So, yeah… about that Zombie Apocalypse scare this week, with the guy in Jersey throwing his own guts at cops, and the naked dude in Florida eating another guy's face…

Look, I'm getting pretty tired of everyone blaming me for starting the whole thing. Why is it whenever there's a small-ish global outbreak of the flesh-eating undead, the world's media always turn up at my Floating Fortress of Doom's door? I'm hardly the only conquest-minded, megalomaniac scientist with access to arthropods in the Southern Hemisphere, you know! I mean the Dark Lord Sauron practically owns the sheepless bits of New Zealand, Cthulhu's still snoozing off his non-Euclidean hangover somewhere in the Pacific and Aussie PM Julia Gillard just drafted a bill in parliament to rename Canberra "Coruscant," but hey, the hungry dead are rising and eating the flesh of the terrified living—the Blue-Haired guy with the flesh-eating beetles must've did it!

How many more times do I have to tell those spandex-abusing do-gooders over at the Avengers HQ, I only work my particular brand of sexy, bookish evil with arthropods, not zombies?!! The living dead may look impressive, but being reducing to functioning only via their reptile brains they can't make decisions worth a damn and if you give them any heavy lifting tasks, their limbs tend to drop off. Bloody useless henchmen, zombies are.
But nooo… I had to sit through another half hour long "interrogation" with poncing Hawkeye—I tell you, if it wasn't for the strictly observed "My Headquarters No Clothing Allowed for Male Visitors Under 50" policy I've got going, I wouldn't even have let Clint in the door this time. Boy does have an impressive long-bow, I'll give him that.

But anyhoo, he finally bought my story after the third (mutual) cavity search and fucked off back to Nick Fury with his quiver between his legs, by which time of course the Zombie Uprising had well and truly taken root, globally. Not that I would have stopped it, of course, being a card-carrying Evil Genius and all, but I had a lot of shopping I had wanted to do today I had to curtail due to the inherent Zombie Instinct to herd at Malls. Later on we got news that the Outbreak had actually started in the USA. Seems that the mask of the Zombie God Obu Movani, sent to the Whitehouse for safekeeping by a Senator from Sunnydale, had been tried on by Rick Santorum, who thought it was a prop from "that Jim Carrey movie."

Initially we thought Australia might have gotten away with it, being so far away from the rest of y'all, and Western Australia itself being cut off from the rest of the country by the Nullabor Plain, but unfortunately, the Zombies proved more resilient than even the Cane Toads were. True, our outbreak started about 12 hours later than the one in the US and so we had more warning, but you lucky bastards got the rotting, shambler types—our first outbreak happened at Sydney Airport thanks to a flight from the UK, so of course we ended up with the sprinting, undead marathon runner type of zombie. Thanks a bloody bunch, Danny Boyle.

Anyway, being a Supervillain, I wasted no time in assembling my various loved ones and sending them to my Floating Fortress of Buggitude in the Antarctic until the whole Zombiegeddon thing blows over (zombies, being dead, tend to freeze solid in your sub-zero environs, rendering their flesh-eating capabilities somewhat impaired). I then gathered up the various people I hate, told them I was sending them to safety, and sent them on a Zeppelin ride straight into the heart of the Outbreak in Pittsburgh, with a video-uplink so I could watch the ensuing carnage whilst eating popcorn. Hey, Supervillain, remember? And I sold the footage rights to George A. Romero, so I even made a tidy little profit.

Anyhoo, it was about this time that I heard the first reports of a massive outbreak in Los Angeles—by now you've probably seen the news footage of a zombified Tom Cruise climbing a step ladder to bite David Beckham, the undead Zac Efron refusing to emerge from his crypt as he insisted he was not actually a zombie, or Lindsay Lohan unnecessarily barricading herself into her prison cell in a mistaken belief that any zombie with an ounce of self-pride would chomp on her skanky arse.

I, of course, knew immediately what I had to do. I got hold of the least prone-to-motion-sickness of my Winged Monkey Troops and had him fly me straight to LA, whereupon I made my way to Venice Beach. As I feared, the set of SERIOUSLY DUDE, WHERE'S MY CAR? had indeed been compromised by the undead (Andy Dick had been bitten and turned, but was allowed onto the set by Security because "he always behaves like that").

I ignored the various pleas for help coming from the various Hollywood types being devoured by the ravenous, shirtless muscle-boy zombies that had invaded the area (okay, I admit I threw Justin Timberlake my spare triple-barrelled shotgun—but he was stuck on the roof of his trailer with JC Chasez and I was hoping that something homoerotic would come of it) and went straight to the large trailer at the rear of the lot.

Turns out I'd gotten there only just in time. Ashton Kutcher, Jason Biggs, Chris Klein and Eugene Levy had all zombiefied and were trying to advance on the hunk in residence, who had evidently been surprised by the attack's suddenosity, as he was naked in his shower cubicle and warding the approaching undead off with a bathroom plunger and a bottle of drano.

I leapt fearlessy into the fray, whipping out my movie quality Uruk-hai Scimitar replica and decapitating the four monsters with two sure strokes, before turning on Will Ferrell and reducing him to twitching lumps of raw, bleeding meat (he wasn't a zombie, I just find him really, really irritating). I then extended my hand to the gorgeous man staring at me from behind his plunger and pulled him from the shower, towelled him dry, and gave him my own coat to cover his (very impressive) nudity, hoping I'd get to see it again later in more pleasant circumstances.

"Dude, you saved my life, dude," Seann said, breathlessly.

"I guess I did, didn't I?" I replied with my most dimple-mustering smile as I sheathed my weapon, after which I put away the scimitar as well.

"That accent…you're an Aussie? Dude, are you this Gavin guy I keep hearing about who keeps on blogging about how he wants to marry me?"

"I am indeed; I had to come, Seann; No stinking zombie bastards are getting their cold dead hands on my man!"

Needless to say a huge, Hollywood-Style…well, more Independent studio-style I guess… kiss followed as did several hours of horizontal acquaintance making, after which I took my Husband by the arm and guided him into our waiting Gavincopter, and from thence to my Glacial Fortress of Buggitude.

Some of y'all may look back on the Day of the Zombies with terror…I'll look back on it with fondness. I even unlocked the gates to the Tea Party's headquarters and let the Zombies have a feast on all the already-expendable people within, because I mean, after all…

The Living Dead  had brought Seann William Scott and I together at last…

"Dude, if I actually read this in real life,  I don't know whether to be flattered or horrified. Dude." 

 

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