It’s been a while, but here’s the latest chapter of Chadpocalypse! Sorry it’s been slow, but working on the Whiteout publication takes time! Also, if you like my work, give me a follow on Facebook/Twitter!
For those looking to catch up:
1:5 B’s Diner
When Chad awoke it was to the pounding fury of the hangover to end all hangovers, and a woman, brandishing a lamp, screaming about an intruder. From the moment his eyes fluttered open, it was clear that something was very wrong with the world.
“What the hell are you doing in my bed?” shouted the woman, swinging the light through the air making dizzying streaks.
At first Chad couldn’t think of a single reason why anyone would be so upset with him, and then, in the dim light it dawned on him; this isn’t my apartment. The furnishings were far too tasteful, and aside from the smell of his own vomit, there was nothing familiar about the place. “Woah, woah, woah,” he stammered, trying his best to ignore the bass drum that had begun beating inside his skull. “Let’s all just calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down,” the woman screamed. “You’re the one in my bedroom! Get out now, or I’m calling the police!”
“Alright, let me just get my,” he looked down at his feet noticing his shoes were still on. “Never mind, I’m going.” With the grace of a drunken acrobat, Chad tumbled out of the bed, and dodged around the woman’s vicious lamp swing. It collided with the wall, sending a shower of sparks over the room and plunging it into darkness. Chad maneuvered behind the woman, flung open the door and crashed into the hallway, which now almost certainly looked unfamiliar. He took off at a dead sprint.
Several apartment doors were open with concerned denizens poking their heads out to get a good look at the source of the commotion. What they saw was a red-faced youth, curly brown hair flying every which way, stumbling down the hallway at an impressive pace, and trying his best not to vomit. To Chad’s credit, he succeeded in the last, right up until he burst through the door leading outside. At the confrontation of what could only be the brightest sun he had ever seen, Chad immediately doubled over and vomited on the concrete.
Instant relief spread over him in a wave as the previous evenings toxins were expelled in one fell swoop. He wiped his mouth, glad that the worst was over and then vomited again. It took him a few moments after to trust that things really had ended, but when they had, he straightened up, brushed off his tattered jeans and started off in search of brunch.
For Chad, this was nothing more than a typical Sunday morning. The air outside was humid and smelled like stale cigarettes. Such was the charm of the city of Midway he supposed. What a crazy night, he thought, unsure of what exactly had happened. The fact that he had blacked out, in his mind, meant that it had likely been a good time, and worth the pain he was now in. Chad tried to remember the dream he had been having before the woman had so rudely woken him with her shouting. “Even if I did break in, I wasn’t hurting anyone,” he muttered.
A couple passing by gave him a disgusted look usually reserved for rich aristocrats observing the profoundly homeless.
Chad ignored them, he was too busy thinking about the visions of Hell and the horseman that had appeared at the foot of his bed. What a crazy dream. Wouldn’t be a bad idea for a book, he mused, thinking that he might pick up writing again after he had found some food. Chad’s creative works consisted of a series of one-page story openers that had long since been abandoned in the search for a good time. All the same, he fancied himself an artist.
Up ahead was B’s Diner, one of his favorite establishments to frequent after a night of heavy drinking. B had opened it up some fifty years ago, and they’d been serving the finest starches smothered in grease ever since. It was an institution in the neighborhood, but judging by the angle of the bright light feeding his hangover, Chad had woken early enough to beat the morning rush. Chad looked at a street sign and grinned, his uncanny talent of passing out within a few blocks of the diner had come through again. He took a left turn and his stomach rumbled in anticipation. Just a block down the street, were the silver-paneled walls of the diner.
“Hallelujah,” he exclaimed, taking the remaining distance at a brisk walk. Inside he was greeted by cool air-conditioning, Don’t Fear the Reaper playing through the restaurant’s jukebox, and his favorite red vinyl booth, unoccupied. He slumped down in the seat and pretended to read over the menu. He would have eggs benedict, as he did every time he visited the diner, but the illusion of choice was important to keep the spice in life.
“What can I get for you darling?” asked a sweet voice that Chad almost recognized, but couldn’t quite place.
Strange, George usually takes the morning orders. Chad peered over the top of his menu cautiously and was surprised to see that it was Mrs. B herself taking his order. His face went pale and a chill swept over him as if he had been dunked in ice. A year ago, Mrs. B coming out to serve the customers would have been nothing out of the ordinary, but given that she had died of lung cancer a few months prior, it came as a bit of a shock…