Brandon and Bryan here from the (moderately!) popular web-comic "A Beer for the Shower" and we're raising funds so we can commission a painter for the cover art of our second novel, an Amazon-exclusive e-Book, "The Dead Don't Play Slots," and to help cover costs of promotion. The novel is a satirical take on the zombie apocalypse, told in the setting of that great American wasteland turned desert oasis: Las Vegas. It's crude, it's funny, it's sometimes heartfelt, and we guarantee it's unlike any zombie story you've ever read.
Our artistic skills are limited to cartoon-style comics (see it here), so for a book of this caliber we've located a REAL painter who can accurately portray the gruesome badassness of an angry zombie feasting on human flesh like it's Christmas dinner. Unfortunately we're both working writers (aka literal starving artists) so we could really use some help paying her commission. We also need some funds to help us pimp this new story out like the fine, classy, piece of literary ass that it is.
Now, I know what you might be thinking. Anyone can write a book, so why doesn't this one suck? Well, this book was originally picked up by one of the largest publishing houses in the world (whose name we can't mention because of legal reasons), but at the last moment they dropped our book because they said it's too "unique", which makes it too difficult to sell. We think they're dead wrong.
Also, this isn't our first rodeo. Our first novel, "The Missing Link," has sold pretty well and has great reviews (that weren't written by peer-pressured friends and family, either!). Read our reviews here.
So please, help us get this book the badass cover it deserves, and more than anything, help us prove to the publishing industry that unique books CAN sell.
Thanks for your help!
Here's the story synopsis:
Many things are lost in Las Vegas. Innocence. Paychecks. Little Scotty’s chances of ever going to college. Worst of all is the loss of humanity. Once a man’s been bitten by lady luck, the hunger becomes infectious, and before he knows it he’ll chew the arm off the guy sitting next to him just to win a hand of poker. Especially if he’s a zombie.
Las Vegas has been overrun by flesh-eating, undead monsters that are now flooding the Strip and obliterating everything in their wake—cars, tourists, and even casinos. First on their path of destruction: the Olympus, Las Vegas’s premiere hotel and casino, which is currently housing a human buffet-line that’s been trapped inside by a poorly thought-out, self-locking alarm.
Amid the chaos of hungry zombies are a handful of survivors not yet food for the slow (but persistent) tourists-turned-undead: a guitar-wielding Elvis impersonator and his son, a feminist stripper, and an alcoholic janitor whose drunken hijinks might just be the only thing keeping him alive. Cornered inside an overflowing casino, the only place for this rag tag crew to go is out, but is there any place safe? Can they evade the soulless Bobby Darin impersonator who’s become unofficial king of the undead? Have the zombies taken over every last casino in Vegas? Do the dead play slots?
And here's a sample Chapter:
Let’s Call in Dead to Work
Chuck Woodward had never been known as a model employee. He rarely showed up on time and was often drunk, as he was today—late and drunk. And yet this perpetual carelessness may have saved his life, something he didn’t consider as he staggered into the back entrance of the Olympus Hotel and Casino, reeking of an off-brand vodka so cheap that drinking paint thinner might have been a safer alternative.
He first noticed something was wrong when he went to punch in at the time clock and found it had been ripped off the wall and stomped into the ground. He then noticed a trail of blood leading into the break room. His third and final clue that something was wrong was the sight of his coworker, Ray, bleeding onto the tile floor as three feral-looking, gray skinned men devoured his flesh the way Chuck had been expecting to see Ray devouring a cruller. That was when Chuck began to scream, in a wavery, high-pitched wail unbefitting of an overweight janitor.
A man with a forehead peeled away from his skull in blood-crusted flaps sat hunkered protectively over the body of “Big Ray” Williams, lips smacking and chewing loudly as he snacked on the sinewy arms that had made Ray such a great security guard. The other two men standing over him, who looked like they had just walked out of a ten-car pileup, were playing tug-of-war with Ray’s bite-addled legs. They eventually split him in half, but the zombie with the bigger chunk didn’t make a wish. Instead, he began to eat. None of them paid the screaming, quivering lump of fat that almost tripped himself stumbling away from them any mind.
