Status: 1st Draft


Status: 1st Draft


Book by: m w mccoy


Genre: Horror

Content Summary

The Property is madness, an ironic centerpiece of the mass graveyard constantly kept clean, crisp, and free of ‘Debris of the Dead’ by a drunkard and his dog.


Content Summary

The Property is madness, an ironic centerpiece of the mass graveyard constantly kept clean, crisp, and free of ‘Debris of the Dead’ by a drunkard and his dog.

Author Chapter Note

1. Most all lines are to be read for the sounds and rhythm, as much as literal story telling. Reader Emotion to the words is what’s important.
2. ‘Single Quotes’ illustrate a proper noun of person, place, or thing. But they also indicate a complex Idea, Emotion, or Memory. All are real, but some are old Fanboy references.

Chapter Content - ver.2

Submitted: November 19, 2014

Comments: 1

In-Line Reviews: 1

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.2

Submitted: November 19, 2014

Comments: 1

In-Line Reviews: 1



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Mike W. McCoy

<>1<>  the Property

(oral history excerpt: James Barr, age 94, a First Survivor)

“No one knew his real name or his past.  But non’that mattered when come to Truth of it.Ha ha, a sonar blip, a nobody from Before Times.  Before we made Hell real.  Vy ponimayete menya?”  (43 seconds of coughing)

“Please overstand me, I was there.  He saved me.  He saved us all.  Better believe.  I knows’ before I could shave, a hero was born, and these things…did happen.”  (34 seconds of coughing)

“Like you say, he was called by many names, but everybody knew him as the ICE CREAM MAN.”



 The cloudy colors chase a disquieting dog with depressing dull dirt-browns from its massive hindquarters forward until flavorfully melting with repulsive ‘Natural & Ravaged’ crimson tones underlying the wide battle scarred snout.  The relaxed canine riposte rises to roam a cracked concrete concourse tracing an algae colored pool behind a sunburned suburban massive McMansion.

Sounds slowly separate off the Soundtrack, and as some skip sideways over the familiar Cat & Mouse + Chicken routine, several select tracks perk coal colored contumacious ears.  Wide mouth yawns illustrates intimidating incisors a mere moments before the backyard rooster crow announces another crimson coated sunrise.  Under-verbalized growls linger, while the waking dog shakes into the morning before swerving several steps straight back and behind some scratched up salvaged tarp.

 Under the vaulted ceiling’s excessive ego trip, early morning dawn creeps through oddly slanted stained glass windows to heavenly highlight Saint Somebody’s bullet ridden dimensions praying amongst the décor of a madman’s man-cave.  Cardboard and carelessness clutter the crooked corridors with a hoarder’s callowness tangled with raw un-remembered reason.  Limited lighting left-overs linger in an adjoining dinning room of meticulously made mounds of mostly mashed cans circling crazy patters amid bulging bags of dogfood fortified pyramids.

 More chickens join the clucking choir as the canine continues creeping carefully through a maze of rooms and courtyards circling the McMansion.  A mysterious Formal dining room arrangement set for fashionable decapitated mannequins leads into a disgusting wet-mouse smelling Receiving room stuffed and stacked fully-vertical with overgrowing plants.  More scratch and sniff stimuli call from another missing doorway which  opens into a 3-car garage singularly displaying a bastardized Baja Bug amongst an almost artistic jumble of rusty dusty tools color coded by bloodstains and weird ‘Twisted Metal’ moments of madness.

 After cutting a crooked crease, the next exterior showcase of the large animal’s morning patrol is curiously covered with windswept tarps, and warped mismatched broken buxom Budweiser billboards that bite off the  ‘Depressing Despair’ still oozing out of the McMansion proper like slowly swirling stale smells of old death. 

 The small servants’ backhouse has a more traditional fortified look bordered behind obvious sandbags and pointy sticks.  The limited floor plan is lit softly through clean curtains now breathing as the large-head dog pushes its way inside the unlocked door.  The romantically wide room images lived-in for a long time, but not long enough to bother fixing everything.  Holes in the adobe, cracks in the ceiling, guns, guns and more guns gangsterize the walls alongside piles of now worthless treasure.  Paper, gold, and sparkly things bounce a back-alley-bazaar vibe along the edges circling the 4-poster king sized bed swimming with shimmering silver satin sheets smothering a single silhouette. 

 The scene slows, settling on the greasy haired canine sniffing the only exposed human flesh.  The long muscular forearm sporting a horribly scarred-over chunk of missing bite sized flesh twitches to Frankenstein life, blindly reaching for the excited animal nudging nose-first under the covers.

“Aruff-cha, afruff-cha,” grunting low and forcefully playful.

 Some sounds slip with the coherent context of alcohol.“Sseaimm, oopoth,”

 “Grawll, grawll-ruff,” briskly barked before brutally bounding onto the bed.  “Aruff-cha!”

