Samurai Zombie Hunter Read online

  Samurai Zombie Hunter

  By

  Cristian YoungMiller

  Edited by

  A.J. Moorehead

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  Published By:

  RateABull Publishing

  Copyright © 2011 by Cristian YoungMiller

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who my quote brief passages in a review. For information contact Cristian YoungMiller at [email protected].

  RateABull Books

  Visit our Web site at www.RateABull.com

  Visit the Author’s site at www.CristianYoungMiller.com

  * * * * *

  This book is dedicated to those who feel alone but do not know why.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Sex and Zombies

  Chapter 2

  Obligation of Blood

  Chapter 3

  Bloody Infection

  Chapter 4

  Samurai Death

  Chapter 5

  Death for Hire

  Chapter 6

  Mercy

  Chapter 7

  How to Have Multiple Orgasms

  Chapter 8

  The Reckoning

  Chapter 9

  C.R.A.H.

  Chapter 10

  Back From the Dead

  Chapter 11

  Sins Revisited

  Chapter 12

  The Winds of War

  Chapter 13

  Two Worlds Collide

  Chapter 14

  Someone Must Die

  Epilogue

  Excerpt: Run From The Reaper

  Excerpt: The First Day After Life

  Excerpt: Fixing Cupid

  Excerpt: Happiness May Vary

  * * * * *

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank my editor A.J Moorehead who worked tireless to make this as good as it could be. And I would like to thank everyone who patiently waited for its completion.

  * * * * *

  Samurai Zombie Hunter

  * * * * *

  Chapter 1

  Sex and Zombies

  “So I’m walking down West Silverlake Drive because like usual I have to park a fuckin’ mile from my place. I look across to that park on the corner and I see these fuckin’ tweaker kids chasing after this zombie bitch. And you would think the bitch is doing that zombie stroll they do, but she’s bookin’ it. And these kids are like 15 or 16 and you gotta think that they’re meth’d out, so when the zombie bitch gets ahead of ’em, you would think she’s free. But just as the bitch looks like she’s gonna get away, another tweaker pops out of nowhere and she has to change direction.

  So I’m watching this shit go down and she starts running next to the street. And I’m 300 feet away so I’m like ‘This shit is real,’ ya know. And just when the guys are about to tackle her, this fuckin’ bitch cuts out into the street and this fuckin’ Ram, fuckin’ Dodge 4x4 truck smacks the hell out of her. And this fuckin’ bitch rolls across the hood of the truck and flies like 200 feet in the air.

  And I’m standing there and I’m like ‘What the fuck,’ because this bitch is headed right for me and I don’t know if I should move left or right. But in the end I’m just frozen there and the fuckin’ bitch lands right on top of me and knocks my ass to the ground. And I’m like ‘What the fuck? What the fuck!’

  And I’m looking right at her and she has an oozing wound on her forehead. And her face is all sunken in. And she’s all pale with those fuckin’ zombie dark circles under her eyes and she’s drooling. And I’m screaming, ‘Get the fuck off me! Get the fuck off of me!’

  And I’m all shaking and squirming because this bitch is right on top of me. I mean her fuckin’ cooch is sitting on my nads, ya know. And I’m like ‘Get the fuck off me.’ And she’s like ‘Ahhh.’ I’m like ‘Ahhh!’ And she’s all squirmin’ and stuff.

  But I finally push her off me and I get up to my feet. I look down at her - she looks fine by the way, because you know how these fuckin’ zombies are indestructible, right? - and I get right over her, look down and scream ‘What the fuck, bitch!’ And she looks up at me, smiles, points and says ‘Donavan.’

  And I’m like ‘How does this fuckin’ zombie bitch know my name?’ So I scream at her ‘How the fuck you know my name, bitch?’ And she laughs and mumbles out ‘Bar Bar bathroom,’ and then laughs some more.

  And just then I look up and this 16 year old tweaked-out mother fucker pulls back this fuckin’ axe and cuts the bitch’s fuckin’ head off. That fuckin’ head rolled like 20 feet. So I ran into the fuckin’ street and got down over the head and yelled again ‘How the fuck do you know my name, bitch?’ But the thing is finally fuckin’ dead and it still has a smile on its fuckin’ face.

  So I check myself out for scratches and bite marks and I’m fine. And instead of goin’ home, I now walk my ass back to the fuckin’ car and drive my ass down to Bar Bar because I know this fuckin’ place. This is where me and my two boys used to trail for tail. And when I get there it isn’t fuckin’ open yet because it’s one of these places that don’t even open til, like, nine. But I know the manager so I get in.

  I’m like ‘What up,’he’s like ‘What up,’ and tell him about this fuckin’ zombie bitch and he starts to smile. But it’s not one of those ‘ha ha’ smiles. It’s one of those ‘I know something that you fuckin’ don’t’ smiles. And the fucka couldn’t even look me in the eye after that. But he says go ahead and I check out the men’s bathroom. After I couldn’t find anything I realize that the zombie bitch probably meant the woman’s bathroom.

