Delta Hall (stayingpretty) wrote in light_of_may, @ 2012-02-21 22:40:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2009-09-01, bianca, delta |
i know for sure there ain't no cure
Who: Bianca & Delta
Where: Delta's place
When: Early evening
Warning!: High level necromancy (that's not a bunny rabbit.)
What had she learned today? Never put a zombie on a motorcycle. That it was actually a chopper was completely null and void right now. Oh sure, it was motherfucking hilarious to sit the fucker up front and then, by an act of freaking god or Delta’s flexibility or whatever, drive the whole damn freak show around like he was piloting it. Even had the helmet on and everything. They’d gotten a few really, really weird looks because she was pretty sure his legs were not doing what they were supposed to be doing (they couldn’t possibly be; she was the one driving), but it was kind of hard to look down to check when you had the walking cadaver of a grown man sat in your lap. Harder still when her concentration was split between keeping them on the road and keeping him reanimated. The living never got that much attention from Delta.
Ever.
It wasn’t until he started oozing weird shit out the back of his neck – head? – that she acknowledged she probably needed to start checking for the cause of death before ‘borrowing’ bodies from accidents/crime scenes/morgues. Taking the stiffs from the back of her own ambulance was one thing; she usually knew why they kicked it. But this? This was kind of gross. And just a little inconvenient, since that was one of her helmets it was making all gooey on the inside. The small laughing fit it triggered caused her to lose her grasp on her member of the walking dead – now just the falling dead – and the bastard managed to tip off one side, making the chopper veer into the embankment just outside of town. I least I can fucking ride this thing. Still sat in her seat, Delta stared down at the corpse through her visor. Well, he’d been fun for a little while. It was just a pity she couldn’t remember where she’d stolen this one from. Wasn’t like she ever made the effort to remember unless it was obviously a murder scene; the dead were just a means to an end.
Okay, but she did need that helmet back.
“Motherfucker...” A tug, and the whole head came away in her hands. She had no idea how to get that out of there. After a few minutes trying to pry it out by kicking at it – and missing – with the toe of her boot through the visor, she gave up and climbed back on the chopper with the helmet sat precariously between her legs. Somehow it stayed there for her ride back home. It stayed there and she spent the whole journey telling it how much she hated it for being fucking awkward.
And – seriously, was it too much to ask that she not be harassed by neighbours on the way back? Because come on. Pausing in her doorway to catch what one of her more ‘interested’ neighbours was yelling after her, she slammed it behind her and strode across the apartment to scream back in what she was assuming was a Spanish insult, nearly dropping her zombie-head out the window. She needed that. It wasn’t done yet. Smelled… interesting, though. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. You’re leaking formerly-vital fluids.” Or something. Whatever that was.
She still needed that helmet.
Fiddling with her earring, she bit the corner of her lip and glanced around the apartment for both cleaning stuff and maybe a crow bar. A really hefty spatula would do.