My buddies and I where coming back from frog gigging up in the Everglades this morning. We had us a whole mess of frog legs. The wife likes to soak them in Kentucky bourbon for a few hours, then fry them up, throw some Creole spices on, then serve them with cabbage and a cold beer. That’s good eatin’ right there.
So we’re flogging our way through the swamp back to the flat bed, when we saw a few boys hunched around a dead animal. So we offered them a friendly “hello” and asked if we could lend a hand. Well I’ll be darned if those boys didn’t shoot right up and start advancing us. Their faces where all bloodied up, one fellow hand only one arm, and the other one, a big ol’ boy, had half his face ripped off. Now, my momma told me that, given the chance, all of God’s creatures are friendly, so we tried to calm them down, but they weren’t listening. The one armed fellow got a hold of Jeb’s leg, and started clawing and snapping at him like a wild dog. Seconds later, Jeb tripped and that messed up thing done landed on top and started chewing Jeb’s neck. Tell you what, I never seen so much blood.
I told you that story to tell you this story. Few years back, a survivalist friend of mine (you know the type, lives out in the sticks, armed to the teeth, wears a tin foil hat so the aliens can’t read his thoughts) got me a zombie survival kit as a Hanukkah present. It had a ton of zombie defense stuff in it. An axe, a few shot gun shells, a first aid kit, a crossbow with a few bolts, some rope, and a book Zombie Survival Training. So right away, I used that book to prop up my reloading table, and threw the other stuff in my hunting pack.
Now back to the first story; so I’m looking at dead Jeb, then look up and see that thing coming up on me. The only thing in my hand was my steel gigging stick, so I stick that thing right in his forehead, and he fell to the ground like a sack of turnips. I look over to my brother Chester, and he is back peddling from the chubby one screaming for help. I take out my crossbow, load a bolt, and fire one right into the back of the big guy. He just turned right around and started coming at me. It was like I just threw a beer bottle at him, he didn’t get hurt, but he was pissed. Chester ran over to his pack and grabbed the 12-gauge and started yelling at the fat man. That big boy fell on me and bit my arm. My ARM! Who does that!? Then Chester finally got the stones and took the shot. One shot, one kill, that’s what our grandma taught him, and that’s what he did.
I’m sitting here now thinking of the events this morning and figured I would write you guys to tell you how well brains of brains. I’m feeling ill now, so brains and thanks brains for brains.
Brains,
Bill Bob T.
About the Author: Drew Collins is the Data Analyst at Sportsman’s Warehouse. Growing up in Alaska, he enjoyed normal Alaskan activities (hunting and fishing). He also raced motocross and has developed his talent into racing sport bikes at Miller Motorsports Park in Toole, Utah. He is also getting his degree in mathematics at the University of Utah.