  So I go in and I look in the first stall and on the wall is this fuckin’ picture of me carved in the paint. And this is some fuckin’ Rembrandt shit because this fuckin’ thing looks exactly like me. Like, if I could take this home, I would hang it on my fuckin’ wall because it is like a fuckin’ picture. And underneath this fuckin’ picture are the words ‘For a really bad time in bed call…’ and it’s my fuckin’ phone number. Do you believe that shit?

  So I scratch out ‘bad’ and put ‘mind-blowing’ and I leave with this shit stuck in my head. Do you believe that shit? Some bitch put that shit in the bathroom at my spot. But I start thinkin’ about this and the more I think about it, the more this shit is fuckin’ with my head. So I start to doubt myself. Because that is a whole lot of hate that it takes to sit in that fuckin’ stall for hours and carve that fuckin’ picture in paint. That fuck even shaded it in. I’m tellin’ you, fuckin’ Rembrandt!

  So if that bitch could have so much hate in her to sit and do that, she must have been seriously pissed off at something that I did. And that’s not hard to believe because I have worked over some bitches in my day. But I started thinkin’, ‘I’m good in bed, right? Yeah I’m good in bed…’

  But it plays on your head when you see shit like that. So I asked myself who would know for sure. So that’s why I called you. You had fun when we were doin’ it, right? I mean, it was good right?”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. Van raked his fingers through his dark brown wavy hair. His deeply tanned forehead shined with the sweat that formed on it. And his thick masculine chest twitched as the adrenaline coursed through him.

  “Lucy?” Van asked, losing the nerve that the lather from his storytelling had allowed him.

  Lucy sat du
mbfounded on the other end. Her mouth hung open and her porcelain skin and red hair made her look like a blow up doll.

  “Lucy?” Van asked again, wondering if she was still on the line. He pulled back his cell phone to make sure that the call hadn’t ended. “You still there?”

  “Ummm… yeah.”

  “So, ummm, when we were doin’ it, you had a good time, right?” Van asked again a little more scared at what the answer might be.

  “Well, that was back in college. I really don’t remember much from back then.”

  “I thought you said that I was your first?” Van asked not believing her answer.

  “You were.”

  “And you don’t remember your first guy? Come on. We did it for 3 straight years. We were like fuckin’ rabbits.”

  “Oh yeah,” Lucy conceded with disappointment over her failed attempt to evade the question.

  “Well, you had fun, right?”

  “Ummm… fun?”

  “Yeah. Wait, what?” Van asked with the sweat once again beading on his caramel colored face.

  “It was my first time, and I’m sure it was your first time…”

  “It wasn’t my first time,” Van interrupted, confused how she could make that mistake.

  “It wasn’t your first time?”

  “No.”

  “I just… never mind. Look the deal is that it was a long time ago. And my self-esteem is a lot higher than it was back then. And neither of us knew what we were doing, so I’m sure that you learned a lot since then.”

  “Well of course. But I’m sayin’ that it wasn’t bad, right? I mean, you wouldn’t describe all of the times that we did it as bad, right?”

  “No… not all of it. I’m sure that if you gave me some time I could think of some times that --”

  “If I gave you some time?” Van repeated with surprise.

  “What I’m saying is that I’m sure that you’ve gotten better. And I’m sure that you don’t do the barking thing anymore. Hey look, you should call a woman that you have been with more recently than us because Don, before this call we hadn’t spoken in 10 years. In fact, how did you get my number?”

  Van pulled the phone away from his face. He had a look of genuine surprise because he definitely hadn’t seen this coming. Certainly he had not always engaged in the ancient art of foreplay. But he always considered it something that pussy boys did. And Van was no pussy boy.

  And certainly he didn’t always go all night. Not to say that he couldn’t go all night, it was just that when a man operated at 10 pumps per second, he tended not to last very long. But the way Van always looked at it was that if instead of measuring absolute lengths of time, you instead measured pumps per orgasm, he got in more pumps than anyone. Van had once gotten it up to 1000 pumps. When he was done he immediately got up and scrolled through the Guinness World Book of Records online. Unfortunately, at that time pumps per orgasm didn’t exist as a category.

  Hanging up the phone, Van next called Hillary. And with the sweat once again glistening on his face he mentioned the true reason for his call. “So when we were together, you thought I was good in bed, right?”

  Hillary was a blasian (black/Asian) woman whom he’d met while working at Kinko’s. It was his first job out of college. Back then Hillary was a little heavier than the fit girl who now spoke to Van from the other end of the phone.

