Zombies Eat Justin Bieber

By JB Lazarte

The Perfect Gift for Justin Bieber Fans.

"Absolutely hilarious!" - New York Book Pundit

All Danny Wachowski wants is for his daughter to look at him and say, "You're awesome, Dad!" But everything he had ever done in his life, including his wife's disappearance, was not exactly "awesome Dad material." That is, until Justin Bieber holds a concert in their small, God-forsaken town. By getting the pop star's autograph and maybe a keepsake or two, Danny hopes to get his daughter's respect and love. But Danny also unwittingly unleashes a force of utter evil that endangers the survival of all mankind and threatens to stop Justin Bieber from enjoying his beloved Brazil nuts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JB Lazarte
• Release date: Apr 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311407634

JB Lazarte

Winner of the 2006 Free Press Literary Award for his short fiction, "Blind Spot," JB Lazarte writes prose and poetry and blogs at www.thespinaltap.com. He lives in Manila.

Book preview

Zombies

Eat

Justin

Bieber

By Rabe King

Copyright 2012 Rabe King

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition.

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. The names, places, and incidents described here are fictitious. Any resemblance to any person or celebrity, living or eaten by zombies, is completely satirical.

Prologue

Eventually, everyone is eaten by zombies. Even celebrities—especially, celebrities. Lady Gaga, Ceelo Green, even Chuck Norris. And if you’re wondering, at this point, who in hell started this zombie apocalypse, then let me be blunt: it was that sonofabitch Danny Wachowski. But I’m getting ahead of my story.

Because presently, Danny is in a basement room of a huge football stadium hiding with Justin Bieber.

Let me backtrack a bit.

Danny’s daughter Brittany is a huge Justin Bieber fan. The phrase huge fan does not even give justice to it; it’s like saying Adolf Hitler was just a bit obsessive about the Jews, or Charles Manson was just a little unstable. The girl’s flat-out insane when it came to all things Justin Bieber. Her room is a work-in-progress altar to the pop star, with posters and magazine clippings and Justin Bieber dolls—you could not even tell where the wall ended and Justin’s face began—pasted and tacked on practically everywhere, even on the ceiling. And maybe she’s the one to blame for all this mess. If it wasn’t for her, he wouldn’t have made that stupid little detour. Danny, her father, would never have thought, upon passing by the stadium, OMG, it’s a Justin Bieber concert! Maybe I should just try to pop in and make him sign his name on my Gauss Chemicals shirt! He would not have tried to squeeze in-between two ratty little cars that screamed we’re crazy rednecks down to the Christmas lights wound around the fender.

He would not have accidentally created all these zombies.

But you don’t blame a 14-year-old girl for causing such a huge stinking pile of brain-eating, people-killing shit, do you? Because that would not be right. Dads don’t blame their daughters for the mistakes they commit; if anything, it’s usually the other way around. Especially if you’re referring to the fact of accidentally turning thousands of innocent civilians—whose main intention merely hours ago was to sing along such hits as Baby and Never Let You Go—into a horde of undead. Those people had lives, had jobs to wake up to in the morning, had children and loved ones. Now they are out there hobbling about in the darkness, all their former hopes and dreams receding into a single, simple gestalt: to eat human brain.

When you crunch it all in your mind when things have quieted down, you see things and realize fatal mistakes. And now that he thinks about it, maybe his supervisor Henry had something to do with it, too. It should have been so easy for Henry to warn him, even with the nominal, Danny, don’t let your cargo spill onto actual humans, or else it’s the end of the world! He could have given him that warning, and Danny would have been very, very careful in hauling that shit—crazily anal are words that come to mind—and he would have gone dead straight to the military base where he was supposed to deliver the cargo. But no. As men loaded those mysterious silver drums into his truck, Henry Armisen counted and nodded and wrote on his clipboard like it was the most normal thing in the world. He even asked Henry the standard question of, If I knew what those drums contained, would I be able to sleep at night? And Henry, his face inscrutable, shrugged and said, Of course, man! Those are nothing but chocolate-covered gummi bears! Henry flashed a pearly white smile.

Chocolate-covered gummi bears my ass.

At least, tonight, two of Danny’s dreams have come true. One, he’s finally using an axe as a weapon, for real, without having to go to jail for it. Can you believe how awesome is that? And two, maybe his daughter Brittany would finally think he’s not a total loser, after all. If they don’t actually die tonight—if these zombies fail to tear off their balls with their half-rotting claws and eat said balls right before their eyes—then he might just get to introduce her to Justin Bieber. Brittany would go completely bat-shit crazy when she sees Justin and him walking down that gravel road, the sun on their faces, flashing big, complacent smiles. Just imagine: angel-faced international pop star spends time with his daughter. He could see the headlines now. He could feel Brittany’s adoring eyes on him, telling him he’s simply the best Dad in the whole wide universe. If the angel-faced international pop star, who passed out minutes earlier after seeing the blood gushing from his own thumb and is now peacefully unconscious right beside him, would last this ordeal, then maybe. Just maybe.

He has to admit, it’s kind of difficult to consider the future just past this moment, the two of them huddled in this basement like cornered sewer rats. Because the louder he hears their groans, like blood burbling in someone’s throat, the more he feels that there’s nothing beyond this shit. This is probably the Big One. He’d replay the past few