Undead Anonymous

I don’t think I’ve introduced the other members of the group who share the Soquel Community Center space with me twice a week.

The group moderator is Helen, a fifty-two-year-old woman who was killed when she ended up on the wrong end of a 12 gauge, pump-action Mossberg.  Apparently, she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

There’s Jerry, a twenty-one-year-old car crash victim who wears his hat crooked and pants halfway down his ass and says “Dude” all the time.  He also has a permanent erection that he talks about at every meeting.

Carl is a bit of a curmudgeon who used to hob-nob with the social elite of Santa Cruz County until a couple of punks stabbed him to death and used his credit cards to buy several hundred dollars worth of on-line pornography.

Naomi could still pass for a model if it wasn’t for the way the right side of her face sags beneath her empty eye socket.  She got that beauty mark courtesy of her husband, who came home after a bad round of golf and took out his frustrations on Naomi with a four iron.

Tom is a thirty-eight-year-old dog trainer who was living at home with his mom even before a pair of Presa Canarios nearly took off his right arm, along with most of his face.  He’s a bit of a Magoo but he’s working on his self-confidence.

Last but not least is Rita, who slit her wrists and her throat on her twenty-third birthday.  Rita is the most recent addition to the group, so she smells nice, even for a zombie.  She doesn’t talk much, but she seems to have a lipstick fetish.

Including me, that makes seven of us.  Except when the Breather liasion attends the meeting to check up on us.  But he doesn’t tend to stick around long.  I think it’s the way Carl constantly picks at the stab wounds in his face.