  “Ok, the first thing that you should know is that my self-esteem is a lot higher than it was back then,” Hillary began. “So if you really wanna know, I’m gonna to tell you the truth. Do you want me to tell you the truth?”

  With fear, Van spoke. “Maybe you should just stick to generalities.”

  “Ok. So, what was up with the barking?”

  Hillary’s response was similar to Lucy’s response; which, it turned out, was similar to Vanessa’s response; which was similar to Candy’s response. Fortunately, all of the women had somehow gained a lot more self-esteem than they had since dating Van. It was almost as if being with Van was a reason to improve a woman’s self-image.

  “Do you know how Cocker spaniels are all over the place?” Rose began.

  “Yeah, why?” Van asked.

  “You know how they can’t focus on anything for too long and they drool all over the place?” Rose continued.

  “Uh huh,” Van replied, not liking where Rose was going.

  “Well I think you should find a woman who really likes cocker spaniels. Because they would probably be into what you do.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Van asked, devastated that even Rose, his china doll, would be so mean.

  “Well, first of all,” Rose began again, “you only did it doggy style and you humped me so fast that I thought that you were going for some type of record.”

  Van couldn’t disagree with that because he had been going for a record. A true athlete never takes a day off.

  “And then after you raced to the finish line you would stand up on the bed, bark a couple of times so the neighbors could hear, and then yell, ‘I’m the big dog now!’”

  “Yeah, that was my thing,” Van said meekly.

  “But that’s not all. Then you would get out of bed, stand in front of the full-length mirror, grab onto an imaginary waist and simulate whatever you did to me while watching yourself in the mirror. What was up with that?”

  Van didn’t answer.

  “And the thing is that you would keep doing it until your ding-dong got so soft that your man juice would fling across the room. I would have to spend the first 10 minutes after you left cleaning up the walls, the carpet… Do you know that Mr. Fluffy Bunny still looks like he has a lazy eye from one of my nights with you?”

  “Was Mr. Fluffy Bunny that pink stuffed rabbit you had?” Van asked doing his best to make it sound like she was weird for having a stuffed rabbit at her age.

  “Yes, Mr. Fluffy Bunny was the stuffed rabbit that my mom gave to me when I was six. You know, the one that she gave me before she died?” Rose said, raising her voice a little but still not angrily.

  ‘Ouch,’ Van thought.

  “But you know, there is someone out there for everyone,” Rose added, trying to focus on the positive as her self-esteem classes had suggested. “I think that if you could find a woman that’s really into Cocker spaniels, she might like that whole thing you do.”

  Van had taken just about as much as he could handle in a day. But there was only one more person on his list entitled ‘Bitchez I’ve Banged’ so he figured he’d push through.

  “Well, you have some nerve calling me again,” Margo said.

  That response surprised Van because he didn’t remember their encounter ending badly. Sure he banged her and then never called again, but it was a woman he met at Bar Bar just before last call – their time together was clearly going to be a bang-bang (the first bang was the sound of his balls hitting her clit; the second bang was the sound of the door closing on his way out). Propositions offered at 1:58 am just after the lights at the bar turned on could never be anything more. So yes, Van said that he would call her as he was leaving, but he was also sure that this wasn’t her first rodeo.

  “What? What did I do to you? What could I have possibly done to you?” Van said feeling the lump that developed in his throat whenever he felt like he was going to be humiliated.

  “What did you do to me?” Margo asked, with a shocked irate tone. “Well, let’s see. You were the most inconsiderate fuck that I have ever had. First off, there was no foreplay. Second, you didn’t cuddle afterwards. And, oh yeah, you ate my fuckin’ brains!”

  Van shook his head to reprocess what he had just heard. “What did you say?” Van asked feeling his day’s humiliations redirecting themselves.

  “You heard me you fuck wad. You ate my fuckin’ brains,” Margo repeated at full volume and clarity.

  “Don’t you ever fuckin’ say that again. Don’t you ever fuckin’ say that again!” Van yelled standing up on his side of the phone.

  “What,
that you ate my fuckin’ brains, you fuckin’ zombie ass piece of shit,” Margo said in a cool unintimidated voice.

  Van felt his rage surface. And Van knew that after the rage, would come the blind rage. “If you say that again, I will come over there and I will fuckin’ tear your head off. You hear me? I will fuckin’ rip your head off and shit in your neck. Is that what you want? I know where you live you psycho bitch.”

  Van’s anger might have been misdirected, but it was justified. Accusing someone of being a zombie was the biggest insult that anyone could call another person and Margo knew it. But more than that, all throughout Los Angeles - and especially in Silverlake - there were punk-ass vigilantes that prided themselves of ridding the world of zombies. And when any of the vigilantes started hearing rumors that someone was eating brains, they would show up at their house in the middle of the night with an axe or some something and end the rumor by relocating the rumored zombie’s head from their body.