Backing into a corner, Chuck fumbled his walkie talkie from the pocket of his hoodie and squeaked, “Typhon, are you there?” as he scratched at his beard with enough force to rip skin. “Oh my God, pick up, please!”
“Chuck,” the radio belched, in a thick Greek accent, “I am here, Chuck. What do you want?”
“We, uh, we have an emergency,” Chuck muttered, choking on his words as he ground his back into the break room counter. In the back of his mind, which was still clouded in pools of cheap alcohol, he had to ask himself if what he was looking at was real. “R-Ray is dead. I guess. H-He’s being eaten, by, like, cannibals. I think.” More tears slipped down into his beard.
“Chuck, is not emergency,” Typhon fired back. “Is just tiny, tiny problem. Everything is under control.”
“Everything doesn’t seem under control,” Chuck remarked, as three zombies feasted out of Big Ray’s open skull like a gathering of homeless hunched over a can of refried beans. “Ray is dead! I need help!”
“Chuck, there has been a small attack on my casino,” Typhon’s voice chirped, in between staticky pops, “Some lives are lost, but everything is being contained. I just need you for doing your job once security fixes very small problem. So go to your store room and be safe so you do not get hurt. When noise stops, you come out and clean, okay? We’re going need a lot of clean.” At that, he said the magic words: “Will pay a lot of overtime.”
“Oh—kay,” Chuck confirmed, and felt his head swoop in a failed attempt at escaping his bloated body. “Um, Typhon, is this real?”
The radio popped loudly. “Jesus, Chuck, you are drunk again? Nothing is real except clean. That is all you need to be real.”
Chuck ran his hands through his messy mop of hair as the undead that held Ray’s open head sucked longingly on their brain-matter covered fingers, much the way a stoner savors the last remnants of his Cheetos.
“Are you real?” he asked dumbly.
Their eyes lifted up to him now that their flesh-covered bowl was empty, and under the pretense that this might be real, that his legs were shaking too hard against his baggy, mustard stained pants for this to be a dream, Chuck turned toward the hallway at a brisk pace. His mission: to find his store room and hide, as ordered by the Olympus’s owner, which sounded like a reasonable idea given the three cannibals lumbering after him as he hurried out into the game room.
Slot machines were overturned. Playing cards and game chips were strewn all across the carpet, trampled and covered in footprints. A middle aged woman, whose screams were waging war with the fire alarm, tried to scoop up her bucket of spilled quarters even as a trio of undead fell upon her.
She was not the only one being attacked. A security guard unloaded a few rounds on an undead girl staggering after a fleeing family, until the noise of gunfire attracted the attention of three more that collapsed in on him and sunk their collective teeth into his face, neck, and shoulder. Behind the bar, a teenager threw bottles at a cluster of battered zombies army-crawling toward his highly pock-marked, and yet highly appetizing skin. Maybe to them his acne was as appealing as the lustrous, greasy shine of freshly fried French fries, because their expression was one of sheer ecstasy when they ate.
On the other side of the room some Cirque Du Triumph performers, who one might have expected to flee the casino with carefree skips and nimble backflips, were staggering and stumbling over each other to escape. One tripped over a bullet-riddled body, planted the corner of his head into a slot machine, and scrambled away in torn gymnast tights. Grabby, blood covered hands weren’t far behind.
Left standing in the center of it all was Chuck Woodward, the thirty-two year old, drunken janitor, who stepped toward the escalator with his eyes goggling the casino floor like a newborn staring out from a crib. He was about to walk onto the gold-covered, electrical walkway, boasted by casino staff as the tallest in the world, when he saw a two-worded sign swinging dangerously above, followed by a loud snap that sent it plummeting down to the casino floor. It was the casino’s logo, and it flickered loudly before shorting out at Chuck’s feet.
The Olympus: tallest casino on the strip, classiest gambling establishment in Las Vegas, and currently swarming with blood-thirsty zombies.
Brandon and Bryan
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