Bloodier Than A Tampon

ONE: Captain

I was just about done robbing some street bitches when a rather loud scratching noise sounded from the front door. 

An aggravated sigh escaped my lips. Fucking cat had come home again. I didn't even know he'd gone. Boots (who didn't even have the fur that looked like boots on his feet - like what the fuck?) tended to escape at least four times a week, and every time I had hoped he would just die already. My allergies didn't want that shit, you know? 

Tossing the controller to Bono, I threw my blunt into the ash tray and went to get the damned animal. Clock said it was two in the morning - stupid Boots had awful timing. It was almost time for coffee shots. 

No, I didn't pass the fate of GTA 4 into just any "Bono's" hand - but my best friend, Bono. As in, the one whose real name was Reginald but insisted that I call him Bono instead. Who I'd also known since fetus-state. That bitch, Bono.

It wasn't weird that I called him that. Everyone did, really. Even his grandmother, so I guess it was okay. And kind of hot. 

"Hey, Bono." I shook his shoulder lightly and laughed as his eyelids fluttered like butterflies, opening up to me. "Play GTA for me? Cat came back."

He shoved me away, pulling the controller from his lap and into his arms, cradling it. Long, dirty-blonde hair fell in front of his pine-colored eyes, making me curse the fact that he was born a heterosexual.

"Dude. Captain. I told you not to creep on me when we smoke together. I love you and all, Cap, but I don't want your penis." 

The scratching noise came from downstairs once more, startling us both. Bono clutched the controller closer to his body, picking up the blunt I had placed down and sticking it in his mouth. Pupils dilated, breath light - my friend was very very high. 

I noticed the door had been ripped from the hinges during my long journey to the stairs, and smiled in glee. Good thing my parents hadn't been home over the weekend. Them finding Bono and I smoking weed while tearing every door off of their hinges would be a little awkward. (#ThrowbackThursday kind of awkward, you feel?)

Once I'd made it to the top of the stairs (Go me!) I glanced at my watch, eyes widening in surprise. Ten minutes had passed since I had decided to take in poor, little Boots once more. That cat had better give me some moolah. Or I'd throw his ass in the oven. Again.

Shaking myself out of a plethora of homicidal thoughts, I padded off into the kitchen. Boots could wait, I wanted some fucking espresso up in this bitch. 

A loud thud sounded from the front door, and I jumped as another scratching noise followed, my hand frozen over the espresso machine. 

"Forget caffeine," I muttered, slamming the fridge open and grabbing a slide of cheese cake. "Let's put on some music. By the time this cake is in my mouth, maybe Boots will be dead and I can just bury the body in the back and I won't have to worry about feeding the little shit..."

Thus the cake went into my face. And The Beatles started blasting from the radio.

"He's a real nowhere man, sitting in his nowhere land, making all his nowhere plans for nobody."

I lost myself to the incredible voices of John, Paul, and George - and let Ringo's smooth drum line wrap around me like a fresh philly cheese steak. 

Bono was singing along upstairs. His wail of a singing voice drifted down the stairs and into my ears. Somehow it managed to weave itself between the beautiful notes of music, and I giggled hysterically. 

But I had forgotten that I was eating cake, so as I choked on laughter, the homemade slice of heaven crawled up my throat and into the sink. Yuck.

Turning off the radio as I gurgled, the scratching noise continued again.

This time around, I went for my old wiffle ball bat. There was something else other than my stupid old cat, out there. Maybe that poodle from down the street. Or the german shepard. 

Whichever one, I was prepared. For the most part. 

I slowly crept to the front door, suddenly thankful that my mom had decided against the glass panes, and had gone with the thick, metal slab. The only way that canine would see me coming was if he looked through the peephole. Which I doubted he could do. Unless he was five feet tall.

I gulped.

What if it was big, big dog? What if it bit me? What if I got rabies?

"Jesus fucking Christ, Captain!"

My eyes met Bono's green ones as I spun around.

"You've been gone for over half an hour! Why do you have a wiffle bat? It's just a fucking cat." His voice was laced with exasperation. 

He stomped down the stairs, blunt in one hand, controller in the other.

"I'll get your damn cat."

"Bono, wait -" Trying to grab onto his arm as he pushed past me, I managed to snag his sleeve.

"What? Are you a pussy? Do I need to start calling you Arvin?"

That was it.

Shoving him aside and throwing the bat in his arms, I made for the door, ready to give whatever awaited me outside a piece of my mind.

I flung the door open. 

Then I, Captain Arvin Smithers, was jumped by a maggot-filled corpse. 

Cold, clammy hands moved over my body - lifeless eyes the color of moonlight gazing into my neck, body dragging itself over me further, going for the jugular...

All I remember after that was the flash of a yellow wiffle ball bat, Bono's terrified voice calling my name, and Boots' small mews that came from my mother's bedroom. 

As cliche as it was: everything went black.

....

....

....

....

....

For about thirty fucking seconds.

(Got ya!)

Somehow, Bono was beating the shit out of zombie with a wiffle ball bat, driving it down the hall, towards the basement. I scrambled to my feet and into the kitchen.

Flinging open the cabinets, I grabbed the first two things I saw.

An extension cord and a blender.

Plugging both into the hallway outlet, I threw the glass container to the ground and grinned as it broke. A few sharp edges remained, along with the blades. Perfecto.

I rushed to the back of the house, where Bono stood with his back to the door, and the zombie clawing at him, nicking his clothes every now and again.

We were going to die. 

Ignoring the thought, I winked at Bono as his eyes met mine in a moment of desperation.

And then I went at the nasty fucker, blender-first.

Let's just say... I made a smoothie that you probably shouldn't try.

[ a/n: hope you guys like this! this is jude, by the way. i write for captain, and justin writes for bono. dedicated this to parogar because i'm a huge fan of his work and rants. love to you all, jude. ]