If I had t'figure 'bout where things started goin' downhill, it'd probably a-been the day I showed up at work smellin' like cheap whiskey. See, first of all, I weren't even THAT drunk by the time I got there, and second, it weren't THAT cheap. The whiskey. See, that's when they fired me, the bastards.
Gets worse though, 'cause then they called the pigs what came 'round and picked me up for drinkin' and drivin' when I went and tried to leave the plant. That's bullshit, I was just drivin'. I hadn't had a drink in two hours at that point!
Anyways, I had some money squirelled away, and an over abund.. Abun-dunce? Dance? Feckit, a lot of free time after that, and figured I may'swell start tryin' to get into one o'my favorite sports to watch. You ever see someone throw a pumpkin eight hundred yards? With a giant chunk of machinery they done built themselves?
I have, and boy howdy, I were gonna do it my ownself if it killed me.
Only too me 'bout ways a month to get my Pumpkin' Slayin' Machine figured out and partways built. Went with somethin' simple, ya know. Treb-oo-shay, I guess like a Frenchy catapult or somethin'. Anyways, it's a fancy simple contraption, and with enough railroad ties, acetylene oxygen mix, and I beams, I had my frame and throwin' arm up, no problem.
Counterweights were an issue, but I solved that fair easy. I figure, what, a pumpkin weighs ten pounds? That rustin' ol' Fiesta on m'lawn outa be 'nough counter weight to launch a pumpkin damned near a mile! Got that damned car (belonged to my exwife's former boyfriend. Good drinker that'n.), all set up, even got a winch I took off that Landrover what's downside upways to get the arm cranked back.
Then started the most frustratin' month of my life. Turns out, gettin' them damned sling'ems to leggo of the pumpkin requires a level uh finesse -Hey there! Two frenchy words in one day! I'm fruggin bilingual! Er, takes some trickin' to get the damned thing to work right. I shot pumpkins straight up, I shot 'em straight into the ground. Hell, I ain't right sure how, but I shot a pumkpin off to the side an' into my livin' room. Still scratchin' my head over that one. Point bein', anyway, it weren't goin' how I wanted.
Then I starts hearin' bout them zombie's gettin' round and killin' folk and the world goin' to hell and then I met one of the smelly fuckers m'self. See, I was out workin' on my french-a-pult when I hear that annoyin' shufflin' 'n' moanin' comin' from round the shed, but I don't pay it no mind, figurin's the neighbor kid or summich. Though, you'd think after havin' to pull rocksalt out of his ass cheeks, he wouldn't be comin' 'round no more...
Anyways, I figure I got the release about right this time, and I get back and yank the cord just in time for this ugly rottin' fool come shamblin' from behind my shed, and step right into the loop o'my Punkin' Killer's sling. Hell, I got whiplash just WATCHIN' the way that crappy little Ford ripped that sucker off his feet, smashin' his head into my drive way in the process, and wouldn't you know it, the release worked!
'Course, flyin' zombies not withstanding, I had other problems. Just as the dead... redeaded? the zombie guy with flat skull went flyin' out of the sling, the damned throwin' arm went and snapped. You ever see an I beam out right snap? It's some twitchy shit, I'm tellin' you.
Anywho, at that point, I figure there really are zombies about, and I don't even got a workin' catapult no more, and I was probably runnin' low on TV dinners, so I went to my shed, grabbed my Mattock, grabbed a couple boxes of shells, and here I am.
Oh, right. I'm Rory.
Rory the Welder.
...Got a smoke?