Misadventures of Fat Ernie Chapter 3

I’m hungry. This is a thought Ernie had quite often. It was such a frequent and welcome thought that it had it’s own room reserved right at the front of his brain, near the occipital lobe. Great views there, but everything was upside down. Still, as rooms for thoughts went, it was clearly the penthouse suite of Ernie’s mind. There was a direct line from this thought to the the stomach and to the salivary glands, and the thought wasn’t afraid to use it.

Ernie grabbed his rumbling belly and licked his lips moistly. He needed to eat, and he needed repast that would find Casa Ernie a warm and welcoming abode. To hell with Mexican Chili; a burger and fries were the staples he needed. He put the car he had liberated from the dead drug dealer across the way into reverse and gingerly backed out of the parking spot, pausing only momentarily to wince at the thump under his right tire as he squashed Mrs. Jimenson. Her damned fault for dying behind the car. No way was he going to touch a dead body. It was bad enough that he had been forced to search the pockets of the dead drug dealer. He had to draw the line somewhere. He was perfectly fine squashing dead ladies, he decided.

His new ride was a thing of beauty; a black BMW with fuzzy dice and no back seat as it was taken up by a massive speaker. It was clearly a car for a man of taste and style. There was a button in the center console that, when he pressed it, a lit joint came out of the dashboard. This car rocked. Puffing on his blunt, he dodged cars and ran over dead people in the road as he made his way to BingoBurger.

The drive thru was full, so Ernie parked and went inside. He stood in line for ten minutes before he realized the fry cook and cashier were dead and not having a homosexual affair on the floor. Grunting in annoyance, Ernie crawled over the counter, kicked the dead homos hard, and started the fryers. It’s a good thing I spent college working at BingoBurger, thought Ernie. Well, those two semesters I went to technical school. Unlike his short stint at technical school, Ernie had spent four years at BingoBurger.

“This being the only man alive is not exactly what I thought it would be,” Ernie said to himself as he flipped his burger and poured fries into the hot grease. He realized that he would have to cook every meal for himself from this day forward. Bummer. Depressed at the thought, he spent half an hour making his normal meal of four Five-in-a-row burgers, two large BingoFries, and two Four-Corner Apple pies. Crawling back over the counter, he sat at a table and ate his meal, thinking.

Where should he go? He could hit the freeway and head north. If anyone survived whatever had killed the world it would be the mountain people in Kentucky. They were only half human anyway, from what he had heard. They didn’t even play banjo, like the retards in Tennessee. They just pulled their chest hair taut and strummed. Those guys could survive anything. But did he want to go there? He had heard that they would find him very . . . attractive. While he didn’t mind paying for a prostitute, he had no desire to be buggered by a mountain man.

No, Kentucky was out. What about New York? Albany in particular. Albany was the armpit of America. It stank and had a lot of parasites that could survive a nuclear war. Surely someone in Albany was alive. It snowed in Albany, he thought. Cold was not his friend; this is why he lived in Florida. Albany was out.

Then it hit him; New Mexico. It never snowed, and there were Indians there. Those mean bastards would scalp you and dance on your hair. They would survive, if anyone would. And Ernie’s great, great grandma had been a prostitute who slept with Indians. They were practically family. That’s where he had to go.

Now that he had a plan, Ernie quickly finished his meal and hit the road – and not a few dead bodies.