The Shonen Otaku Corner: Shonen Otaku's Diary of Frank West: Overtime, Final

It’s over. Truly, finally over, except this time I mean that in a relieved way instead of a panicked way. Our government is ready to implode in on itself, all the zombies are being taken care of, and I scored a pimpin’ new ride with a hot chick in it. However, I was not able to save what I truly loved. All I can do for my beloved now is write this so that their memory lives on.

I got the stuff on Isabella’s shopping list like she asked. The entire time I had to deal with both armed guards and little armed remote control helicopters with guns built into them. I don’t even know how they store all the bullets those things fire, let alone keep them afloat while the recoil is hammering back at them. I was shot up so much it got boring, so I made a little game and tried to catch bullets with my teeth. I was only able to pull it off once.

Source

As I was passing through the park, I happened to glance at the spot the helicopter crashed. It blew a hole in the big clock tower in the middle, which I was surprised to see had a tunnel in it, clogged with zombies.

It was all coming together. That must’ve been how the drug dealers got the drugs in the mall and escaped! I figured if that were the case, it must lead to the outside! I told Kakashi nearby my epiphany, but he just ignored me and stared into space with a blank expression. He didn’t even move.

Well screw you Kakashi.

That tunnel would turn out to be my ticket out of this dump. When Isabella finished stabbing me with her evil needle (grossly misusing the equipment, I might add) I could immediately feel the retardedness coursing through my body, which combined with the pain, seemed to have turned me into the Hulk for a few minutes and tear apart the hideout’s railing. It’s not a cure, but it’ll last. I wish we knew how long it would last though. I’m worried that if I have to give myself more while the last dosage is still going, the drug might apply too much pressure to the zombie flu, overload it and make me explode.

Something about my explosive worries made Isabella remember something. I was hoping it would be a bomb so we could bomb the fudge out of the mall’s game shop for stocking The King of Fighters 12, but no. She told me Carlito prepared 50 doses of the drug and had some NPO (Nasty Poop Organization) help 50 orphans find homes. She gave me a list of the orphan’s names, on which I found a very interesting tidbit.

Geese Howard has a secret second son! Donald, no doubt named after the bird that makes nature's most annoying sounds, just like his dad. I smelled blackmail material.

Isabella showed me where they were all adopted to too. Carlito had quite a reach.

"Well, except for Montana, North Dakota, Oregon, Wyoming, Idaho, Iowa, Arkansas, Mississippi, Virginia, South Carolina, Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts and Connecticut. Carlito must have bad vacation experiences there.

I already have a plan for using this to my advantage. Using money from blackmailing Geese, I’ll patent and manufacture this retardedness drug and sell it to people who caught the zombie flu. Then they’ll have to pay for it just to stay human every day, and I could be rich off of their misery! I already have a name planned out: Zombie X! Sure, Carlito made it first, but what’s he going to do now? I’ll just need to have Isabella make it. Sadly, that meant I had to drag her along. She became her own bargaining chip.

At least she has her uses. Isabella used what’s left of the bugs to also make an unbelievably strong perfume that only the zombies can smell. I guess it’s kind of like how we’re so avoidant of the smell of our own armpits. It straight from us, but we don’t want to acknowledge it.

The cogs in my head turned for a couple of minutes. We had a perfume that smelled like shit to zombies. Shit=sewers. Sewer+zombies=a sewer full of zombies! And sewers are underground! Brain blast!

She was reluctant to go in the zombie-infested hole in the ground, but after I threw her in, she couldn’t get back up. With only one way to go, we moved forward. We had reached the point of no return.

The tunnel was so flooded with zombies it would have been impossible to move had it not been for Isabella’s magic perfume, which seemed to have instead created a zombie-proof barrier that knocked them down. It was like being at an ACDC concert with a heavily-armed riot officer that doesn’t know the word “brutality.”

I tried to crowd surf on the mob, but zombies really suck at it, which is a shame because it was a long way through until we found natural light. We had to stop more than once to open grates I assume the drug lords used to lock people out of their secret passage. I’ll never understand how the zombies got past those.

When we could see the light at the end of the tunnel, after much spinning like the Tazmanian Devil to clear the way when I got impatient, the super shield perfume started running out of juice, to the point that it could only protect one of us.

