Brian The Zombie
DescriptionUhh...This one is the result of the collective imaginations of a couple of stupid and very immature drunk people. You can guess which stupid drunk guy decided to make up a story about it.
|This writing has been rated by 2 members, resulting in a rating of 85.5% overall. Below is a breakdown of these results:|
|Spelling & Grammar:||85%|
"Whoop wu-hu hoo!!" In the dismal shroud of night, a lone Strix Occidentalis otherwise known as the "Spotted Owl" to the zoology layman, sits perched on the third twisted branch of approximately eighteen twisted branches connected to a gnarled, rotten oak tree. A tree that, just like all the other barren and black-barked oak trees that pepper the ten acre graveyard, became desolate and broken by mid-winter's bane. His eyes aglow, receiving the shreds of illumination seething from the pale moon appearing briefly through the dominating clouds, and by the distant city's 200 watt street lamps - he patiently sits, waiting, watching ever vigilant for a brief glimpse of a small marsupial that may potentially become his next meal. Although, what he doesn't realize is that fate has already determined what this particular Spotted Owl is to witness next, despite his limited avian understanding and recognition. Actually, what destiny has meticulously contrived through a series of well-timed and much scrutinized events will indubitably lead to nothing more than a minor fascination to our winged friend. The explanation to this will become self-evident as the scene unfolds... Directly beneath the rather lazy and mellow vocalizations of our friend the hungry owl, a six inch in diameter sector of Earth's massive abundance of terra firma begins to grind and agitate as if being drilled from below by an invisible, subterranean violator. The obscure yet uniform concrete gravestone entrenched in the same plot of dirt behind this event stands ever firm and unaffected, and doesn't have much to say, except for a few choice words that were unempathetically engraved into it's stock. Those words read: HERE LIES BRIAN REGINALD O'MALLEY HE DIED AS HE LIVED Dec 15. 1984 - Oct 31 2010 In a matter of minutes, the agitated dirt gives birth to an unfurled grey-white human hand riddled with varicose veins and maggot-ravaged flesh. In a matter of hours, by means of the consistent thrashing and digging of the decomposing appendage, it soon proves itself to be connected to an arm, which in turn reveals itself to be connected to a shoulder. Soon, another rigid hand appears and that too leads to an equal yet opposite shoulder. The young owl still sits, perched on the third twisted branch, hopeful and curious as to what this new and exotic prey might taste like, or could it turn out to be something else entirely? A person or persons who think of themselves as an subservient subject to the wiles of nature may be inclined to naively seek the purported beauty and magnificence in this situation. But not Brian Reginald O'Malley. He never thought that this would ever be in the cards for him; but then again, he was never one to question or begin to understand the convoluted, grandiose schemes of the universe. In fact, he was perfectly content with living his pitiful existence on a day to day basis. Maybe a summarized history of Mr. O'Malley would enlighten you, the reader, to understand his plight; and per chance yourself more fully. I offer this service free of charge...exempting, of course, the air that you already borrow from me. So, beneath the unimpressed spotted owl perched comfortably in his tree, we begin our story with a clarion cry, feeble in substance but strong in delivery... "BRAAAIINNSS!!"