"If everybody in the world today had a flower instead of a gun, there would be no wars. There would be one big smell-in."
It's been a long and busy few months. Instead of regular photographs, I'm going to make use of a wonderful little tool that enables a more full picture of what transpires before one's eyes. It also allows me to be lazy with my photography and tight arsed with my bandwidth. So Kudos to it's creator, Swiers. I'll still include one or two regular pictures for good measure but they've largely been collected from other Maltonites.
After my 100th kill I made my way over to Gulsonside where I met the lovely Emerald Green and Viktor Survorv. They were messing with me in my sleep. It's little wonder I overslept and nearly missed the Gulsonside Tourist Bureau's launch the next day. And a glorious launch it was, in spite of my fashionable tardiness. I arrived just in time to thwart the efforts of a pirate!
And I killed some puppyz for fun, fashion and profit. I made a rather nice little hand bag out of their hides. Yes, animal cruelty is back in fashion people! Tell a friend!
It was at the after party that myself and a couple rummers got talking about some rather serious issues in Malton. Namely, equal rights for zombies. The zombie plight in Malton has dragged on far too long. Being Party People, Champagne Socialists and Schismatic Socialites, Rummers don't tend to band together unless there is the promise of entertainment. We were at a bit of a loss until Vandr suggested we host a rock concert in Pitneybank. Well, it took a bit of wandering around aimlessly and sizing up the area to get it off the ground. I did a bit of surveying myself almost immediately before the concert began. In fact, while I was carrying my equipment over to creedy, Bob Dylan kicked off. It was unfortunate that I couldn't stay around to listen. But the fort was beckoning. We needed to evacuate and de-vivify the inhabitants so that zombies could enjoy the show that was about to start in the exercise yard.
Officially I wasn't even supposed to be there. Officially, the fort was still being held by fascist needle slaves and an anti-zombie group known as "Creedy Defence Force." But I managed to sneak into the gatehouse and spread a little love to Bryan Cathark. I think he got the idea. Even amongst the pyre of burning brains, there was hope for zombie kind. But my work was far from done.
Amidst the music and protests, myself and an even smaller group of activists focussed our efforts on bringing down the Farmer Building, a fascist factory that manufactures intravenous armaments against zombie kind. And so I was about to launch my own personal protest and a combined assault against these fascists when I ran into an old friend. It seemed that AidenFury was looking for a lively public debate on religion. I wouldn't have it though, I was in Pitneybank for business not mental masturbation. I left and healed myself. Aiden took chase. But it was here that I lost him. It took all my energy to find safe harbor and heal my injuries but I was breathing for another day, even if I did eventually get beaten with a bible again.
This set me back a couple days, but eventually I did get around to lodging my protest against the Farmer Building and picked off one weaker member of the herd a day or so later.
This was my plan. To remove the weaker elements so as to exhaust the protective efforts of the stronger ones. The next day however I was forced to deviate from it yet again. I came in through the window to find that a rent a cop had stopped one of the event organizers and was arguing with him. As you can see, he was not my initial target. Thinking quickly, I set my sights on him. Rather than waste my breath arguing, and in the spirit of the festival, I sang him a line from an old protest song before removing the obstacle to peace from our path.
The next day I took an opportunity to thin the herd a little more in preparation for the big name acts that were on their way. Poor Mooupe should have listened to the broadcasts when they told him to evacuate the suburb.
My friends had arrived and were also preparing the suburb and the fort for the show. Pvt Perkins objected to loud music, free love, drugs and brains though and assassinated The Dancing Banana. Just like Lennon, except the Banana hasn't made any significant contributions to modern popular music...yet. Regardless, he shot my friend, so I took it upon myself to teach him to imagine there's no heaven...
So, after some initial set backs, I got back on task in the Farmer Building. Trent Kane was one of the reasons that I'd taken so long to get back on task. But there he was, contributing to the problem rather than being dead...er...rather than being part of the solution. So naturally it was a pleasure to spread a little love his way.
By this stage, Fort Creedy had fallen and the entertainment had kicked off, apparently. Being too busy fighting the man I didn't get to see any of it except by proxy. There were plenty of drugs around. I'd been clean for the longest time, too. Temptation, it seems, was out to get me. I tried to resist...I really did...But it was just too much. Naturally I laid the blame on the dealers, rather than the drug...or taking responsibility for it myself...
