One Night Stand at the End of the World, page 1
Also Available From Jacy Morris
Fiction:
1000 Pieces of Sweet (Coming Soon)
The Abbey
The Drop
Killing the Cult
The Lady That Stayed
The Pied Piper of Hamelin
The Taxidermied Man
An Unorthodox Cure
One Night Stand at the End of the World Series
One Night Stand at the End of the World
One Night Stand in the Wastes
One Night Stand in Ike
The Enemies of Our Ancestors Series
The Enemies of Our Ancestors
The Cult of the Skull
Broken Spirits
This Rotten World Series
This Rotten World
This Rotten World: Let It Burn
This Rotten World: No More Heroes
This Rotten World: Winter of Blood
This Rotten World: Choking on the Ashes
This Rotten World: Rally and Rot
One Night Stand
at the
End of the World
By Jacy Morris
Copyright © Jacy Morris 2022
All Rights Reserved
Contents
A Note About This Series
Chapter 1: Another Sunny Day in the Apocalypse
Chapter 2: Shithole
Chapter 3: A Can of Beans
Chapter 4: The Upper Decker
Chapter 5: The Sword and the Family Jewels
Chapter 6: Bosses and Offices
Chapter 7: Blackout Drunk
Chapter 8: Vengaboys and Spankings
Chapter 9: The Cleansers
Chapter 10: The Game of Bones
Chapter 11: Cornholing in Shithole
Chapter 12: Priming the Pump
Chapter 13: The Show
Chapter 14: Cold, Pink Meat and The After-Party
Chapter 15: Ajax Burned the Meat
A Word From Jacy
About the Author
A Note About This Series
One Night Stand at the End of the World did not start out as what you see before you. It was dreamed up during the real apocalypse. Of course, I'm talking about the year 2020, when something materialized out of the ether and began making everyone sick.
Locked at home with nothing to do other than watch TV and drink beers and be bored, the idea for One Night Stand first entered my head as a screenplay, something that could be done on the cheap showcasing the many talents of my friend Nick Kaiel. Without telling him, I wrote up the screenplay, a less than audacious imagining of this tale before you. It was a simple twenty-page script meant to be filmed in one glorious night, in one take. The comedian enters, does his show, and then goes away.
Underneath our carport, myself, my wife, and Nick would drink beers, order pizza and goof around with this story, turning and twisting it and finding all the little bits of humor that were hidden away in there. Nick's friend Scott came onto the scene, and offered to help us make it. He was enthusiastic about the idea, as we all were.
At some point, we got serious about doing it, and in the fall of 2020, with the pandemic still going on, we put the money and the equipment together and made a short film. The entire production seemed cursed from the beginning. On our first day of shooting, we needed a campfire. A drought had pretty much turned the entire state of Oregon into a fire-free zone. But that was ok. We figured we only needed a few minutes, and we had a firepit and a hose. Of course, the lady next door called the fire department on us, but not until we got all the shots we needed. No ticket, no fine. The campfire scene was probably the best footage we got, visually.
From there, we shot some random walking footage for the comedian in random parks and roads throughout Oregon. The weirdness of Oregon is such that three dudes, one of them in a trench coat, with a giant fake sword on his back, can basically walk around anywhere and no one will say a damn thing.
Then came the final shoot, two days at a farm in Newberg, Oregon. The first day was glorious. Nick, being an amazing performer, managed to memorize about 17 pages of stand up, and we recorded the show on Friday night. The next day, despite truly miserable weather, about twenty of my friends showed up all decked out in apocalyptic gear just to help us out. They were our audience. Seeing all these people in their different get-ups lit my brain on fire. The characters I had put on the page became real to me at that point. My friend Hunter's amazing LARPing character of Harvey Barrel became Murdertron. I can no longer imagine what Murdertron was even supposed to be like thanks to his amazing get-up. Look up Harvey Barrel if you want to see what he looks like. My friend Ryan came in a uniquely weird get-up, a fur-lined denim jacket and a gambling visor. Suddenly, Beatums was born. I'm not even sure if Beatums was in the original script or not, or if Ryan just looked so cool that I came up with him on the spot.
