Sentries manned the wire.
Thrillerland. Zombietown. The Literocalypse has come. No time now prosewise for bells, whistles. Main verbs. Prepositions. Personal pronouns. Fuck that. It's clipped sentences, now. Manly sentences.
A pretentious Literary Novel climbed the chain-link. Pages streaked with purple prose and similes.
'Look at him. Fucking Proust.'
The rotting canonical text had reached the razor wire. Barbs tore its binding.
'Give me some red tip. I want to light this fucker up.'
Standard full-metal jacket rounds swapped for a clip of incendiary cartridges.
'Proust? No zombies in that fuckheap.'
'No last minute flights in an antique B-52. No plan to drop an atom bomb to wipe out the source of the zombie virus. No plane crashing in Death Valley leaving the crew exposed to heat, infighting and the endless zombie threat in that pile of memorious shit.'
'It's all madelaines, madelaines, fucking madelaines. Far as the eye can see.'
Crank the charging handle. Cross-hairs centre on the spine of the book. Complex emotions and nuanced writing. Pitiless like a shark.
Lower the cross-hairs. Centre on his open page.
Gunshot.
Skullburst. Book blown apart. Paper confetti and magnesium fire. Proust's fucking silly writing landed on the grass in pieces.
'Give me a drink.'
'All we got left is Bud.'
Tab-crack. Head thrown back.
'Fucking piss.'
Can crush. Belch.
A fresh survey of the crowd of literary fiction pushing at the fence.
Cross-hairs centre on a James Joyce short story, couldn't be more than 10-pages long. 'We should hose those fuckers in aviation fuel and toss a match. Save some ammo.'
'Fucking connecting particles. Fucking James Wood. Fucking bollocks the lot of it. Main verbs! Nuance! Who needs it? Fuckers.'
Blam!
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