Hi everyone! Here’s this week’s episode. I had a go at recording some two-player versions of the show in London. It’s my first time doing so, so still learning how to do it, but my two guests, Joe Dunthorne and Ann Morgan, were absolutely brilliant. I’m still going to do my usual one-person episodes as well, I just want to try mixing it up a bit. Sorry that the levels are a bit skew-whiff. As I say, still learning. Thank you for bearing with us while we learn the recondite art of podcasting.
I think that’s about it. Except to say – and there’s no way I can deliver this without sounding insincere or ersatz or cheesy, I suspect – thank you so much to everyone who has got in touch to say they’ve been enjoying the show so far, and to everyone who has shared it. I’m a nervous, broken fellow and I was genuinely frightened about delving into something new, so thank you for being so kind and generous with your support. It means a lot.
Untitled (by Brittany)
My name is Lucy Lively and I’m a zombie. I know, right? Lively was a great stroke of ironic luck but Lucy is surprisingly appropriate. Lucy was the first human; I’m the first zombie. Patient zero. Public
service announcement: if your sketchy-ass dealer ever says, ‘here try this shit I just invented,’ and they don’t have a chemistry degree – scratch that, even if they do have a chemistry degree – don’t fucking try it.
Aside from the actual dying part, every day of my death so far has been a party. Being a zombie is awesome. It’s like being a super villain only I get to win at the end of the story because everyone else is dead. I do whatever I want, whenever I want and it never bothers me that I mostly just want brains.
Then Emily had to go fuck it up.
I had spent the last several hours staring at the paint peeling on the walls of a dilapidated tenement listening to Bassnectar. I’d visited the place off and on for several weeks now. There was something about the rot and decay there that spoke to me. Like the building was an echo of my crappy human life, or a metaphor for the death I now wrought or, I don’t know, some other real poetic shit.
I digress. Emily was about to fuck shit up. There was a knock at the door, which was unusual. Zombies, as a rule, don’t knock.