Living Dead at Zigfreidt & Roy by Axel Howerton

Author:Axel Howerton [Howerton, Axel]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Zombies, Lang:en, humorous horror, anthology single author, humor adult humor satire parody parodies short stories
Publisher: Axel Howerton
Published: 2012-06-17T15:01:34+00:00

His Dark Flag

There is a man who works in my office; he has a wooden leg.

It is not an ultra-realistic, fully-articulated and scientifically-designed prosthetic.

He has a real wooden leg, a one-and-a-half foot stump below his knee.

A polished oak coffee-table leg, standing surreptitious beneath his blood-red pantaloons.

I come in early most days - 5:45 - and hide behind my cubicle wall just to see him as he enters the floor.

At 6 a.m. I hear his card key as it buzzes through the door, awakening the sleeping electronic guardsmen that keep us safe from the outside world. Six on the dot, he is never early and never late.

Punctuality is a rare quirk in a man who sails by the tempers of the Seas.

His galleon floats effortlessly down the width of still-empty halls, shrouded in a pea soup fog, and smelling faintly of crab and the detritus of ancient ports of call.

The huge boat comes to rest directly across from the small kitchenette, with its gleaming steel sink and towering coffee dispenser. He drops anchor and wades ashore, a cold gleaming cutlass in one gloved hand, a thermal mug adorned with the image of a mermaid in the other.

With his tankard filled and his eyes brimming with thoughts of bosomy wenches and bountiful golden booty, he reboards his vessel and sails on, drifting slowly down the hallway, past the fax and the copier, and turns left around a dark and mystic corner. The dark flag, with its facetious snarling skull, curls in the soft ocean breeze and disappears, swallowed up in the pre-dawn mist as a bell buoy tolls lonely amid the waves.

By 6:30 the fog has melted away, seeping out through cracks in the outer walls, and the carpets are dry and salt-free. As the first of our coworkers arrive, I emerge from my hiding place and see him - the Office Pirate - limping ever-so-slightly as he joins the morning banter by the laser printer. Adjusting the lapels of his charcoal grey suit and straightening his Brooks Brothers tie.

No one seems to notice the smell of rum still seeping from between his sharp Pirate teeth, and no one raises an eyebrow when he pays for his bagel with a tarnished gold doubloon.

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