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The Mass Media

The Mass Media

2-26-24 PDF
February 26, 2024
An inside look at Bobby B. Beacon’s insides. Illustrated by Bianca Oppedisano/ Mass Media Staff.
Bobby's Inside Story
February 26, 2024

Pumping iron for the zombie apocalypse

Bianca Oppedisano
Zomboss Joe DiPersio takes on a fight. Illustration by Bianca Oppedisano / Mass Media Staff.

Do you guys remember the part in that old, holy book where that dude—his name eludes me—flooded the Earth and killed everyone except for a few privileged a—holes on a DIY yacht? It’s been a while since I’ve read the ancient texts, but I do recall that Mr. Floodbringer, in all his infinite kindness, promised not to do it again—using water. Luckily for us, that still leaves a whole plethora of possible armageddons such as asteroids, plagues, bombs or whatever the hell happened in the movie “The Core.” However, out of these many end-of-days scenarios, there’s only one that I seriously entertain. Yes, I’m talking about zombies. 

Unlike those doomsday-prepping nutjobs building bunkers in their basements full of canned pineapples and nail-covered baseball bats, if the dead truly plan on rising to reclaim the Earth, I’m staying right here on the surface to meet them head-on. But before the legions of the undead force me to shuffle off this mortal coil, I plan on shuffling myself into the gym to get into the best shape of my life. However, I’m not getting buff to improve my chances of surviving the zombie apocalypse. I know myself: I’ll be dead in two seconds no matter what I do! No. I’m getting buff so that when I’m inevitably turned into a zombie, I can be the best zombie I can possibly be.

Look, you might think I’m a traitor for willingly joining the ranks of the enemy, but you’re looking at it all wrong. People get so worked up about the end of the world, thinking they’re going to have to revert to some primal, stone-age brute just to survive. It’s such a narrow-minded, cynical perspective. I’m an optimist. When change comes, I don’t think in terms of survival, I think in terms of adaptation, and beyond that, I think about all the positives the new world could usher in. And believe me, being a zombie comes with a lot of perks.

Do you ever wake up in the morning unsure of whether you want Cap’n Crunch or Eggos? Well, consider that problem eternally solved because when you’re a zombie, the only thing on the menu is brains. All day, every day. It’s simple! While you kiss the hassle of meal planning goodbye, you’ll be able to dedicate your mental resources to other, more important matters, which brings me to my next point. 

When you’re a zombie, you’re dumb as a bag of bricks! You’ll be like a sexually-deprived college boy on Spring Break with only one thing on your mind: brains, obviously. Sick and tired of the IRS sending you weird letters in the mail? Well, as a zombie you can simply disregard them, because you don’t know how to read. Is Uncle Pete pestering you for the millionth time about the Lost City of Atlantis at the family BBQ? Good luck holding a conversation, Uncle Pete, when the only word coming out of your mouth is a slurred, “brains!” 

So clearly, being a zombie is f—ing amazing, but it’s important to note that not all zombies are sprung from the same grave. Most are slow and ineffective goons, defeated easily by a simple machete chop to the neck. I’ll be damned if this becomes my fate, which is why I’ve been spending nine hours every day in the Beacon Fitness Center, shoveling protein powder in my face and doing enough squats to make Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson cry. The majority may be cool settling for undead mediocrity, but not me. I’ll be prime zombie real estate. I shall be the zombie king! A Zomboss. No, a Jomboss—that’s the combination of “Joe” and “Zomboss.”

While the other zombies slowly saunter their way through the city in mindless hordes, I shall also slowly saunter; however, I shall do so mindfully. You see, my defense will be so ridiculously high that for all intents and purposes, I’ll be a tank. Go ahead, pelt me with bullets, rain hellfire down upon me; it will all be in vain. I’ll be impervious to all ranged attacks, due in part to my bulging green muscles, and armor, which I’ve constructed out of broken-down car parts and scrap metal. Of course, if I wanted to, I could run upwards of 47 miles per hour, but that would just be plain unfair. 

That being said, due to my off-the-charts power level, as a victim of my wrath, you’ll be provided with an early warning of my imminent arrival. This, like all proper red herrings, will come in the form of a song. I’ve already been working on its composition, and let me tell you, it’s badass. We’re talking pounding bass line, ominous synths, demonic choir—the whole nine yards. Once you hear that song and see my massive health bar appear on the top of your screen—I mean, your eyes—consider it the herald of death, and know that there’s little you can do. 

When it comes to my attack, the best advice I can give you is to not get hit. My specialty will be in close-range, melee combat, and my most fearsome move will be a ground-shattering, zombie club smack-attack. Getting clobbered by this will send you flying so fast, you may end up traveling back in time to a point in your life when you weren’t a puny human being ragdolled by an undead warrior from Hell. 

As a Zomboss, it’s my responsibility to be prepared for all situations, including those where ranged combat is required. For these instances, I’ll utilize an unavoidable zombie gas attack, covering everywhere within a 10-meter radius with potent, infectious fumes. As a zombie, infection is my primary objective. With every human that I convert to zombie-ism, my hoard grows and my power increases. After all, the health points of a Zomboss correlate directly to the number of goon zombies that follow them. The more goons I have at my disposal, the more unstoppable I’ll become. As they say, the more, the merrier! 

It may be quite some time until the ground gives way and the decomposed figures of the past return to enact their vengeance upon the Earth, but in the meantime, it gives me ample opportunity to prepare myself, physically and mentally—but mainly physically—for my newfound existence as a militant zombie overlord. So, get ready to see me pumping iron and pumping out gallons upon gallons of sweat over at the Beacon Fitness Center, working on my giant, slowly decaying, zombie bod. The best shape of my life will be the best shape of my death.

About the Contributors
Joe DiPersio, Humor Editor
Bianca Oppedisano, Illustrator