Many other cool characters stood out, and through pouring rain, swirling winds, and a muddy set outside, we managed to cobble together the shots where the audience appears and laughs, claps, and in Murdertron's case cries. It was grueling, but still good fun, and when we were finished, Scott edited all the footage into something presentable, and we packed it up to the American Film Market to try and sell it. Unfortunately, the AFM was all digital that year, and it was hard to get the short film in front of anyone who could actually do something with it. I did however sit in a virtual room with a nice Finnish man and discuss his post-apocalyptic western project.
Needless to say, I walked away from the AFM feeling pretty dejected. We had put in a ton of work and asked for a ton of favors to get this thing done, but it didn't seem meant to be.
Rather than quit and waste everyone's work, I decided to take this humble 22-page screenplay and turn it into a book—the book you have in your hands right now. Freed from the constraints of reality, the series grew and the characters evolved. Of course, none of this series would be possible without the help of my friends. So a sincere thank you to everyone involved in One Night Stand: Scott Saunders (for filming and jury-rigging everything), Hunter O'Guinn for lending your character of Harvey Barrel to the Murdertron role, Leif Fuller who is Yokel and one of the nicest men to work with, Keith Hunt for finally managing to sit down straight after the tenth try and for finding the cabin for us to film at, Rin Brock for being a complete stranger willing to come out and have a good time on her birthday!, Matt Brock for accompanying Rin, Ashley and Garrett Anderson (A special shout-out to Garrett for coming up with the name Vinegar Strokes, which is still a nightmare), Jen and Casey Keller (Special thanks to Jen for showing up with a cane after having knee surgery), the Scoles clan, Greg, Wendy, Caleb and Brookelyn, Sasha Cohen for sticking it out, Ryan Gregg for turning a nothing character into the man who would become Beatums Sterling, Donovan Ward, and Stacy Kozaczuk for doing the hair and make-up of twenty people in like three hours. Amazing!
I also want to give a special shout-out to my wife Jen, who is the character of Ajax, and did pretty much everything on set, from providing food, to getting people checked in, to coordinating tents and hair and make-up. I can only imagine what a disaster this thing would have been if you hadn't been there. Another special shout out to Scott Saunders who wore a ton of hats and who had quite a hand in the ideas of the series, including the accidental creation of the name of a certain farmer who has a name like Benedict Arnold, but not quite. Thanks for all the awesome props! And finally, a special thanks to Nick Kaiel for being the comedian. If someone came to me today and said, "I want to turn One Night Stand into a TV show, I would say, "Awesome. But Nick Kaiel has to be the comedian." There is no One Night Stand series without Nick.
Anyway, now that that's all out of the way. I hope you enjoy the stories and the characters in this series as much as I enjoyed writing them! Thank you to all my friends who turned what was on the page into a reality that literally blew my mind. If it's too weird or bizarre for you, you have my friends to blame.
Chapter 1: Another Sunny Day in the Apocalypse
Waking up hurts. It hurts so bad that sometimes I wonder how I can manage to do it every day. Why do I even open my eyes when sleep is so much better than the alternative? These were the thoughts that ran through the comedian's head as he stared up at the shredded roof upholstery of the 60s Chevy Impala he had turned into his makeshift hotel for an evening.
The fabric hung down, exposing the metal struts of the roof. As it dangled in his face, he was tempted to grab the fabric and rip it completely free. Let the car be stripped down to its bones. Let it be what it really is. Remove the artifice, show what was really underneath there—hard, uncaring metal. But it had given him a night's shelter, so he left it alone; he was nice like that.
