[ TT ] Your toilet is clogged , you need to go to the hardware store , and there is a zombie apocalypse outside .

`` Shit.'' 
 I'd thought of everything. I'd been so sure of myself. Eight people in a brick walled, boarded window home on South Beach, from this location we could only be reached from three sides; the ocean providing a mighty escape via ship should we be forced out of our compound by sheer number. I had stocked up on food both non perishable and a grow room for fresh unending vegetables, several generators accompanied by many gallons of gasoline, enough water to last a year if we remained within the houses `` Zombie Apocalypse Regulatory, Mandatory Commandments and Rations.'' A mouthful I know, but specifics in such dire circumstances could be a matter of life and death which every day here is. I peered into the bathroom mirror studying the crows feet, grey hair, leathery skin and other age betraying and surpassing tells accumulated in just a few months time. `` You asshole,'' I cursed at myself. But no, who would have imagined we would ever have need for two toilet plungers? 
 When Damien braved the streams of oncoming undead that had spread from the west coast in only three days time, he took our only shotgun to find Jolene, his wife, and their zombie immune Rottweiller, Aries, never to return. The only reason I'd approved of such a venture was with the hope that one day if our food supply dwindled we could have a fresh roast feast of beloved family dog. Yet another foolish oversight as everyone knows Rottwieller meat is far too rough to eat. Weeks later, Harrieta Morningstar of the local six o'clock news crept out under cover of darkness and zombie night time docility to seek her four year old, Candace, who had been left in the care of Mrs. Haverty at the Montesorri school. I called her a fool. It is now common zombie knowledge that children zombies are much faster, more nimble and seemingly hungrier than adults-turned-zombie. She was convinced sweet, innocent Candace survived and if not and had been converted to undead status that she would love her child all the same, as any good mother should. We'd all stood, blinking, as she took our only flame thrower and ran screaming into a team of particularly ornary dead walkers who gratefully devoured her as they burned. We have since taken note of several charred skeleton bits dragging themselves along gutters making horrible scraping sounds that the others seem to harmoniously moan to. Perhaps they now seek human flesh together, Harrieta and Candace. 
 Anton took the axe and Hector the sledgehammer in search of other survivors of Hispanic descent as they surely claimed the Mexicans would inherit the earth, planning to gather an olive skinned population and guide them into a new earth where societal rules were reversed. We assured them it mattered not who would take charge as one group having power over the others is the way it has always been, nothing would change. They would not hear of such things as they bullied away the last of the useful weapons after forcing their way into our meagre arsenal. These cases have merit all and in some scenarios, hope. But three weeks back, Tyler, star of what was once Florida's top highschool baseball team flew into an inconsolable rage when the creature formerly known as his father stumbled onto the back porch which could be seen and accessed from the bathroom. He grabbed what he must have deemed fit for avenging his shitty childhood and cracked a homerun with the undead dads jaw using our one and only toilet plunger. Unable now to break skin and ingest his angsting teenager, Tyler was mercilessly beating the defenceless walking corpse who was cowering and clamouring for the door, made it out and ran from the boy, who, foolishly chased after screaming `` Take that, you piece of shit low life son of a bitch no good excuse for a Zombie! How will you mock me now with half a mouth?'' Raising his arm, plunging with the final blow, Tyler was descended upon by nine uniformed preschool children leaving behind a pile of picked clean bones in their wake and to my dismay, the plunger had vanished. I dropped my view from the condescending reflection. Putrid brown filth spewed slowly from the bowl's rim, staining a growing ring about the toilet floor. The offence most likely being thanks to Andera, who's menstrual symptoms and flow had resumed in overdrive once the initial stress of grab, dash and hide era of the apocalypse settling into the sit quite comfortably and quietly while we wait for the zombies to starve to death if, in fact, they could starve to death given the opportunity, if only we would STOP FEEDING THEM WITH OUR HEROISM, IMPATIENCE AND IGNORANCE. Andrea, having synced up with me and and my sister, Abbey, complained constantly of horrendous cramps, bloating and cravings for non existent chocolate covered pretzel flips, and of course a crimson tidal waves of clotted blood loss. No confession required on that front as the surface of every seat in the house suffered a ring of brownish red so deep we feared the coming attraction of the blood thirsting dead. I'd looted enough feminine hygiene products to last a year but Andrea had plugged each cotton nugget within over the months and was making quite the dent in the maxi pad collection. Everyone in the free world knows better than to flush phone book sized panty diaper down the toilet But it had never been discussed, much less specified in the Bible as we so loving refer to our ``'' Zombie Apocalypse Regulatory, Mandatory Commandments and Rations.'' Perhaps she'd overheard mine and Abbey's hushed conversation regarding the shark like behaviour of zombies, seduced by the wafting scent of Andreas over active fallopian tubes and in a cranky panic perhaps flushed the pungent evidence to protect us all. As leader and founder of the house and editor of our beloved `` bible'' the remaining survivors would expectantly look to me for a final decision regarding our plumbing debauchery. I considered sending Andrea to Harvey's Hardware to barter some of our precious cooking oil for a new plunger, a tarp and a bucket which Andrea could sit upon during her 5 day bleeding period, using the gallon of moonblood to paint `` HELP, SURVIVORS INSIDE NEED RESCUING, PLEASE HONK, RING BELL OR SHOUT ANY NUMBER OF GREETINGS FROM ABOVE, THANK YOU, MANAGEMENT.'' She would also need to pick up a paint brush. But with what would she defend herself from the onslaught of hungry flesh mongers? I sighed heavily. I pictured the kitchen funnel and bit of hose stashed in the garage. It was the only way. We would draw straws.
