The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Zombie Jim

en Limba Engleză Paperback – 23 iun 2011

Free at last! Free at last! This ain't your grandfather's Huckleberry Finn. It's nineteenth century America and a mutant strain of tuberculosis is bringing its victims back from the dead. Sometimes they come back docile, and other times vicious. The vicious ones are sent back to Hell, but the docile ones are put to work as servants and laborers. With so many zombies on the market, the slave trade is nonexistant. The black man is at liberty, and human bondage is no more. Young Huckleberry Finn has grown up in a world that shuns the N-word, with its scornful eye set on a new class of shambling, putrid sub-humans: The Baggers. When his abusive father comes back into his life, Huck flees down the river with Bagger Jim, seeking a life of perfect freedom. When the pox mutates once again, causing even the tamest of baggers to become bloodthirsty monsters, the boy Finn is forced to question his relationship with his dearest, deadest friend. In this revised take on history and classic literature, the modern age is ending before it ever begins. Huckleberry Finn will inherit a world of horror and death, and he knows the mighty Mississippi might be the only way out...

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Specificații

ISBN-13: 9781451609783
ISBN-10: 1451609787
Pagini: 288
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 20 mm
Greutate: 0.31 kg
Editura: Gallery Books
Colecția Gallery Books

Notă biografică

Mark Twain, born Samuel Langhorne Clemens in 1835, left school at age 12. His career encompassed such varied occupations as printer, Mississippi riverboat pilot, journalist, travel writer, and publisher, which furnished him with a wide knowledge of humanity and the perfect grasp of local customs and speech manifested in his writing. It wasn't until The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1885), that he was recognized by the literary establishment as one of the greatest writers America would ever produce.

Toward the end of his life, plagued by personal tragedy and financial failure, Twain grew more and more cynical and pessimistic. Though his fame continued to widen--Yale and Oxford awarded him honorary degrees--he spent his last years in gloom and desperation, but he lives on in American letters as "the Lincoln of our literature."

W. Bill Czolgosz has written fewer books than Mark Twain, and none of them nearly as competently. His own personal favorite is Eat @t Zero’s, published by Coscom Entertainment in 2005 and currently out of print. His latest project is a graphic novel called Zombifrieze, illustrated by Sean Simmans, a frequent collaborator.

Czolgosz lives in Proud Lake, Saskatchewan, with his two children and three cats, just a mile down the street from his on-again/off-again ladyfriend, who has not yet called the police.

He can be contacted by the angry, the insane, the melancholy, and the desperate at wbczolgosz@gmail.com

Extras

CHAPTER I

The people used to own other people, an’ they had a word for those people. Really mean. I think the only thing I was ever taught that managed to stick with me was that the widow better never hear that word come out of my mouth. Eventually, I learned that lesson good cause o’ the whuppins I got when I tried it. Can’t say I ever uttered it again. I believe not. All my days. Like I say, it was the widow’s whuppin’ what did it.

Other than that, she was always very kind. Strict, but kind.

I remember the widow now, sure I do. An’ Miss Watson, too. An’ pretty much everyone else. And that’s sayin’ a big deal ’cause the world was full-up of people in those times.

You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Undead Adventures of Tom Sawyer ; but that ain’t no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary. Aunt Polly—Tom’s Aunt Polly, she is—and Mary, and the Widow Douglas is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as I said before.

Now the way that the book winds up is this: Tom and me found the bunderlugs that the robbers had put in the cave, and when we returned ’em to the traders it made us rich. There was almost a hundred of ’em, and th’ reward money was plenty big. We got six thousand dollars apiece—all gold. It was an awful sight of money when it was piled up. Well, Judge Thatcher he took it and put it out at interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece all the year round—more than a body could tell what to do with. The Widow Douglas she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dismal regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I couldn’t stand it no longer I lit out. I got into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again, and was free and satisfied. But Tom Sawyer he hunted me up and said he was going to start his own band of robbers, and I might join if I would go back to the widow and be respectable. So I went back.

The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she called me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by it. She put me in them new clothes again, and I couldn’t do nothing but sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. Well, then, the old thing commenced again. The widow rung a bell for supper, and you had to come to time. When you got to the table you couldn’t go right to eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her head and grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn’t really anything the matter with them—that is, nothing only everything was cooked by itself. In a barrel of odds and ends it is different; things get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go better.

After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and by she let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long time; so then I didn’t care no more about him, because I don’t take much stock in dead people.

I do mean that when I say it, about taking stock in dead people,most dead people, especially these days. Folks say the world is turned on its ear. I don’t know about that. Sure thing it’s at a considerable wobble, though.

