I didn’t see it coming.

Man, it didn’t matter how laidback and cool Shane was as a person. It didn’t matter that he was this everyday husband and father from the suburbs. The story he’d sent me was insane. Somehow, this guy I thought I knew had gone from acting like Bruce Wayne to being The Joker. Everything he writes is marinated in this chaotic, maniacal sense of fun. You might think you’re sane, but listening to Shane talk story ideas for an hour will make you question every facet of reality. I’m not even sure the word horror accurately describes what Shane McKenzie does. And bizarro doesn’t fit either.

Chainsaw Disco Bloodbath. That’s the stuff Shane McKenzie writes. Yeah, that’s it. Chainsaw Disco Bloodbath, baby. Spread that on your toast and smoke it.

Well, now it’s your turn to read this wonderfully strange story about obese zombies. I think you’re gonna dig it. Shit, I know you are. Unless you don’t like fun, jerky jerkface. You think there’s something wrong with fun? What the hell’s wrong with you?

Seriously, I need to wrap up this intro so Shane can get to his story. We’re wasting time. Soup’s on, and everybody has a spoon. You don’t wanna miss dinner, do ya?

Now, meet Shane McKenzie. Say hello and enjoy yourself. He’s the nicest psycho you’ll ever meet.

—Nate Southard

HUNGRY

The man breathed through his mouth, labored and wet. An empty plate lay on the table in front of him, a brown stain where the food had been. Dribbles of grease striped his chin. He reached across the table and plucked the rectangle of beef from his wife’s plate.

“Jesus, Tom.” The fork dropped from her hand and clattered to the table. She squinted as her husband stuffed the meat past his teeth, chewed it with an open mouth. Masticated bits dropped from his lips and landed on his plate—he leaned over and licked them up.

“I’m…hungry.” He spoke around a mouthful of beef, stared at her with vacant eyes, and burped out a dank and meaty odor.

The woman covered her nostrils with her forefinger. Her mouth salivated from the scent, as if preparing for vomit. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m hungry. I want…buffet.” He slammed his fist, chubby and hairy, on the table with the last word.

The woman scooted her chair back and stood. She sighed, ran her hand through her hair, walked into the kitchen. “I made us a healthy meal. Spent hours on it, and this is how you act?”

He jerked to his feet, knocking his chair over. His stomach bumped the table and the legs screeched as they scooted across the floor. “…hungry…”

“Tom, look at you,” she said. “Things are getting out of hand...your weight. I saw the credit card bill.”

He stopped, the abrupt halt jiggling his chins. His head slowly turned toward his wife and his brow furrowed like a slab of bacon, mouth hanging open as his breathing rattled and his tongue moved in and out just past his lower lip. The purple circles around his eyes were deep as bowls.