Author: Benjamin C. Roy Cory Garrett Rev History Rev .00 - 08/13/2012 Rev.01 - 03/10/2022
And we will be ready for them…
With Rooster versus Robots: Kirksville’s first revolutionary army posing as a Chaos-punk, Rock n’ Roll Supergroup. Rooted in tactical models of anti-authoritarian, anti-capitalist affinity cells, the band’s membership and strategic objectives varied drastically from show to show. Refusing to be another spectacle, With Rooster vs. Robots spectacular displays of mutiny masquerading as music was situationally reimagined for every show in response to the rhetorical needs and abilities of all who sought to participate. Our second performance was fast approaching—scheduled for a planned parenthood fundraiser in less than a week—and we were having round-the-clock rehearsals to coordinate: the light show: choreographed martial arts dance numbers; distribution of propaganda; costume and makeup design; pyrotechnics; and occasionally, song writing.
We—allies of the Rooster in his battle vs the Robots—had high stakes riding on this next gig as the first show ended in disaster. The ROBOteers had wildly out fought the ROOSTettes during the interpretive dance-battle-dream-sequence-interlude. And then—to add salt our poultry wounds—the robot effigy I had stayed up the whole night before the show to finish and paint, had refused to ignite for our grand finale—because some dipshit used fire resistant spraypaint for their finishing coat. The first show ended with one hundred disappointed fans standing in the streets watching the band beat their cock’s combs against the unburning machine before them , wondering if this war between Life and Death could even be fought.
Ashley, KC, Riley and I were at Cock’a’Doodle-Do Headquarters working on a prototype design for an ultimately combustible adversary: A replicator-enemy that could be guaranteed to erupt in flames at the slightest spark. Our preliminary design—tested in the street at the upcoming performance—was going to be a brilliant explosive success that would take with it my eyebrows, eyelashes and nearly my life, but that is a story for another time. This is a zombie story about the holy spirit and the miracle of Life.
KC and Riley were stuffing shredded Newspaper into the abdominal chassis of our robot effegy, while Ashley and I worked on modeling the face of evil into cardboard and duct tape. Suddenly, a catastrophic—SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETCH—of rubber on pavement came from the street just outside of HQ. We rushed to the window expecting to see a violent collision from the intensity of the noise, but instead of mutilated bodies of people, livestock or automobiles, we discover a single car, stopped in the street directly in front of our door.
An older gentleman was sitting in the driver’s seat staring up at the roof of his car, engaged in a passionate debate with either the ceiling, or an unseen voice above him. There was no sign of any near or actual collisions, but the car had skid marks trailing back from its tires almost half a block long. It was all a bit strange but didn’t strike us as dangerously weird until the man got out of his car and started shuffling towards our door.
This guy moved like he did not know where the muscles in his limbs were taking him. Herky-Jerky—like a white man impersonating an early 90’s Venice Beach/West Coast-style breakdancer. He tilted his head at us in an awkward, impossible angle as he rounded the front of his car and turned in our direction. He neared the building with his arms extended and a cold chill ran through the building, even though the door was still closed. The four of us backed away unspokenly sharing a collective fear that our brains would be soon eaten.
The man stood there fumbling with our front door for over a minute before finally managing to pull it open with a limp hand. From the moment his fleshy fist made contact with the metal handle all of us were frozen in frightful tension, spellbound in place. He entered the room, his paralytic magic unconquerable by reason or by the obvious need to flee, screaming.
The man—
Was it, he, still a man?
—stumble-blundered straight towards me, raising his hands to neck hight as he lunged forward. For the first time, I saw past his tortured and contorted face to that he was holding a sheet of paper, now in both hands—held like a lover—which he proceeded to rip violently in two. Beyond the the freshly split page, I saw a terrifying grin creep across his face as he leaned forward with the scrap held out in his right hand. Somehow, I found the courage to my eyes to his.
An abyss greeted me, its depth not horrific but profound—filled with a wisdom that finally dispelled the paralyzing, deathly fear that had previously seized my limbs. This was no plague zombie from a horror movie. He was a messenger—possessed with the spirt of his message. Still tentative, I slowly reached up and took hold of the half page he presented to me. As I took the page, the man nodded and his clenched fist released the paper gingerly into my care.
I turned it over and saw that he had given me the eastern half of a United States road map. The grain of the tear followed highway 63 nearly clean down the center of the country leaving our town a fractured -ille in the north east corner of missouri. A star had been drawn in yellow highlighter over a city along the eastern seaboard—the only only splash of life on an otherwise monotone and faded photocopy. Confused, I looked back up into the face of the mystery messenger and asked bluntly,
“Are you trying to tell us something?”
He responded in a thunderous croak—like stones crushing stones:
“GOD IS MOVING.”
Before my miraculously un-consumed brain could process the words that had just been bestowed upon me, the man turned and stumbled back out into the street. When he reached the driver’s side door of his car, a ray of sunshine streamed down upon him—suddenly shredding the specter of undeath that had haunted him just seconds before. His humanity returned to his posture and gait as he shook his head, looked around, and then got back in the still running car and drove back off to the certainly ordinarily life he had just momentarily departed.