After a refreshing night's sleep, I wandered over towards the Fort to see if there was anyone playing. All I found was some stalls outside. I bought a zombie some lunch and went inside the junkyard next door where I found a few more undead chaps munching on a buffet. They had unfortunately left the most tasty of snacks, Dave the Wave, one of CDF's more persistent breathers was sitting there just waiting to be eaten. I softened him up a bit for but the zombies seemed to have gorged themselves earlier. So I cleaned up.
Unfortunately, rather than join the festivities at the fort, most of its inhabitants fled to nearby buildings, the Farmer building being one of the most popular choices. It didn't take me long to spread my message of peace to not one but two of the meat bags inside awaiting their doom.
The focus on Farmer became so intense that I neglected to document the next day's work. So, unless someone comes forward with an image, bmitchell and Suzy Swallows died in vain. Too bad really, I rather like those lovely ladies in FANNY.
With all these new arrivals inside Farmer, it was time to go shopping again. I made my way over to Giddings early the next morning to do a bit of bargain hunting. On my way home, I ran into a young Japanese lad who was wearing a patch with the words "Third Echelon" embroidered into them. My Monroeville associate, currently a zombie, managed to scrawl a rather crude note about this group's leader, Vincent Childs, being related to her killer before dying a somewhat pointless death at the hands of The Pyro Dude. He claimed it was because of my business in Malton which is a cop out really. You don't punish the child for the sins of the father (or mother as the case may be...)
So I decided to take a bit of a detour from killing CDF scientists and asked Toshi Nagata to pass on a message to his leader. The message? uh...I'm not entirely sure. But I know that dishonerable death deserves something something. And killing one of their weaker members, taking a head in exchange for another head, well, that's how I roll. I'm not Amber Waves of Pain just for the hell of it. It's all about fallout kids. These days, considering how fast revives are in Malton and especially in a place like Pitneybank's Walrond Square, a kill just doesn't matter unless you can really spread the pain. So, while I was restocking the next day, I decided to kill Toshi a second time. Standing up from a kill was still quite laborsome for the poor boy. Having to do it 4 times in two days? I can't imagine he was having fun. I actually felt pity for him. But hey, if you're gonna take a stab at someone, you'd better make sure they can't stab you back. Apparently, it was all a misunderstanding (on their part...I'm still pretty sure they don't understand half of what I was talking about here.) But I had way too much to do to worry about coming back for more. So I forgot it...The forgiveness part might never come. I sure do miss hearing about Evito's exploits in and around Monroeville's central business district. Oh as a side bar, Billy Club Thorton is hot. I must remember to get his number next time I see him.
And so that night I retired in what is affectionately known as the Fortress of Prostitution's Giftte shoppe. I never found out why...It's not exactly a "safe" place to sleep unless there are very few bounty hunters in the area, (usually this only happens when there are massive hordes attacking the suburb since Giddings and Fort Creedy attract masses of murderers like zombies to a well lit necrotech building, which in turn attracts quite a few bounty hunters,) however I usually find some friends there. And this night was no exception. Joe Fortune, Captain Cleanoff and DinkyE and I were quite content to sleep in the shabby store. Unfortunately, bubyax disturbed our sleep. Well, he most assuredly disturbed DinkyE's sleep with a bit of a lead makeover. Joe Fortune, the classy chap he is, took it upon himself to teach bubyax some manners.
I took Joe's advice and wandered over to The Fortress of Prostitution's entry parlour, just to see who was about and apparently, The Saints aren't so Saintly after all. I found Peter Deluise sitting there in the waiting room. He was oblivious to my presence. And I wasn't ready to fire upon him. So I watched from behind a glamour magazine. I was briefly distracted by an article, and Pete was too fast. Only by about 16 seconds though. After such a tiring day, I was grateful for the rest at Walrond.
Speaking of Walrond Square, it still has the fastest needles ever even if some particularly prudish peasant persistantly uses this revive point as their own personal soap box to spread vicious rumours about yours truely. Well, I suppose one must expect tabloids and entourages when one touches the lives of as many people as I do...To be honest, rumours don't bother me that much and in fact, I did get a giggle out of that graffiti (as well as the many other attempts to squish my name and the names of several other famous murderers into the one small space of wall, as legibly as possible.) As Oscar Wilde put it "The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about." And the true fans usually end up showing their loyalty and respect when they can.
By now, Farmer had fallen and the clean up crew were focussing on Morrish and Giddings. A couple of small hordes by the names of LUE and the Ridleybank Resistance Front had gathered around the suburb and the festivities seemed to be in full swing. Unfortunately I'd missed most of the acts. In fact, I missed all of them...and I'm not entirely sure anyone played at all. But it didn't seem to matter. The crowds were lively and everyone was having a great time. Awareness was reaching the locals at an alarming rate. The fort had fallen within a week, the Farmer building had fallen twice already and I was ready to let my hair down. And everybody knows that all the good drugs, good booze and good company is at the backstage party.
