The Apocolypse - a podcast by The Q

My wife had left me (to go to work), and it was just me and my son. We were here, in our humble fortress, protected by the insanity brought on by the post turkey day madness. GI Joe was on the television, the old stuff, when the Joes were REAL American heroes and Snake Eyes was content to break dance in a Cobra-owned nightclub while Shipwreck was in a kick line with a bunch of scantly clad ladies. My son began to show signs of hunger and fatigue, it made sense as it had only been three hours since he had eaten last. I rushed to find the boy some sustenance, opened the container of  advanced "Go and Grow" formula, only to find it empty. Dusty remnants of the chalky powder stared back at me as I peered into the plastic vessel. What was I to do? My poor caramel-colored baby needed his nourishment. It was then that I knew I would have to venture beyond the confines of my bunker.  I would have to go to Wal-Mart on the day after Thanksgiving.

I bundled up my boy, hugging him tightly and saying a prayer that we would, some day, be able to come back home. We made our way to the vehicle, the bitter winds reddening my son's tiny nose almost instantly. We drove through the streets, naked trees dancing this way and that in the angry, predatory winds. The parking lot of Wal-Mart was littered with dead vehicles...their cold, hulking masses cluttering up all the good parking spaces. I should have turned back, I should have killed a homeless and fed on that instead, but I was already there and my son need something other than good intentions in his bottle.

An old demon of a monster skittered towards me as I pushed the clattering, rusty cart through the front doors. Maybe she was trying to greet me, maybe she was trying to get close enough to attack me and inject me with her demon spawn so they could fester in the warmth of my stomach...I moved quickly, not looking back at her, but hearing her move on to her next poor, helpless victim.

I proceeded through the grocery section which was surprisingly empty and this gave me pause. Where were they? Where were the mindless vagabonds that stalked these aisles the day after Thanksgiving? Had the carnage come and gone? Would my life and the life of my child be spared? And then, just as my wild hopes began to blossom, they were crushed under the heel of reality. The formula was no there on the shelf...they were sold out. My journey, my travels, my struggles were for naught. My child, that angelic dollop of sunshine (who was pooping his pants at the moment) would go without his nourishment. And then, a passing stranger, a beacon of kindness wearing a pair of pink sweat pants with the world "Salty" arched across her derriere, told me that I had to go to checkout line 9, where they kept the cigarettes. The formula in question was apparently kept there because people would steal it in order to make crystal meth. I nodded a thanks to the salty patron and went on my way, realizing that the quickest way to my goal would be to cut through the electronics department. And just as my super sexy plan solidified my mind, I rounded the corner to look out upon the sea of degradation before me. The throngs of madness had convened there, rummaging through bins, yelling, crying out as they lost their humanity and turned on each other. They were all sullen eyes, bestial gaits, and odors that soured your stomach. Broken and battered they moved here and there, surrounding a small counter where a resistance of Wal-Mart employees were making their last stand. I could not get involved, I could not help the poor employees, their were a lost cause.

Once I was through electronics things only got worse as I traveled through the dark forest that was the Apparel Department. The floors were littered with clothing that told the story of a great and bloody epic struggle that had taken place here earlier. As I moved through the battlefield I saw the occasional employee, on their hands and knees, pulling super cute tops from underneath fixtures, and scooping up stylish yet affordable pants.

Then...it was time for checkout. The lines...oh sweet Moesha...the lines. Crazed patrons, struggling, fighting to be free, an exodus of cataclysmic proportions, lives trying to be saved, maniacs trying to escape with their carts full of Hot Wheels Sharkbit Bay Adventure sets, and Dora the Explorer whiskey shooters. But...in the end...I made it through, got the coveted formula, and made my escape. Now, as I sit here, recalling the harrowing experience, the adventure of a man struggling to protect his son, I see that I must share this story with the world. I was going to call my chronicle The Road...but since I'm black I know that I must call it The Black Road...which is really just Asphalt...so I'll probably go that direction.

"Q"  

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