RRF/Malton Herald & Sun/Text/Text0909right
by Janet Richardson
formerly Malton Fire Department, Engine #34
currently Prisoner #21B76, Reeducation Camp Alpha
Dear James,
By the time you finish reading this, I will be gone. It's not you James. It's not even me. In truth there is something else. A higher calling that has convinced me to leave you and the kids, and to help save Malton.
I am resuming my quest to add a 50th fire axe to my collection.
James, I have left the kids with Cedric. Yes, I know he is addicted to Revive. I know he spends his time sleeping on a couch in a over-barricaded motel, surrounded by filth and garbage from a month's long siege. I know he thinks he can save the world by ignoring unbarricaded safehouses and shooting lone zombies in the street. But, he will be a better parent to them than I could ever hope to be. It's for the best James.
I remember the first time we met. I saw you outside in the street, shooting a wounded zombie swaying beside a parked car. You finished him off with a shotgun, and looked in my direction. I glanced back toward you, past the zombies mauling the sick in St Ethelbert's Hospital, past the dying survivors in the ransacked Dempsey Grove Police Station, and smiled when you pistol-whipped that zombie at the revive point, ignoring his pathetic Mrh's. I blew you a kiss, and after I saw you finish the broken corpse with a headshot, I knew that I had finally met a real man here in Malton.
You do remember our first date, right, James? His and her matching black dusters. A romantic spam and canned bean dinner on the roof of Philpotts Tower lit by the still burning Hildebrand Mall...You looked perfect in the light as the fire consumed Hildebrand below us. It was fun, wasn't James? And the stories you told that night! I laughed so hard that I forgot about the screams in the distance. You always did know how to show a girl a good time.
But James. Those days are past. In this nightmarish world where we are hunted to extinction, we have to remember the basics of survival and continuing on as a species. I can no longer sit around in Roftwood, wasting time establishing safehouses, reviving the fallen, and evacuating the sick and dying. I want to accomplish something with my life before I grow old and frail.
I want to find that 50th fire axe.
I'm sorry James. You would never understand. You never did. Some girls collect jewelry. I collect axes. Each one perfect for a unique task; each one a special tool in my war against the shambling hordes. Take Axe #27. Red wooden handle, well-balanced, with a finely sharpened metal head. Perfect for a Sunday stroll along the rooftops of Roftwood. Or Axe #18. Red wooden handle, well-balanced, with a finely sharpened metal head. Perfect for a night out to the theater. Or Axe #3. The perfect accessory for that blue halter-top you always liked. And as for Axe #50? Well, I won't know until I see it. But a girl has to have some variety, you know?
I'm sorry, James. I really am. I know I promised to be with you in good times and bad, and in sickness and in health. That we would grow old together, you, my dutiful husband and I, your dutiful wife. That we would raise a family together and be together always, united against the hordes.
It was fun while it lasted but sometimes there are more important things than love and family.
Things like a fire axe.
Love always and do take care of yourself,
Janet xoxoxo
by Tarman2007
It's official: Harman branz no longer have that zip to them as in days past. Zambahz have noticed a distinct lack of flavour in their daily diets. Our scientists/taste testers have traveled into the field to discover why, and have come back with these findings. According to strenuous research, they have determined that harmans no longer use much of their branzpower, leaving the normally delicious organ with less taste due to the near non-presence of rational thought or clear motivations.
One zombie connaisseur concluded their extensive taste-testing researching with these results: "Only a very limited selection of harmanz have any real taste to them, but you have to know where to look. The average shambler is likely to come across blandness in their everyday search for namz. Try to find ones who aren't carrying a lot of useless gear, like empty heavy weapons and swords."
The branz of harman murderers, known in Malton as PKers, seem to retain much moar taste, as these organs do seem to get more usage overall, but their low numbers leaves them out as a staple source of diet; they're relegated to the rare delicacy category. The largest known source of nammahnaaz as of current knowledge is the MCM. These particular organs are actually used on a daily basis, providing the seasoning of intelligence that makes the branz extra nammah.
On July 16th, 2009, the GMT Breakfast Club announced that Private Mendoza, currently with the Fortress, was the winner of the MegaMillions MegaBrains GMT-BC Jackpot. The group surprised Mendoza with the news inside Borrer Street Police Department, Shearbank, breaking down the hastily constructed barricades to celebrate with the lucky winner. Mendoza, who couldn't be reached for comment, was found curled in a fetal position in a corner office, barely able to contain his excitement over being chosen.
The GMT-BC reported that Mendoza elected to receive his prize as the 6000th Kill in one lump installment rather than having an antagonizing and painful death spread out over twenty years. As Distinguished, Mortificant, Yama LaVey, Adele, and Noctiarth of the GMT-BC looked on, Dick Johansonson cornered the lucky human, and quickly awarded him his prize, ignoring his screams for mercy by severing his spinal column before devouring his brains. The group then proceeded to slaughter the remaining seven humans screaming inside the Police Department as part of an early promotion campaign for the 7000th Kill Jackpot.