The springs in the bench seat had left his back tight and stiff. Over the course of one restless evening, the tight metal coils had assaulted him with hours of unseen pressure in spots unaccustomed to such wear and tear. With one well-worn boot, he kicked the back door of the vehicle open. It squealed with delight at being used once again. Then he lay there, staring at the roof once more, wheels turning in his mind. Almost apologetically, he snatched the fabric from the ceiling in one quick gesture and shoved it into the pocket of his jacket. Countless pockets dotted his jacket, and in each of those pockets, one could find something interesting, deadly things, hilarious things, practical things. The fabric was none of these, but it was a thing, and in this world that meant it had value. Somewhere, in some shitty shanty town, someone was looking for a piece of fabric right now. Maybe they wanted to make a loincloth for a sex slave, or they wanted to create an eye patch for their mutie kid with the missing eye. Somewhere, in some dying, inbred town, that piece of useless fabric would be worth something to someone, and that meant it was worth something to him.
Scratching at his unkempt black hair, he sat up. At least, he thought of his hair as black. The last time he had seen himself in a mirror, there had been as much silver as black. Somewhere along the way, his body had begun to age without his permission. With a loud crack, he popped his neck. It popped not because he was getting older, but because sleeping in the backseat of an ancient, rotting car would fuck you all up.
The sun radiated down on the Impala, heating the interior, but not to the point that it was uncomfortable. Fucking idiot. You slept too late. He had meant to be on the road at first light when it was safe to travel. Once, he had owned an alarm clock, a magnificent collection of gears and springs he had pulled from a charred home, but he had been forced to give it up after a while. It drew too much attention, and the last thing he needed was to find a horde of the undead standing outside of whatever place he had chosen as a single-serving home.
"You let me sleep too late," he complained.
Look at me. Does it look like I have a fucking watch? a small voice bitched, high-pitched with a hint of teenage-ish insolence.
The comedian regarded the doll head hanging from his jacket pocket with amusement. The doll's face was dirty, smudged with soot from being in the burnt air of the wasteland too long. Everything exposed to the burnt air of the world wound up looking like that now. Its hair was wavy, crimped like the female stars of an 80's music video. The roots of the hair were blonde, the ends a faded pink. Maybe pink was how the doll head had been manufactured… or it might be the faded remnants of someone's blood. The comedian didn't care to unlock that memory.
"You think I'm blind? I know you don't have a watch, you don't got any goddamn arms! But surely, even you can see when the sun comes up."
The doll head said nothing, just stared at him with those dead, painted-on, gas fire eyes. She did that sometimes—just ignored whatever he said. Trying to force Oddrey to speak would be fruitless. She only spoke when she wanted to, and if he tried to force her, she would clam up for days, and he would get a migraine that made him want to blow his own brains out. Silence was his enemy. As much as he liked to pretend he was made to be alone, the days where she chose not to speak were the worst ones of his life—well, this life anyway.
He tucked Oddrey into the chest pocket of his jacket and stepped out onto the dry, dusty road. A part of him wondered about the car. Who had driven it out to this nowhere part of the world, and why had they abandoned it? Even before the world turned, this place had been nowhere. He wasn't near any pre-apoc towns. Maybe it had broken down, and the people inside had simply walked off.
The road had long been abandoned. Whatever tire tracks one would expect to see imprinted into its plain, dirt surface had been washed away by weather and time. The car itself had a disturbing collection of mold growing on all the doors' rubber seals. On rusted rims, half-buried in the ground, the earth seemed to be slowly devouring the vehicle.
His boots kicked up dust, and he wondered how much radioactivity might be floating around in those miniscule dust particles. With a finger pressed to the side of his nostril, he blew. Snot shot onto the dusty ground, and he repeated the process for his other nostril, ignoring the sooty globs as they sparkled in the dirt. It was never a good idea to look too closely at one's expectorations, lest one saw blood or flesh. Part of not dying seemed to be preventing yourself from knowing you were dying, deluding yourself into immortality. Once you knew something was amiss, you gave power to that tumor, that wet cough, or that knife-wielding raider. Better to not look too close; ignorance breeds long life.