The shirtless man thrusts up, battling the heavy dog back, smearing the sheets and himself with the animal’s coat of aromatic arms.  “Gr-off me dog,” spit out playful yet pissed.  “I’m up, I’m up.  Move.”

The dog doesn’t obey, only digging its head in deeper against the thin narrow naked chest.  “Shit and Saint Somebody, Rusty.  Now I got to piss.”

The animal rolls around into the covers.  “Aruff-cha, aruff-cha.”

 “What you think?”

 “Grawl-cha.  Aruff-cha,” dodged off and dragging a loose satin sheet as a fallen royal banner, heralding the ‘Dinner Bowl Dash’.

 Slowly the nearly naked tight skinned man stretches into a standing situation of wavering balance, alcohol cottonmouth, and cranium cobwebs.“Yeah, I’m hungry too.”

 “On second thought,” waving at the dog.  “None for me.  I’m-” stomach convulsions and vomit end the thought. 

The loyal animal pauses and stares back, but nothing surprising shows below the bushy surfer self-cut, or between suspiciously spaced sedate eyes astride a twisted twice broken boxer’s nose.  Oddly tinted blood veins crawl underneath his veneered mismatch of damaged tissue and deeply suntanned flesh.  Lean hard shaped shadows of muscles clutch starvation-tight to a reluctantly repulsive 6’-something stature.  Scratches over scars crisscross the slight slopping shouldered bare back and smudge the tattoos into puzzle pieces from a past of pain.

 Finding aim on the second try, the hung-over haggard look stays a scowl of sorrow and stupid simplicity, but before the 2 shakes end the stream, a vibe of forgotten fatalism inserts itself inside and sideways, like a lie.

 Turning towards the canine sounds crashing the bedroom, the man’s tired eyes stop and glair at the Garfield calendar taped over the looted painting of in a solid gold frame.

“I hate Mondays.  Now, that says it all.”

The words follow a focus drifting down the wall, and his facial expressions change from halfhearted enthusiasm of cartoon ats, to a concentration of today’s date.

“No way.  That would mean…” the thought fades but the morning moves into a wakeup routine of lingering intoxicated introspection that eventually ends at a curious question.

 “Has it been Three years?  Rusty, what day is today?”
 “Aruff-chad, rawll,” growled from atop the bed of twisted sparkling sheets spotted with dirt and dog.“Aruff-chad!”

“Play later,” shifting with the tug of war.  “Let me get dressed.” 

Rusty answers a harsh, “Grawl-cha.  Roodth!  Roodth!” before bolting for the door.

 The man’s balance is lost, gravity sucks, and a butt bounces hard ending with back pain sourcing from an open closet door.“You’re a damn big dog.”

From the floor level, the walk-in closet display of today’s meager selection of rumpled jumpsuits, piles of dirty laundry to never be worn again, and a single crisp drycleaner bag set aside all by itself, appears bleak.  Melting into a familiar denim tuxedo ‘Trims & Dills’ the hangover with a texture of sandpaper, and on the back side, a whimsical yellow Happy Face spray painted over some soda company logo lightens up the discount gravedigger look.


 Shielding his eyes as the garage door automatically opens softens the Reveal into a silhouette of absurd joy amid the red-shifted brightness of the morning glory.  From the back to front, the old full size V-8 is painted a glossy candy-yellow base below a camouflage of kiddy cartoon characters.  Dripping down the passenger flank, a wide sliding service window rides above torn and scratched labels of ice cream and candy choices pasted on the side.  Mounted up-top the ice cream van’s roof extension, 4 cherry red painted 18” metal megaphones are angled to blast happy tunes from 3 blocks away. 
 “Rroodth-graauffk,” excitedly emphasized with a beastly brutal bound towards the vehicle’s closest tire.“Ggraauffk!  Rroodth, roodth.” 

 “What’s wrong?” stepping down the McMansion’s half round driveway while seeing sideways snippets of the canine curiosity.

 The carried stained blue milk-crate rattles with the expected Aftermath groceries of ‘Bay Booze & Bottles’, half labeled cans, flabby Ziplocs’, boxed dog bones, secret herbs and spices, and the obligatory .357 Magnum 6 shooter.Then when close enough to unlocking the door and for the usual rerun of reasons, the sour smirk of the anniversaries memory replays that ridiculously rough neighborhood ride-along and the blood it cost them both.

 “Who’s my dog?  You’re my dog,” kneeling down and rubbing the scary looking animal’s flank, as if it was a cute little puppy of Cerberus.

“You know what today is, don’t you?”


 “Yeah you do,” rubbing vigorously.  “Don’t worry, ain’t nothing getting us.”  The dog returns the affection without hesitation or restraint, roughly slobbering the man’s face. 

 “Arruff-grawl, arruff-grawl,” exposing horrible scars under the neck for the man to scratch.The glint in the dark eyes could almost be considered comical if not for that somehow, someway, some intrinsic animal intelligence remembers that day and agrees. 

