned and such in a fulfilling manner.
We were careful not to hit them too hard, or to smudge their makeup; that would've been rude.
But we attacked them undead sunsabitches for all we wuz worth.
A good time, it can be said with extreme confidence, was had by all. Or at least, all of us with drinks and boffer weapons in hand.
In closing the story, I'll say that it's quite something to be sitting around in the dark, watching a zombie movie on TV, and then to turn your head 90 degrees and watch a zombie movie being filmed in the midnight gloam of an after-hours Renaissance festival.
And there's nothing like the thrill of the weapon in your hand as you get to grips with a horde of the brain-munching undead.
Try it sometime.
(For my first interruption of story, I'll explain that we don't plan "parties." When we actually make an effort to plan and take steps to host a party at the Blaskovian Embassy, Willy-Nilly, the plans invariably fall through, but when we are just hanging around drinking and listening to music, people invariably show up and join us. Things tend to happen at such parties, like a couple weeks ago when we hung a guy from the ceiling by his curly-toed boots (you know, like Xmas elves wear), some parachute cord and a wooden dowel. It was a great success and totally unplanned, so we don't plan gatherings; we let them happen organically.)
On Saturday night....after a hot, sticky, sweaty but financially-successful Saturday.....we brought out the lawn chairs, hooked my laptop to the surround sound system hidden in the rafters, and broke out Teh Rums. A good time was in the process of being had by us, and by any and all who happened to stop by.
I was manning the deck clicking through Winamp when I noticed a rattling-in-the-gravel noise, and shortly thereafter the sound of Shadow calling me over, so I left my playlist in the hands of fate (by way of continued interruption, my musical tastes are widely varied, and Ambassatrix Kace has issues with certain urban criminal poetry troupes and performers of which I am fond), and went to investigate.
The newest arrival to the goings-on was a gothy-artsy type woman with a hard-sided concourse case (the wheely kind of luggage with the extending handle....I'll stop interrupting eventually). She didn't give her name and I didn't ask, but Shadow told me she was a makeup artist, and knowing that I am/was also one, he thought I'd be interested.
Her case was full of all the things I remember fondly from the Nightmare. Prosthetics, creams, greasepaints, brushes, powders, stipple sponges and so forth, in an array and selection of colors I found very familiar. She gave her credentials as an alumnus of the Legion of Terror (a haunted house actor and crew guild in Northern Ohio, of great skill and reputation, but of ham-handed franchising ability; they were shut down here in the Queen City before they even began), and we started talking shop.
At this point she told me that she was on site to provide makeup skills for a zombie movie that some of the other rennies were filming after hours on the grounds. I wished her the best of luck, amused by the coincidence of things. I politely declined her invitation to assist, citing a desire to relax and "get my drink on," but asked that she send her finished works shambling down by the booth later so I could look them over, which she agreed to do.
The incident was forgotten for awhile. A drink was had. Music was played. Jokes and ritual friendly abuse occurred, as is the custom.
A shuffling noise came upon the Embassy, the slow kicky-draggy-in-the-gravel chuffing sound.
Out of the darkness, three zombies shambled dutifully towards the booth, eager to impress and hungry for my approval. And brains, presumably.
They looked the part well enough, all sunken eyes, sickly veins and clotted blood. I pronounced them quite skillfully rendered and returned to the counter in the booth to continue my work, leaving the rest of our assembly to marvel at their unlifelikeness.
I was smirking. My back was to them, and most of them didn't know me. It's probably for the best.
On the way back to the counter, I pulled Shadow aside and told him to break out the boffer weapons and be quiet about it (boffer weapons, made by the Safer Sword company, are shafts of hard material, usually wood or PVC pipe, with padding and covering at one end, in the style of a Nerf weapon;SCAdians will be immediately familiar with the idea). He slipped away, and I busied myself at my computer, looking for the right finishing element.
And there it was. Found, cued up, ready and waiting for Shadow to poke his head from the back room and indicate his readiness.
"Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen...
...as popularized in the film "Shaun of the Dead," during the beating of the zombie bartender in the Winchester.
I hit "Play," and as the slow intro to the song floated down from the rafters, I took the bundle of faux-weapons and distributed them to would-be assailants in our party likely to have seen the film.....which I'm sure were many, or at least enough.
Shadow sauntered into a head-on aspect, while I crept around the front of the building behind them, the others filling in.
And then, as the music swelled appropriately, I said: "Alright, blokes, last call at the bar," and we went in flailing.
Our choreography was weak compared to the source material, but we gave it our best go. To our credit, only one of the zombies managed to escape, him having broken character and run off during the intro to the song, knowing full well what was about to happen. The others got dutifully pummeled, and groaned and such in a fulfilling manner.
We were careful not to hit them too hard, or to smudge their makeup; that would've been rude.
But we attacked them undead sunsabitches for all we wuz worth.
A good time, it can be said with extreme confidence, was had by all. Or at least, all of us with drinks and boffer weapons in hand.
In closing the story, I'll say that it's quite something to be sitting around in the dark, watching a zombie movie on TV, and then to turn your head 90 degrees and watch a zombie movie being filmed in the midnight gloam of an after-hours Renaissance festival.
And there's nothing like the thrill of the weapon in your hand as you get to grips with a horde of the brain-munching undead.
Try it sometime.