Zombie Fight Night: Battles of the Dead by A.P. Fuchs

Author:A.P. Fuchs [Fuchs, A.P.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Coscom Entertainment
Published: 2010-04-22T04:00:00+00:00

21

A Hard Kind of Loathing

If Mick had a crowbar, he’d take it to his own head right now. Either that, or take the hooked end, wedge it in his eye sockets and pop his eyes out. At least that way he could claim he could no longer see the Controller and make an informed choice. Bottom line: he lost again, and still owed close to eight hundred grand. It was as if Sterpanko was somehow rigging it—even the fighters. Maybe the money didn’t mean anything to Sterpanko and instead the guy who ran Zombie Fight Night was just a sick freak who enjoyed blood, guts and, well, zombies.

Like before, Mick resigned once again to just spend-spend-spend and hope for the best. No time to even hope for a payout at the end. Now it was all about staying alive and seeing the night through. Once—if—he got to the end of it, then he could focus on just getting home, seeing Anna, crawling into bed and, hopefully, waking up tomorrow morning and pretending it was all a bad dream.

If only.

“Hmph,” Mick said.

“You say something?” Jack asked.

Mick shook his head. He didn’t feel like talking. Even if he did, he doubted he could even find the strength to speak. It was one of those moments where the words were locked in his throat, as if the words and phrases had hit some kind of ceiling and merely bounced off and dropped back down into his stomach.

There were few times in Mick’s life where he genuinely hated himself. Sure, he had moments like everyone where he wished he was someone else—but no, this was different. This was one of those moments where loathing himself was his reality, the kind of hatred where if he could step outside himself, he’d kick himself in the nuts, tell himself off and kill himself—just to make a point and hurt himself so bad out of pure, rage-filled disgust.

It was one of those moments where he couldn’t believe he was himself, the one with the problem, the problem that was insurmountable, deadly and, above all things—and which made it sting even more—could have been completely avoided had he merely kept a decent level of self control.

A hard kind of loathing.

It was the kind of problem where you simply wanted to turn it off, call it a day and say good night. Except, the irony of those problems were they couldn’t be turned off by a simple solution. This kind took an all-out war just to face the music never mind actually solving it.

He was so sick of dwelling on it. He’d been doing that all evening.

New resolution: not only did he no longer care about the money, he no longer cared about himself.

It was the only way to stay sane. Just write yourself off, call it a day and say good night.

After one more bet.

He pulled out the Controller from the seat in front him and just held it. Every few seconds his eyes would begin to drift

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