flesh and blood.
Re-Animator/Evil Dead.
West. Ash. The unfriendly undead and artistic differences.
It, uh... well, it's something.
(Because I'm unsatisfied with the Army of Darkness vs Re-Animator series, yet not ambitious enough to write more than this right now.)
There's a man.
---
There's a man, with a grin (bloody) and a chainsaw (bloodier) and a shock of dark hair falling over one eye, and you do not like him one bit.
---
He waves this-- this thing (pages bound in flesh) in front of you, dangling between two fingers, easy as though it's merely a ticket to a Talking Heads concert.
Oh, wonderful.
---
You're positive he'd be down for the count, pinned to your lab table, limbs spread flat like the wings of a dead fly, if he weren't so damn
(quick)
difficult.
All of your work - all of your precious, (cultured,) irreplaceable work - has been for naught.
(Because he - a two-bit employee of some K-Mart knock-off - has this book.)
---
Your glasses slide down your nose and you can feel your brow sloping, eyebrows knitting together unpleasantly, as he rants about some mission that he
(you)
has to take care of.
Classless. Classless, and imbecilic.
He finds it acceptable to call you "Herb", even after you manage to bite out between bitter, pinched lips that "Mr. West" will do nicely.
Not everyone can handle the undead with the same level of-- of maturity that you and your former colleague could, apparently.
(you'll ignore the minor incidences of "morbid doodling" with severed body parts)
---
Clawed fingers swipe and clutch at your throat with more agility and strength than that fool Hill ever possessed.
(You'd be fascinated if you weren't currently asphyxiating.)
The crack! of a shotgun blast, and the arm falls, twitching, to the floor.
"Careful," he says, mopping his brow.
---
Rapid tissue deterioration in less than an instant.
Hmm.
---
He turns, taut muscles straining beneath what's left of a denim workshirt.
(you try not to think about how Daniel would react to all of this)
"Hey!"
His sharp voice punctuates the silence. A silence which you would prefer dominate.
He does not give up easily.
"Hey, uh, Herb-- I think we've got somethin', here! If we can just find our way over t-- oh, for God's sake, Herb, stop daydreaming about giving kittens lobotomies and get over here!"
You grip the edge of a rusted gurney, knuckles slowly turning white.
"Now!" He finally looks satisfied. "Guy like you? Needs a better weapon than some, uh, common flu shot. What we're gonna need to get you is your basic quad-barrel shotgun." His head tilts impressively. "And I know a place."
(You exhale, slowly.)
---
Reluctant partnership is all too weak a phrase for it.
West. Ash. The unfriendly undead and artistic differences.
It, uh... well, it's something.
(Because I'm unsatisfied with the Army of Darkness vs Re-Animator series, yet not ambitious enough to write more than this right now.)
There's a man.
---
There's a man, with a grin (bloody) and a chainsaw (bloodier) and a shock of dark hair falling over one eye, and you do not like him one bit.
---
He waves this-- this thing (pages bound in flesh) in front of you, dangling between two fingers, easy as though it's merely a ticket to a Talking Heads concert.
Oh, wonderful.
---
You're positive he'd be down for the count, pinned to your lab table, limbs spread flat like the wings of a dead fly, if he weren't so damn
(quick)
difficult.
All of your work - all of your precious, (cultured,) irreplaceable work - has been for naught.
(Because he - a two-bit employee of some K-Mart knock-off - has this book.)
---
Your glasses slide down your nose and you can feel your brow sloping, eyebrows knitting together unpleasantly, as he rants about some mission that he
(you)
has to take care of.
Classless. Classless, and imbecilic.
He finds it acceptable to call you "Herb", even after you manage to bite out between bitter, pinched lips that "Mr. West" will do nicely.
Not everyone can handle the undead with the same level of-- of maturity that you and your former colleague could, apparently.
(you'll ignore the minor incidences of "morbid doodling" with severed body parts)
---
Clawed fingers swipe and clutch at your throat with more agility and strength than that fool Hill ever possessed.
(You'd be fascinated if you weren't currently asphyxiating.)
The crack! of a shotgun blast, and the arm falls, twitching, to the floor.
"Careful," he says, mopping his brow.
---
Rapid tissue deterioration in less than an instant.
Hmm.
---
He turns, taut muscles straining beneath what's left of a denim workshirt.
(you try not to think about how Daniel would react to all of this)
"Hey!"
His sharp voice punctuates the silence. A silence which you would prefer dominate.
He does not give up easily.
"Hey, uh, Herb-- I think we've got somethin', here! If we can just find our way over t-- oh, for God's sake, Herb, stop daydreaming about giving kittens lobotomies and get over here!"
You grip the edge of a rusted gurney, knuckles slowly turning white.
"Now!" He finally looks satisfied. "Guy like you? Needs a better weapon than some, uh, common flu shot. What we're gonna need to get you is your basic quad-barrel shotgun." His head tilts impressively. "And I know a place."
(You exhale, slowly.)
---
Reluctant partnership is all too weak a phrase for it.