(no subject)

[sonofaparrotman.livejournal.com]

In the theatre, Scooter is hard at work. He's raided the props and scene shops for all conceivable weapons: pokers and theatrical swords, cordless drills, nail and staple guns, sticks, rags and turpentine for torches, hand-held sanders, even a stack of exploding flowers and rubber chickens. He has the radio on while he works, listening avidly to the announcer narrate the progress of the zombies through the town and up towards the school. The incessant bulletins drive him as he builds portable barricades and creates arrangements of theatrical lights and mirrors that will be able to be used to start fires from a distance. Then he retreives a hose and primes it, keeping it close to hand just in case one of his defensive fires should go astray. He's as ready as he possibly can be, so he sits on the front of the stage once again, this time accompanied by his pile of make-shift weapons.