John Dies at the End (John Dies at the End, #1)

by David Wong

I was about to warn the girl about John’s coffee, which tasted like a cup of battery acid someone had pissed in and then cursed at for several hours, but John turned to her and in a lawyerly voice said, “Shelly, tell us your story.”

That is funny.

She sipped the coffee, then grimaced as if it had bit her.

But I told him if he ever got into that kind of trouble again without telling me I would not only kick his ass, but would in fact beat him until he died, then pursue him into the afterlife and beat his eternal soul.

Have to remember that one.

I pushed away the plate of chicken, rice and snow peas that was the Flaming Shrimp Reunion.

You blobs, you sit there, chillin’ in this room and I can smell the rot of dead animals soaking in the acid of your guts. You suck the life from the innocent creatures of this world just so you can clock another day. You’re machines that run on the terror and pain and mutilation of other lives.

I glanced at Badly Drawn Jesus, then pulled the gun from my pocket. On Judgment Day, I’d be able to proudly state that when I thought the hordes of Hell were coming for a local girl, I stood ready to shoot at them with a small-caliber pistol.

Very funny. If you dont want to read the book at least see the movie. Very funny.

I ran back to the rear door of the Bronco, opened it, reached in and grabbed a red-and-white flip-top cooler. This is my emergency kit. It contained a roll of duct tape, a spare pair of pants, an envelope with two hundred dollars, two bags of dried fruit, two packages of beef jerky, three bottles of water, a roll of those thick shop towels you see mechanics use, a small metal pipe—just right for cracking a skull with—and a fake beard. Look, you never know.

Funny. All he needs now is his life sustaining supplies: cornmeal and gun powder and hamhocks and guitar strings.

The first step toward gaining a true understanding of the universe is to grasp the sheer scale of humanity’s ignorance.