 “Aruff-cha, aruff.” 

 “Not that I don’t trust in God,” releasing the animal to touch the army grenade looped on a leather throng.  “But we ain’t coming back,” walking the words closer to the ice cream van’s narrow back door.

“Neither of us is.”

 “Aruff-cha,” an almost agreeable sound.  “Roodth, roodth!” 

“Damn it Rusty,” burst bluntly when buffeted aside by the big dog bounding boldly down the narrow isle between freezers on the left and cardboard crap on the right.  “Be careful boy.”

 “Grrawl-grrawl.”  The canine ignores the noise and continues closing on a faded blue Tijuana tourist poncho crumpled across the passenger seat. 

 “Hey look,” indicating the heavy plastic crate.  “I got the best of the last here,” wedging it behind the driver seat, and removing one of several bottles.

 “Old hair of the dog, right,” tipping the vodka.  “Oh yeah, much better.  Ooh, wait.” 

 Taking another snort first, the relaxing haggard-faced functioning alcoholic digs out a treat before securing the back door.  “Here boy,” tossing the biscuits.

 “What you think?” hands and words aimed causal towards a wide grave robbers assortment of precision long guns and assorted pistols.“M16?  AKM?  Remington?”

 The animal answers instead by pawing at a rumpled rust-stained rag pile with long talon shaped nails scraping the steel underneath. 

 “Oh yeah,” smiling the interested tone as callused hands slide out the 12 gage pump action combat rigged shotgun.

“Mister 12.  I forgot you was here.”  Then after filing his second scarred hand with a 100 shell bandoleer.  “Good call Rusty,”

 “Aruff-cha, aruff-cha,” answered and adjusted across the passenger seat as the man slips behind the wheel while wedging the weapon.

 “Ready?” keying the vehicle to life with a throaty roar that quickly settles into a comforting rumble.

 “Listen,” easing the ice cream van down the driveway.  “Like I was saying before.”  His movements appear made more for himself than the dog.

  “I figured it out.  Today is our three year anniversary,” slowly easing the heavy van out of the housing track and onto an empty 5 lane suburban avenue.

 “Three forsaken years.”  The words slobber around another shot of vodka.  Then smiling wickedly, the sly guy slides on dark girly sunglasses, and accents his words with southern style fake flavors.

 “C’mon Rusty, lets’ ga’ take us a toor of the Proper-tee.”

 “Arruff-cha,” low and away as the dog sniffs something sour besides the red-shifted tint of the high altitude contamination. 

 Taking a deep drink, “Happy anniversary.”

 “Grawll-rroodth,” announcing an annoyance for the drive to begin.  “Grawll-roodth.” 

The Property reveals as a suburban section of the greater Los Angeles basin overlapped with 3 freeways, rail lines, concrete rivers, car dealerships, stripmalls and silent stretches of walled tract homes.  Most areas were tactfully tactically transformed into a two-way prison during the initial mass migration and food riots, so now the boulevard bridges crossing the cement motes are sealed with burned bashed and bloodied cars.  The gated-communities have had rubble and debris reinforced fencing specifications added their CCR’s.  Elongated stains of ash outline crumbling burnt-out buildings surrounded by empty asphalt.  Static suspicious streets of trimmed trees, closed doors, and parked cars ooze an aura of vacant normalcy that fogs the mind with a dangerous view.

 The Property is madness, an ironic centerpiece of the mass graveyard constantly kept clean, crisp, and free of ‘Debris of the Dead’ by a drunkard and his dog.  However visually pleasant this suburb of Hell appears, it the smell of the vast hordes of Afflicted still shockingly stumbling along as Living Dead, grotesque ghoulish brainstem IQ contagious semi-corpses spreading those last cancerous chemical cocktails concocted by some scientifically blinded Whitecoats, cannot be ignored, only tolerated. 


 Balancing the bottle and slamming breaks stops the ice cream van with a dog upsetting lurch.  Several long loud heartbeats pass as sloppy eyes squint intently at the immediate environs of untrimmed palms dying behind another block long wall of intact tract homes.

 “What we hit?”  Reaching down hesitantly, the old man almost trades ‘Whiskey 4 Weapons’, only lightly touching the .357 revolver.
“No, I’m sure they have insurance.”

 A fresh and gooie man sized road kill has painted the asphalt and advertising alongside the ice cream van with a particularly pungent poison of half rotten and rancid flesh.  The human skid mark now exists as a smear of thick blooded torn and ripped skin dotted by festering scabs surrounding subdued earth tone moulds and a few exposed spots of bone.  The McGrizzly half-torso order of shoulder-chest-neck, shifts and spasms with broken tooth pantomime of voiceless speech.

 “Swell, where did you come from?” kneeling closer to the busted still oozing Living Dead corpse.

 “Rusty, what you think?”




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