A Case of Mistaken Identity
Scenario:
Woooooweee! You just blew up a bus full of decrepid, stinking zombies, and the exhilerating rush of adrenalin is still pumping through your veins as you commence slamming a Red Bull. Man, those zombies didn’t even see what hit em! And the looks on their big, dumb, old, uncomprehending faces… Ah, priceless. Just as you start thinking that some of those zombies were pretty far along in their decaying process, the cops bust onto the scene and start dropping elbows on your spine. What the hell? Arrested. Now you’re charged with the murder of a couple dozen oldies who will never love their grandchildren again. You made the priceless mistake: old people might not be zombies. What do you do?
What you should do:
Play it tight lipped and get your lawyer. Clearly there’s nothing wrong with your senses, you were just a little
over-zealous in your defense of mankind. You did your best, but apparently your best was too good: those old people weren’t dead yet, let alone undead. Being that as it is, you need a good lawyer to convince the jury that you’re certifiably insane. Look for one that has taught acting classes, because acting a little crazy never hurt anyone who was supposed to actually be crazy.
Next, when you get a chance, pull a big clump of hair right out of your head. When you’re hair looks crazy, people start to think you’re crazy. Then, whenever there’s a moment of silence, ask someone if your hair is ok. I don’t know if crazy people do that kind of thing or not, but it sure sounds hilarious. The hair will grow back if you live long enough.
Lastly, stick to your guns. Don’t tell people that you “thought they were zombies.” Tell them that “they were zombies, zombies in waiting.” Then tell the courtroom about the life of a happy go lucky caterpiller named Steve, and how one day he got all fat and puffy and made himself into a coccoon, and how after a while Steve popped out as a very fragile pointless winged thing and got hit by a car. Old people do that too. If we wait too long to bury them, they start to stink, and it’s not far between stink and zombie. After that story, they might let you go free, but they’ll more likely send you somewhere to get psychological help, which is kind of the idea even though you don’t need help.
What I would do:
No one is going to believe that it wasn’t pre-meditated when I tell them I just happened to have that rocket propelled grenade in my pocket. That means something to some people, and some of those people may be in the jury. Now, I’m no lawyer, I don’t know how the system works, or why a concealed explosive is illegal when a concealed firearm isn’t, but I do know one thing: zombies. Which brings to bear the question of why I mistakenly fired crucial artillery upon a bus full of non-zombie old cruddy duddies.
Answer! I didn’t, that was a bus full of zombies, but the world is too blind and ignorant to see that. It’s too sensitive, not yet ready to see the truth, and even though I saved it there will be no victory parade with garlands of sweet smelling flowers or Cuban cigars, no tankards of ail or tequila on tap. Nothing but a cell 
and a shoddy pillow that reeks of genitals and genital sweat. Such is my fate.
Now, I’m not one to tell you what kind of man I am or amn’t, but if there’s one thing I am it’s a just-in-case kind of guy. Every couple days or so, I actually swallow an entire hand gun made of plastic. You heard me right, a plastic gun, like in that move “In the Line of Fire” or somesuch. You see, the plastic gun will help me get through the x-rays that check for concealed weapons. Then, a day or two later, I poo it out, clean it, put it together, fire a round, and then take it apart and eat it again. It’s a vicious cycle, but one I’ve accepted as part of my life. Also, I had my sternum crushed as a child and in it’s place I now have a chunk of metal. I keep the bullets there.
All of this is to say that once I get in the prison, I’ll be able to craft my weapon to take into the courtroom. Why? Theatrics mostly. I think it’ll help me make the news, because I’m not going to play all crazy and harmless. That’s not my style. Instead, I’m going to force the world’s eyes open, to show them what they do not want to see. I would say, “World, it’s tough out there, and that’s because of zombies. Sometimes it takes people like me doing things you’d rather not know about to keep you unknowingly safe.
“You see, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Whose gonna do it? You? I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep for those old people, and you curse me and my actions. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. That old people death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives. You don’t want the truth because deep down in places you don’t talk about at parties, you want me on that wall, you need me on that wall. I use words like honor, code, loyalty. I use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a world that rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide, and then questions the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said thank you, and went on your way.”
Then I would launch into my preaching about zombies and the dangers we all face on a daily basis. If my words couldn’t move the world to shake off the veil of ignorance it so comfortably swaddled in, then I would be left to the wolves of a harsh justice system. Undoubtedly I would be convicted of something not rewarded and utterly unrelated to zombies, and they would likely punish me most severely. I would be punished for this great cause that I fight for day in and day out, the cause for which I struggle to enlighten others, and in the end I would stand as an example of an unacknowledged hero who did something great, did something grand, selfless and pure of spirit, and was destroyed for it.
I would become as a prophetic martyr symbolizing the world’s need and complete inability to recognize the true threat of zombiism. And so it would be up to those who followed me to spread the word, to make the world see the truth, to convert the masses into a mobilized force against the coming undead. Would suffering without recognition be worth saving the world of a grisly fate?
(Overall Rating: 5 out of 5)You need to be a registered member to rate this post.
Loading ...
September 29th, 2008 at 8:40 am
I think i would act crazy too, its always best to pleed insanity
September 29th, 2008 at 5:21 pm
The burden here is on the prosecution: they need to prove that the shambling masses of decaying flesh on that bus were NOT zombies, and it is impossible to prove a negative. I will happily concede that those zombies may once have been loving grandparents, creepy old perverts, and perhaps even retired zombie-hunters, but at some point in time before I launched my concealed explosive, they became zombies, and it became my civic duty to destroy them before the infection could spread beyond the confines of the bus.
since the prosecution cannot prove that the passengers on the bus were NOT zombies, all they’ve got on me is that I blew up someone else’s bus. rather than waste the court’s time trying to prove that the zombies on the bus were not zombies, I will plead guilty to a lesser charge of property damage and ask the court to consider the mitigating circumstances - i destroyed the bus to protect everyone outside the bus.