Pretty soon afterward I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. But she wouldn’t. She said it was a mean practice and wasn’t clean, and I must try to not do it any more. That is just the way with some people. They get down on a thing when they don’t know nothing about it. Here she was a-bothering about Moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to anybody, being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for doing a thing that had some good in it. And she took snuff, too; of course that was all right, because she done it herself.

Her sister, Miss Watson, a tolerable slim old maid, with goggles on, had just come to live with her, and took a set at me now with a spelling-book. She worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then the widow made her ease up. I couldn’t stood it much longer. Then for an hour it was deadly dull, and I was fidgety. Miss Watson would say, “Don’t put your feet up there, Huckleberry;” and “Don’t scrunch up like that, Huckleberry—set up straight;” and pretty soon she would say, “Don’t gap and stretch like that, Huckleberry—why don’t you try to behave?” Then she told me all about the bad place, and I said I wished I was there. And then she told me how boys like me was more than likely than not to catch the fissythis, and I said fissythis weren’t such a bad thing, ’cause at least I’d be having adventures. She got mad then, but I didn’t mean no harm. All I wanted was to go somewheres; all I wanted was a change, I warn’t particular. She said it was wicked to say what I said; said she wouldn’t say it for the whole world; she was going to live so as to go to the good place. Well, I couldn’t see no advantage in going where she was going, so I made up my mind I wouldn’t try for it. But I never said so, because it would only make trouble, and wouldn’t do no good.

Now she had got a start, and she went on and told me all about the good place. She said all a body would have to do there was to go around all day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever. I asked about if the folks with fissythis got to go there, too, and she said they surely did get to go, eventually, when their material selves were all over and done with. And I asked if that included the ones who had bit people and wreaked havoc and such, and she said it probably did, as long as their hearts was right before the pox took ’em. So I didn’t think much of it. But I never said so. I asked her if she reckoned Tom Sawyer would go there, and she said not by a considerable sight. I was glad about that, because I wanted him and me to be together.

Miss Watson spelled fissythis like so: PHTHISIS. That never made a lick of sense to me. She said it could get into you just for breathing air blown in from the east, and that made even less sense. She said fissythis come from London or France, but those places might’s well have been China. Tom told me Napoleon defeated all the pox over there and people was living healthier than ever. But I didn’t know nothing about that for myself, nor how he pulled it off. I figured that Napoleon musta been a mighty big fella.

Miss Watson she kept pecking at me, and it got tiresome and lonesome. By and by they fetched the baggers in and had prayers, and then everybody was off to bed. I went up to my room with a piece of candle, and put it on the table. Then I set down in a chair by the window and tried to think of something cheerful, but it warn’t no use. I felt so lonesome I most wished I was dead. The stars were shining, and the leaves rustled in the woods ever so mournful; and I heard an owl, away off, who-whooing about somebody that was maybe finally dead, and a whippowill and a dog crying about somebody that was going to catch the pox; and the wind was trying to whisper something to me, and I couldn’t make out what it was, and so it made the cold shivers run over me. Then away out in the woods I heard that kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something that’s on its mind and can’t make itself understood, and so can’t rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving. I got so down-hearted and scared I did wish I had some company. Pretty soon a spider went crawling up my shoulder, and I flipped it off and it lit in the candle; and before I could budge it was all shriveled up. I didn’t need anybody to tell me that that was an awful bad sign and would fetch me some bad luck, so I was scared and most shook the clothes off of me. I got up and turned around in my tracks three times and crossed my breast every time; and then I tied up a little lock of my hair with a thread to keep witches away. But I hadn’t no confidence. You do that when you’ve lost a horseshoe that you’ve found, instead of nailing it up over the door, but I hadn’t ever heard anybody say it was any way to keep off bad luck when you’d killed a spider.

I set down again, a-shaking all over, and got out my pipe for a smoke; for the house was all as still as death now, and so the widow wouldn’t know. Well, after a long time I heard the clock away off in the town go boom—boom—boom—twelve licks; and all still again—stiller than ever. Pretty soon I heard a twig snap down in the dark amongst the trees—something was a stirring. I set still and listened. Directly I could just barely hear a “me-yow! me-yow!” down there. That was good! Says I, “me-yow! me-yow!” as soft as I could, and then I put out the light and scrambled out of the window on to the shed. Then I slipped down to the ground and crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough, there was Tom Sawyer waiting for me.

© 2009 W. Bill Czolgosz

Descriere

The dead arise from a mutant strain of TB, causing a son to flee from his undead father and embark on a long journey with his dearest, deadest friend

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