Boomer was all alone in the cornfield. The survivors had left long ago in their Army transport, finally leaving the horrors of the infected western Pennsylvania behind for some crowded refugee camp of the immune. But Boomer cared not for such things. He was a refined infected man above such crudity as eating the living. His concern was only his fierce battle with the cruel world itself.
For you see dear reader, Boomer had been struck down by his own fountain of being from which he had sprung, and that most unique love had been severed. It began before the survivors had arrived. He had asked his kind mother, who was now in the form of a hag, if he could have sole claim to the television in the farmhouse after it was all over. To relax and watch the antics of cartoon boys in a Colorado town was Boomer's sole pleasure, beyond partaking in the bottles of oxycodone tablets which the foolish humans had missed. It was an accursed vice for a man of his stature, true, but Boomer found solace in the knowledge that many of the world's greatest minds had fallen victim to the snare of opiates, in cloudy Victorian parlors away from the eyes of judgment.
Following the defeat of the Infected, the forces of the new death retreated into the simple home to recuperate. There, Boomer found a challenge to his territory. It was his sister, Female Boomer, and her degenerate boyfriend, the Jockey. And they were in usage of Boomer's exclusive television set.
"Begone, wench and pimp!" cried Boomer. "Our fine matron has blessed me with the rights to this device! Thou did not even shine thy faces in battle."
Insolent, they ignored his righteous cries. Seeing no intelligence in their idiot brains, Boomer turned his mother and pleaded, "Mother! Recall thy promise! Expel these rapacious fools!"
But Mother was in her witching mood. Still agitated from combat, she struck out of her own loin-product. Terrified, Boomer had retreated from the domicile and into the field of corn.
At least, that was his story. In reality, Boomer had just farted and pooped and burped and cried and spit up a lot and started flailing at the Witch because he was a big ol' crybaby. But Boomer thought quite a lot of himself, you see. So it should be no surprise that Boomer saw the approach of Tank as a knight in shining armor.
"WHY BOOMER SO SAD," poetically cooed the gentle beast.
"Fart blurp goooboodhjsdh flurrffffffff baaaaaaagh [I have been separated from my kin through lies and thievery]," replied Boomer.
"...WANNA DO HOT DUDESEX."
The answer was obviously yes. In a sudden and incredibly erotic display, Boomer dropped trou and presented his blubbery Boomer bunghole to the Tank's waiting foot-long meat missile. In an squishy instant, they were getting "mad rutty" up in that cornfield. Boomer's bulging boy-boobies n' big belly be bouncin' as he got totally man-boned up in his flabby fartchamber. Tank was roaring and his little Tank-tongue was all floppin' around and dribblin over Boomer's back. Boomer was still pretty fucked up from some pills, so he spun around and kinda spit up a little all over the Tank's titanic dingdong! Jesus, this is totally freaking hot!!
"RAGHHHH"
"BUUURP [YES!]"
"ME LOVE YOU AND YOU BUTT"
"HARGHHHLFFAAPBBFFFFFFPT [And I, you. *farts gently*]"
Holy moley!!
Meanwhile on a barn roof, a human sat with a pair of binoculars, watching the naughty necros knock boots. The man no longer has a name in this forsaken cruel world, but he was once known as The World's Straightest Man. And- what the!? He's fappin' like crazy! Oh no! Has he been infected by a different virus, the gay virus!? That virus was ordinarily held in place by Jesus Christ and George W. Bush, but ever since the zombies killed God, there was a chance that the gay could spread across the land. But no, dear readers. This man was still straight as an arrow; it was merely that the hot action before him was so amazingly boner-inducing that only a crazy person could resist. Seriously, this was the hottest shit in the world! Fuck anyone who disagrees!!!
But then, tragedy struck. As the Tank prepped his tank turret for a massive tummy-tearing salvo, Boomer made a terrifying realization.
"BLAAAARGH!!! [No! Beloved! Stop!]"
But it was too late. The pressure from the bubbly boy-juice burst hit Boomer just like any survivor's bullet. He exploded into a mass of bile, fart gas, and Tank man-chowder. Tank sat for a moment, stunned. The Horde screeched in the distance, smelling the bile. Tank reached into his upper chest, pulled out the rest of his jaw, and slowly spoke.
"...I have done murder and destroyed that most precious to me. Let the Furies carry me away in just retribution for my sins."
And so he didn't resist at all (or even pull up his pants to cover up his still semi-soft sausage), as he was torn apart by the Horde.
Back on the roof, the world's straightest man sighed. Something ran down his cheek. A droplet of seed, deposited on his own face in a feat of Northian virility? Or could it be... a tear? He smiled sadly, for he knew that in the after-undeath, the two would be together forever, and could have fucking insane good buttsex without fear of exploding into vomit.
