Once upon a time (tonight) my friends and I orchestrated a zombie bike ride throughout the land of Provo. I must say, I was a rather terrifying zombie. We began in a parking lot behind Fat Cat's. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 zombies showed up. I think most of Provo was afraid to take the plunge and dress up like a zombie for fear that they would show up as one of 2 or 3 undead riders.
Sorry Provo. You were mistaken.
We began our hellish journey by taking up an entire lane of University ave for a few blocks, and then headed east towards campus. After many zig-zaggings, screamings, swervings, and moanings, we headed down center street. Upon arriving at Los Hermanos, I suggested we do what any good zombie on a bike would do--ride really slowly past the huge windows with all of the people eating, and awkwardly stare at everyone. And of course, bang our undead stumps upon the glass, thus halting the gullet stuffing and caloric absorption for a few, fear laden moments. Or from the ensuing laughter. Or eye rolling. Possibly disgust. Whatever. Either way, I am quite certain that all the patrons of that fine establishment were not expecting to see 20 zombies drunkenly swerving their bicicular devices in front of the glass, observing their taco consumption through blackened eyes and blank stares.
Next on the agenda was the other thing one must do as a zombie biker--storm a house full of terrified villagers occupying the roof with all manner of weaponry, in a feeble attempt at thwarting the undead onslaught in their (our) quest for human bloodshed. So cliche.
Myron had his house all boarded up, and they (the living) were defending the roof with cap guns, plastic bottles, inner tubes, and whatever else. As I approached one of the windows, I got pegged in the face (eye) by a plastic bottle, which caused me to promptly crumple to the earth. I wasn't really expecting that one. Upon unsuccessfully breaking and entering the front, we shuffled our way through all manner of anti-zombie legislation (obstacles) to arrive at the back of the house--card board boxes, old tires, a wheelbarrow. Such things are difficult to maneuver around when one is mindless and mostly dead.
In the back yard, since their defenses had been exhausted around the front of the house, there was really no chance for them to stop me and my fellow rotting corpses from tearing into the dead body lying upon the picnic table. For whatever reason, this dead body was filled with about 7 cherry pies. Much better than the usual viscera that zombies are accustomed to consuming. Actually, not really, as I for the most part despise cherry pie. But whatever.
So I have decided that I thoroughly enjoy dressing like a dead person when it isn't Halloween and shocking the good people of Provo. And making them pist when they can't easily pass us on the street, and the ensuing honks and dirty looks. Followed by even dirtier looks from zombies. And clawing at the air in said pist honker's direction. Perhaps coupled with a hiss or a scream.
The only down fall of zombie ride--attempting to scour the blood and makeup from my poor, acne prone skin. That, and the subsequent acne that I shall be battling over the next several weeks. Possibly decades.