I had acquired a pass from the lovely Miss Venetia Phair earlier and slipped into the darkened cinema after a quick stop at the bottle shop. I wasn't disappointed. The cinema was packed with Gore Corpers and various rogues hailing from all around Malton. Famous artist and anti-needle activist, dgw, was good enough to film a large amount of it. Most of it was just drunken banter and vandalism...a lot of it... you know what they say about rockstars, hotel rooms and TV sets...Well, the same can be said for murderers and zombie activists, cinemas and generators.
Late in the night, myself and Ocular snuck out to grab some bacon burgers from the piggies next door. Unfortunately I neglected to look at Mazoku's badge before I shot him. Had I known he was a breathing member of LUE, I'd have straightened my aim. Regardless, I wandered back into Maggs and munched on my hamburger on the couch.
In our absence, a couple of survivors namely, Rauland and X BoB X, had managed to wander past the bouncers to crash our little party asking for some help. Zombie in Pajamas and Johnny Bass offered some assistance. I never did find out whether that fellow got the assistance he needed.
A little rest and it was time to mingle with the concert goers again. This time, myself and that fine gore corper and reporter for the Malton Herald Sun, Johnny Bass, headed over to Giddings for a little mischief. He began to shoot baked monkey, which I didn't see and took it upon myself to finish the job a little prematurely. All in good fun of course. You'll notice that small horde inside Giddings in that last shot. I began to shoot down another human who, as he was dying, took off at a remarkable pace. I searched all around for him to no avail. Poor Johnny. I'll have to owe him one.
We slowly headed back to Maggs. And apparently I'd been outed by radio. I am not entirely sure who Jones was, but he didn't seem to be aware that I am in no way in the closet about what I do. My deeds around Pitneybank had hardly gone unnoticed so rather than condescend to this fellow with false modesty, I let him have the pure unadulterated truth. And of course, I offered to sign a few autographs for my comrades and fellow music lovers. Zombie in Pajamas skipped over to me with bright eyes and instantly requested one. Perhaps the most tragic thing about the zombie apocalypse is the lack of good headshots...of the glossy kind at least. An abundance of headshots and not a 8x10" in sight. So, in the spirit of the rock festival, (and perhaps the spirit of the adult film industry,too,) I signed one of his body parts. Hey, if Ron Jeremy can sign some breasts, I can sign asses. Though I don't think I'll be making a habit of that though.
Alas, all good things must come to an end. And as always, our party was crashed by some big game bounty hunters. [click herefor an alternate view.] I have to give them credit. The Saints seem to have drawn the attention of nearly every muderer in Malton because of the style and skill with which they hunt. If they weren't already pursuing us, I'd ask the Duke if we could invite them to join the Hunting club.
Well, with that wet blanket thrown over our little campfire and the hordes closing in, many of us were looking to head off. Grimchie popped in on the end just to let us know that he was grateful to have taken part in spreading peace and love to all of Pitneybank. And soon after, I took my leave.
As a sad ending to this, Grimchie asked me to put him out of his misery in the warehouse next door.
Soon it was business as usual. I popped into Caunt Street, just to see how the puppies were doing. Having recently been made aware of my fame, Jlyn29
and ChillinatorMeerkat were overcome. And of course, a little later, Miss Twill was happy to oblige me with a celebrity rider on my way out of Vinetown.
But! This is not where the story of Creedystock ends. Grimchie had been getting a little grief from someone who was annoyed at the anti-cloning laws in Malton and Monroeville. He threatened to make a clone army and stalk Grimchie which never really happened...But Lostcauseman or someone did clone his...er...penis. After a little stalking in Tollyton, and some backtracking to Roftwood, I found and killed Grimch's Epenis. It was only after I'd killed him that I realised I'd stumbled upon an AU10 feeding frenzy. Apparently, they were feeding a baby and this irked their leader some. Yeah yeah. Big bad murderers taking food from poor little zombies. Sure. I made that kill all on my own and it was personal. The zombies contributed little if anything to his death. I know, all this on the back of such a wonderful festival for zombie and human unity. So I tried, at least, to make amends with the affronted mob by offering myself up outside.
And this is where the music faded out.
Coming soon:
An explaination for my unexplained absence.