With delightfully clear nasal passages, he bent down into the car and retrieved a massive sword. Five-feet-long, heavier than cancer and sharp as a razor, his sword was his most prized possession, besides his own wit.
In salute, the comedian lifted the sword up to the sky and watched the hazy, orange sun glint off the steel blade.
"Looks like it's another great day in the apocalypse, Oddrey. I predict a temperature of 80 degrees, a humidity level of 85%, and minimal radiation exposure. All in all, a pretty good day. Not bad for November."
The comedian set the doll head on top of the Impala's rust and white roof, noting for the tenth time that the car still had all its windows. It had been a thousand miles since he had beheld such a sight.
Shaking his head at the new glories of the world, he crowed, "Check this out, Odd."
The comedian stepped into the middle of the road to allow himself room to move. Like a gymnast warming up, he shook out his arms and his shoulders. In a flash, he whirled, the heavy blade of his sword slicing through the air, swinging it from left to right. Soil crunched under his boots as he spun, twisting his wrists to bring the blade up into the air. He brought it down swift and quick, and then he twirled on his heel, delivering a thunderous kick to an imaginary enemy. He moved like this for a while, executing his routine until all his muscles had loosened and he was sure if he needed to kill anything, he would be ready and able.
At the end of his program, he spun the blade by twisting his wrists, ending with a forward chop that would have split the skull of any raider who dared stand against him, whether they were wearing a helmet or not. "You like that shit, Odd? I'm like fucking Conan over here."
He turned to look at Oddrey. She stared at him with those freaky blue eyes.
"Yeah, you liked it."
Whether she did or not, Oddrey wasn't telling.
With a flourish, he finished his routine by pulling a sharp metal object from inside his jacket and flinging it at the trunk of a tree that still clung weakly to life. Its yellow leaves frowned down at the quivering bit of metal, the words "Last Laugh" scrawled poorly in Sharpie on the sides of the ninja star.
"Bullseye," he said to himself as he plopped into the backseat of the vehicle, grunting as the back of his head painfully connected with the roof of the car. Odd tittered quietly at his clumsiness. With a sheen of sweat shining on his face, he reached into the backseat and retrieved his backpack, a dusty black bag with no holes in it. That was the important thing. No holes. A bag with holes was just asking for trouble.
He unzipped the bag and fumbled around inside until he found what he was looking for.
"Let's see what we have for breakfast."
But he already knew. He was just putting on a show for Oddrey. People needed that type of shit in the wasteland. They needed shows and pomp and flourishes and the like.
In his hand, he held a small, plastic baggie filled with broken bits of uncooked pasta. Sure, he could have found some water somewhere, maybe in an overlooked toilet tank, maybe in a stagnant puddle where the radiation was only strong enough to give you indigestion for the rest of your life, but he preferred to eat the pasta this way.
"You know, Oddrey, the key to eating uncooked spaghetti is to take it slow. Let the noodle soften in your mouth."
Oddrey said something crass, and the funnyman sputtered, almost spitting his precious pasta into the dirt. When he had recovered, he said, "Don't be gross, Odd. I do the jokes around here. Besides, you oughta be paying attention to what I'm saying instead of thinking up dirty jokes. You don't want to break a tooth out here. A broken tooth can get you killed."
How do you know? Oddrey asked.
"I see it all the time, moron. Raiders with jacked up choppers—they're gonna die by the time they're thirty. Gingivitis, gum infections. That shit gets up in your brain and drives you mad, and that's not even factoring the pain into the equation. Half those raiders are gonna wind up dying like Joey Ramone because they didn't have a fucking toothbrush. You would too if you had teeth."
With his own teeth, he broke off the tip of a piece of pasta and held it between his incisors, letting his saliva soften it up and slowly moistening the noodle with his tongue.
It gave him something to do. It gave him the feeling of an actual repast, a bonafide feast. In the end, he ate the equivalent of one whole spaghetti noodle, and it took him over half-an-hour. Breakfast would be the best part of his day.