I told her to give it to me, since I’m more important, but she just stood there and looked at me for about a full minute before replying “I want a piggyback.”

Outside there were two more armed agents guarding a jeep. It was a very nice jeep. I had to have it, so I came up with a plan: by opening the nearby gate to let the zombies into their safe zone to distract them, I got behind both agents and snapped their neck. I heard that voice in my head again. This time it said “For Christ’s sake Fisher, the mission is over.” He must’ve had the wrong frequency.

Luckily the UBCS is stupid enough to leave their keys in the ignition.

Hey, they left something in the CD tray.

We were home free! Or so I thought. A group of people up on what appeared to be command towers that just happened to be in the area alerted me to a tank that was tailing us by shouting “TAAAANK! TA-TA-TA-TAAANK! TANK TAAAAANK!” I appreciated the warning, but it’d have been nice if they didn’t yell so much.

Lo and behold, there was indeed a tank with its sights set on our jeep. At the time I thought it was the cops busting us for grand theft auto, and like any cop on my tail, they needed to be taken out for good.

And boy was that tank angry. When it wasn’t trying to shoot us with its giant cannon it was deploying more of those little toy helicopters with guns on them to shoot us down. There must be some kind of manufacturing plant for those toys inside, because I’m fairly certain there isn’t enough room in that tank for the number of them I saw.

I couldn’t find a way out of where we were, so there was only one thing I could do: leisurely drive around and let Isabella feebly gun it down with the mounted gun.

I’ve stopped being surprised at the kinds of tactics that work. Never mind that we never ever ran out of ammunition or even had to reload; the tank only fired at us once. Without its lazer targeting doohickey attached to it, the stupid thing didn’t fire. This is what our tax dollars go into people!

I guess the AI budget goes into reinforced armored Humvees, since we weren’t blown into bits of shrapnel and bone powder when we were hit by that tank missile!

We were in the clear for a long while, but someone inside the tank must’ve woken up and taken control himself, and judging by the way he ran into us and flipped us over, he was drunk.

Never drink before you drive, or you may just run over innocent civilians with a high-tech tank. This message has been brought to you by the Willamette Drivers Safety Committee.

I was ready to run away, but the driver came out and pointed the tank’s cannon at me. In that situation, it’s customary to do a double “Heil Hitler” gesture to indicate that you doubly support your country. That support, however, changed when I met the man behind the tank and behind everything that has happened.

His name was Brock. That’s right. I had come face to face with the president of the United States of America himself.

I learned that Obama commanded the operation in Santa Cabeza, then he went on a speech about humanity’s mistakes or some crap. I was too shocked at just how hands-on our government really is. We complain about how it does nothing to help, yet the president himself partakes in high-risk gun-filled situations with the UBCS personally. I almost considered rethinking how much hard work we give our politicians credit for, but that was negated by the object in his mouth.

I could hear the same group of pricks from earlier scream "smoker!"

The second Obama turned his back, I

I jumped 20 feet in the air and delivered a punch to his jaw that sent his cigar flying. The zombies had already used their super speed to swarm the area and the jeep was totaled. The tank was our only ride out. It was me or him. He may have beaten John Mc Cain, but I’ve covered wars!

Unfortunately, I forgot that he’d participated in wars. My strategy of flash kicking every time he got close only worked a few times before he wised up and grabbed my leg.

Never fails. Except when they see it coming.

Obama must practice wrestling because he flawlessly followed it up with a leg hold. As he pulled at my leg, trying to break it, he put his head up close to my ear and said “The Twinkies were delicious.”

I lost it.

Something within me woke up and gave me a second wind borne of rage that gave me the strength to flip him over my head with nothing but my leg muscles. When he got up, I channeled my rage to deliver the mother of all beatdowns. It was like my rage gauge was full and I used every bit of it I could at once.

He tried to defend himself, but couldn’t block them all. As he stood there, barely alive, I informed him of why I was upset. No, not because I have any kind of mental problem, and not because of Obamacare. It was because

Those were MIIIIIIIINNNEEEE!!!!!!

This is what I like to call... The zombie mosh pit.

But even in my moment of victory, I mourn, for there is no taste in my mouth of Hostess’ delicious Twinkies. Why did it have to turn out this way? Why does god punish me so? Why? WWHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?!?!