It all happened so suddenly. Before I knew it, the streets were filled with those monsters, tearing apart each other’s flesh to the tune of the Village People. Some of them were incredibly good looking, and only had that cheery persona, and you questioned whether or not they were just regular zombies or homo zombies. Then there were the gigantic, strapped up in black leather versions. They were so damned fashionable, yet a plague on mankind. Well, not because they’re gay. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love gays. Well, not like love love. I wouldn’t let one plow me in the ass, since, like, er, well, he’d probably bite me in the back of the neck! It would be pretty uncomfortable.
Still, I just don’t understand why we should let gay zombies get married. I mean, marriage should be between two straight zombies. I mean, God, for some unholy reason, turned Adam and Eve into zombies, not Adam and Steve.
This isn’t the time to think about stuff like this. No one knows how the virus started, or where it could have came from. Some homophobes think it was AIDS. For all I know, it was. All I know is that there are thousands, maybe millions of gays zombies out there, and they are infecting our children with lies and some murderous flesh-eating virus. Dammit! I have no idea where the prejudice comes from! It’s probably from the experience of being raised by a bigoted father and a mother who never got away from behind the stove. Then I found out that Dad was secretly gay, and a zombie. Huh, how strange.
I can hear their moans and cries from outside my apartment window. They roam the streets, looking for new victims, chastising them for their clothing choices, giving them makeovers, and then turning them into the walking dead. I mean, you have to admit, they are pretty ****** fashionable zombies. I saw one eat a guy’s brains while putting him in this really trendy Hawaiian shirt. I hope whe- IF I get eaten, they do something like that for me. I could use a new wardrobe. I would ask one of them for advice if I wasn’t really weary towards getting bitten.
Something just started pounding on my door. I’m hesitant, but I keep quiet. Maybe they don’t know I’m in here…
But what if they’re other survivors? I couldn’t live with myself if I let them die.
“He… hello?” I ask, under my breath, hoping that they didn’t hear me say that.
That ungodly sound, the lisped moans of the walking dead behind my door. What have I done!?
“Open uuuuuuuup! Fashion Poliiiiiiiice!”
They smash even harder into the door, I know my final moments of sentient life and heterosexuality are coming to a close, yet, I’m paralyzed with fear. I can still think clearly, but my arms will not move…
One image still remains in my head, as I see their fists break through my cheap wooden door…
4 gay zombies doing the YMCA pose…
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