28 Predictions Later or the Invasion of the Living Dead.
The plague started so quietly that nobody took any notice of the first isolated outbreak. To be truthful, we can’t actually pinpoint a single incident or even an inception date – there is no patient zero. Through sheer weight of numbers, they easily overwhelmed a few of the smaller skeptic blogs. The initial outbreaks were contained, the thermobaric fuel-air bomb dropped on the site, all the bodies burnt and the infection had been safely cauterised, or so we thought.
But then they started popping up all over the place, lurching towards us with rotting bits of gangrenous flesh hanging off them in strips and making strange incoherent grunting noises. Some people thought they could make out recurring patterns, some semblance of a meta-language hidden away in those grunts but personally I think that was simply pity on the foul creatures. That’s just projection because they were once human; there’s absolutely no demonstrable intelligence remaining in them, just the need to satisfy their vile hunger.
They were suddenly emerging out of the stifling humidity of their warmist hellfire holes in ever greater numbers, and as if through some pathetic compulsion to once again become a force in the blogosphere, attempting to mob the perimeter defences of any blog that looked vulnerable.
The alarm flashed around the blogosphere from Skeptic Central – the eco-zombies were on the march and massing for an attack. You have been warned, contact is imminent, raise deflector shields and God be with you.
People speculated on why they simultaneously decided to leave their festering green blogs en masse, but I think it was quite simply because nobody in their right mind had come anywhere near their nesting sites for ages. The understandable fear of infection or being devoured by them was enough, so they were flocking out into the real world to look for fresh victims.
They were hungry, very hungry. Not so much for human meat but for a few miserable clicks.
Wherever anybody took pity on them and let one or two in, the usual terrible but inevitable pathology emerged. At first they tried to stay on their best behaviour but soon they couldn’t stop their innate nature manifesting itself in the same old ways. Tiresome distracting grunting, diverting the discussion by irrelevant piteous mewing, the biting personal attacks, claims of victimhood just because they were undead, but above all laying click traps back to their almost derelict lairs which were starved of any attention.
People de-fanged them and collared them on the end of very heavy moderation chains, but all the while keeping the good old cattle prod in handy reaching distance. As time would prove, such precautions were all in vain, as they cut and pasted zombie gibberish from sites like Klima Aktion Schutzstaffel SS and laid click snares back to them. When it comes to eco-zombies, Aesop’s fable about the scorpion crossing a river on a frog’s back still holds true. They have to sting in the end; it’s their nature.
They even attempted to storm the B&G led by a Willie zombie, and a short but determined fire fight ensued before they were driven back. I barricaded the door with my back and widespread arms to keep them out while the customers piled tables and chairs against it. The regulars, making the supreme sacrifice, legged it upstairs with their pints to pour them out of the first floor windows and down onto the scabrous hordes banging on the windows and door to be let in.
In the meantime, I recovered those sacks of carbon I’d liberated from their sequestration camps, and after waiting until the attackers were thoroughly drenched by beer and the contents of several bottles of sticky Franconian wine I’d handed out (could never shift a damn bottle of it anyway), emptied the sacks all over them.
When the black powder hit them, the effect was like using napalm or some sort of acid. They leapt up and down, screamed and howled, smoke hissed out of them in super-heated clouds as they seemed to shrivel in front of our very eyes. It was like one of those vampire movies where Dracula is incinerated to a pile of crumbling dust when exposed to daylight. Now we know why Greens hate carbon so much. Willie waved the remains of his scorched willy at us and howled about the indiscriminate use of chemical weapons. Another sackful, a bit more wailing and screaming, and his pecker was all that remained of him.
An Enema zombie, true to his verminous nature, tried to sneak in using the sewers, but another sackful and a few hearty flushes soon cleaned him out of the system in a manner ironically reminiscent of his name. The regulars later lifted the manhole cover out front and had a desultory poke around in the sewage with a hockey stick for another pecker trophy but none was to be found. Perhaps he never had one in the first place, they opined.
