The Imaginatively Titled - Walking Dead - Part 2

Another shameless rip off of a hit T.V programme, all in the interest of taking cruel and unnecessary jabs at Floyd Mayweather, Manny Pacquiao and the whole silly business.

As with Part 1, I wrote this only because of an unwelcome bout of boredom and sobriety. No serious point was being made and no real opinions were being put forward. I, in fact have no real opinions, nor do I really have any point so please play nice.

It had been a lonely few years for Floyd Mayweather. One by one, his family, friends and associates had all ridden the conveyor belt of demise; either starving to death in this new world of deprivation or eaten alive by the devil-held corpses of those fortunate enough to catch the early bus out of Hell. Roger had been the first to go (he thought motherfucker was dead. That motherfucker undead) and Floyd Senior had followed not long after. His security guard had died during the first winter, after a surprisingly heated face-poking incident while his little brother Adrien had been eaten during the very first spring (Floyd was particularly hurt by this, as when Adrien Broner was devoured by flesh-eating zombies, it was pretty much the same as Floyd himself being devoured by flesh-eating zombies).

And so, just one isolated soul was left to wander his gargantuan Las Vagas compound. He’d lost track of how long it had been since the arse fell out of the world and then how long he’s had to live in the remaining arseless world without his menagerie of hangers on. It was light and then it was dark. It was hot and then it was a bit less hot. Days and seasons and years dragged by, belligerent in their refusal to mercifully take Floyd with them.

On this particular day (for the sake of the word-count, let’s call it a Saturday) Floyd was sitting back with a tall heavy glass of room-temperature water. One of the biggest problems posed by the downfall of civilisation had been the drying up of the plumbing. With nobody left to man the sanitation plants and with masses of fly-covered corpses around every corner, whatever the brown stuff was that slurped and gurgled out of the taps was not in the slightest appetising to even the most parched of throats. Fortunately, with just a little #pipework and #distillation, Floyd had turn a recipe stolen from Juan Manuel Marquez into a delicious and nutritious (if vaguely nutty flavoured) nectar of the Gods.

A loud buzz rang from Floyd’s central security console (for the sake of the word-count, let’s call it a mahogany console, with a well-polished chrome finish) jolting him from the solitude in his mind. With a grunt, he swung his body up and away from his sofa, leaving behind a well-defined arse imprint and the scent that all men will acquire when left alone in the house for more than 6 hours. Moments before he reached the CCTV display that hung above his electric fireplace, Floyd saw upon it a sight which he believed would never again fall before his eyes. The only one that remained after years of destruction and desolation. The one man left in all the world.


The past few years had been equally eventful for Manny Pacquiao. Following the collapse of mankind, all of Manny’s friends and companions had deserted him, taking with them all of his earthly possessions. It surprised Manny to find out that all his cars, his house, his food, his clothes (including the ones he was wearing), and his gold and platinum records all belonged to other people but he was assured that this was in fact the case.

The only one that had not walked out voluntarily had been his long time business partner, A Mr Bob Arum, who, quite separate to the biblical terror that had cast a shadow over every aspect of human existence, had been stabbed in the neck by a Swiss banker over a dispute over a shared dinner bill. To this day, the banker insists that if a man only has tap water and a salad then anyone asking him to split the bill evenly is implicitly asking for a biro behind the trachea.

Now, as Manny waited outside the padlocked golden gates of the Las Vegas mansion (for the sake of the word-count, let’s say he waited patiently, with just a hint of tired-eyed resignation) he wondered how many more buzzers he would have to press before he clapped eyes on another human being. For what seemed like months he had been wandering the formerly affluent neighbourhoods of Vegas, each day becoming buried deeper under his towering mountain of desperation. It was perhaps because of this growing sense of despondency that Manny had now spent 27 different nights crashed on Juan Manuel Marquez’s floor. He had just this morning decided that this was no longer an option though after has seen the disgusting, pustular affliction that was swamped over his former rivals chest; a clear sign that he was about to join the ranks of the undead.

To his right, a Ginster’s chicken and mushroom pasty dropped suddenly down from behind a swivelling security camera. Hanging by a string, it swung ominously in the warm desert breeze. Manny backed away with revulsion. Since before he could remember he had been deathly terrified of pasties. For some reason that is perfectly understandable and not at all suspicious, Manny had always been struck by the certainty that pasties in some way drained the energy of those that ate them, which, he always explained quite reasonably, would be a bit of a bugger while being chased by ravenous zombies. With that in mind his eyes darted from right to left. His heart was racing and his flight instinct was screaming. He looked up at the security camera with a mask of terror and pleading, and waited.


His eyes cold and his jaw clenched, Floyd stared down at his CCTV display. He had devised what he later came to call ‘The Pasty Protocol’ after a long, winding and looping conversation with his uncle (I thought them motherfuckers like chicken and mushroom. But them motherfuckers like steak and kidney). It turned out that with their subtle spicing and pungent herby aroma, the humble chicken and mushroom pasty to a zombie was like a water spray to a cat, or a kick in the balls to someone with balls. The undead’s sense of smell, tuned as it was to the scent of fresh and sweaty meat, would simply never be attracted to the sweet deliciousness peculiar to this pastry-wrapped poultry goodness. It was with this in mind that he had resolved to hang a greasy treat outside his house, giving him a simple way to determine if any visitor was friend or foe.

‘Take the test’ he growled at the screen, willing this stranger to step forward.

Manny, as if walking through cement, forced his left leg forward, then his right, then his left again, conforming to a very traditional walking strategy. His hand stretched out, slowly, straining, mere millimetres from its target before being snatched back and wrapped around Manny’s desperate face.

He managed to mutter, through choked back tears ‘Sometimes when we touch…..’

Unable to finish, (the honesty too much) he ran back down the long asphalt path with his eyes streaming, back towards the main road and as far from that house as possible.

With a sigh and a mildly xenophobic curse, Floyd shut down the security display

He thought motherfucker would take the test.

<strong><font color="red">FanPosts are user-created content written by community members of Bad Left Hook, and are generally not the work of our editors. <em>Please do not source FanPosts as the work of Bad Left Hook</em>.</font></strong>

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