The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    I think she was pleased
to see me. Hard to tell with her head being the shape of a football
at the moment. The only expression she could do being 'half-finished
Halloween Pumpkin.'
    "Don't you think
it's time you dumped him?" I remember saying to her, when I was
shown through. Crispin excused himself to find a vending machine that
would meet his exacting requirements, leaving us to our girls' talk.
    "Oh, noooo ,"
Dufus-Features protested, waving her bandaged club-hand, in defence
of the sadist currently fulfilling the job-spec of 'abusive
boyfriend' in her life. "He really loves me. And I can handle
him. You have no idea how bad he used to be. He's really making an
effort to change. I'm his best therapy, he says."
    "By which you mean,
he uses you as his punch-bag?" I remarked. My stomach growled
weirdly and horribly at the sight of all the blood-soaked gauze, and
I had to sit down on the horrible Health & Safety hazard
of a chair, more slippy and slidey than trying to ride an eel. I was
feeling dizzy already. I wondered if I should have asked Crispin to
sneak some more booze in with us. It looked like being a long night,
on only one Sloe Gin Sling. "I hear his last dumb slut, Chelsea,
now has a smile to match her name that he gave her. As a parting
gift."
    "Exactly. He's SO
much better now, you have no idea," Brainwashed Prick said, her
one bloodshot eye (that I could still just about see) all misty with
delusional erotomania. Or maybe it was only the Chloramphenicol.
"Remember, you have to kiss a lot of frogs, before one starts to
turn into a prince."
    "I really don't want
to know about your Batrachiphilia as well," I replied. "Don't
you ever watch CSI? Guys like him don't get better. They're
serial offenders. They get worse. Soon as you're trapped in a false
sense of security with them, you think everything's hunky-dory
because he hasn't slammed your head in the washing-machine for a few
days, and the next thing you know you're flying out of the
woodchipper all over the garage ceiling."
    "Oh, Sarah, you're
so melodramatic," Miss Dunce's Cap of the Year told me.
    "One in three,"
I warned her. "The statistics say one in three murders isn't a
domestic. The two in three are the ones that don't get on the news.
The open-and-shut cases. Phone call to the police, confession,
arrest. Is that how you want to end up?"
    "Now I think you're
just being mean. Because if you're a woman too, really you're only
jealous," Shithead snapped. "Don't deny it. Every girl I
see is secretly eyeing him up. You could never handle a bad boy.
You're going to end up a lonely old spinster, with a room full of
eyeballs in jars. Whereas I've been designing my wedding dress,
Googling honeymoon locations, and planning baby names."
    "Really?" I
asked, not feeling the slightest inclination to prove my gender to
her current state of mind. Which seems to include the fantasy that
every other woman around fancies a bit of assault and battery. "What
did you name the one you had sucked out at the clinic this morning,
because your Mr. Perfect was about to cut off your ears and nose and
feed them to you for forgetting to take the Pill?"
    * * * * *
    Maybe I was a bit harsh
on her. But seriously, the guy doesn't even deserve the honour of
ending up pinned out as an actual anatomical diagram on the Body
Farm. If something happens to him, I hope it comes with the label Body Never Recovered . Maybe I'll ask Ace Bumgang whether they
have one of those things that crushes cars into a small cube at the
breaker's yard. Then Miss Fucktard could get herself referred to a
hostel or refuge, or for counselling (instead of the morgue) by the
police or her doctor or whatever – to stop her hooking up with
the next optimistic slimeball psycho who stalks her with the best
intention of adding her to the notches on his shovel-handle. They
must think all their Christmases have come at once when she stumbles
half-deliberately into their laps, having spiked her own drink to
make it that