Having broken the back of the overt first wave, a second but more insidious type of zombie shuffled their way into the attack – the stealth zombie. They’d slither into a blog wearing clean clothes and makeup plastered all over their faces to hide their rotting green flesh. Due to their compulsive zombie urges, they just couldn’t keep up the pretence for long and suspicions were gradually raised. No matter how much cheap Cologne they splashed on, they still had that faint whiff of Eau de Eco-Zombie about them.
The big give away was that every time they passed the dog on the way in, he’d awake from his nap in the basket to snarl at them. It’d take more than clean clothes and shovelling on foundation cream to fool the likes of him. Getting Cerberus all trained up to attack on sight any Greenies caught sneaking into the bar proved to be a sound investment, but even I didn’t realise that the training, like his fangs, actually went so deep. Get him Serby, get him.
Our particular stealth zombie proved to be operating out of a polytechnic masquerading as a redbrick university on the south coast of England. Though he like taking snaps of comets, he was clinically sub-literate, yet another victim of higher education. It was almost insulting. I know it can get a bit rough around the edges here at times but by and large I like to think I run a classy skeptic joint and I’d have thought we rated someone a cut above that. Okay, they don’t have to be a Yale or Oxbridge troll, but at least someone who’s got enough of a clue to get through the bloody door. Hint – an ability to spell those long three syllable words would be a distinct advantage.
Cleaning up in the aftermath took nothing more than some elbow grease and bit of vigorous brushing and I must admit it was a pleasure to see all those clouds of carbon atoms melting back into the atmosphere. Go forth and enjoy your freedom my lovelies. As I watched them spiralling up into the firmament to lodge themselves like itching powder inside Granny Gaia’s pantaloons, I mulled over recent events.
One of their predictions has finally been proved right, even if only half right – we’d just had a visit from our first wave of climate refugees, but not the type they’d expected. Monkeys, typewriters and climate predictions I suppose.
How the fortunes of the once mighty troll armies of undead have turned; reduced to creeping around skeptic blogs while pathetically trying to cadge a click or two. Gowon, gowon, gissa click Guv’nor. I knew one day we’d pass them in the up elevator, as they were going in the other direction, but frankly I never thought it’d be this toe-curlingly embarrassing.
Have they no self-respect?
They’re yesterday’s zombies, ignored and left wandering around in the wilderness margins of the web. The Willys, Nuttis, Moonies and all the other expendables are doing what’s expected of them, expending themselves. Their useful days are over. Schmell the cold coffee, Sturmtruppen. Everyone else, the smarties, have already jumped ship.
You’re the zombies and are easy, nobody cares – the rear-guard idiots we’ll indulge and nobody else will ever choose to remember with anything but derision. The equivalent of the last Japanese soldier surrendering and walking out of the jungle with their hands up in 1972 on some desolate bloody island nobody ever gave a damn about in the first place. By that stage, nobody really cared either way.
Like all their moves, the stalled invasion was carefully orchestrated but it’s actually a tacit admission of how dire things have become for them in the blogosphere. Their version of the Tet Offensive has failed. They’re starving.
We are the masters now – allowing them in on our strict terms or banishing them back to their moribund nests. We have been validated, they have wasted years of their life, years. Not only the dustbin of history awaits them, but also its judgement, which apart from its usual contrarian elements is rarely complimentary of losers.
All that remained to be done was deciding what to do with the pecker. After much debate with the regulars, Scotch Geezer, named after his usual drink rather than his beloved Hebridean islands, suggested we mount the shrivelled thing on a wooden plaque over the bar to commemorate the battle. Too blood thirsty, I’ve always thought there’s more Viking than Scot in that man. Anyway, since this proposal met with enthusiastic approval from the regulars, that’s exactly what we did with it. Every St David’s day, being the 24th of May, we’ll all raise a fond glass to a former member of the alarmist horde.
All in all, it was a rather good day. We didn’t lose a man, I’d finally got rid of that god-awful dessert wine, they didn’t get a single click out of us, and we got to keep Willy’s carbonised dick.
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