A spiritual sequel to a previous blog: Paranoia in Bullet Point Form.

Disclaimer: Once again, all of this really happened and names, nationalities, suburbs and countries have been changed to protect the innocent.

So you have a really close cousin who lives in England. Now because your extended family is all split up and living in multiple countries around the world, consisting of a plethora of many unknown cousins in often non-English speaking lands, you were really happy to meet Mark when he came to visit you in Australia in 1999. Considering it was the very first time you guys had met since years ago when he was 9 and you were 1, it was a welcome introduction to family previously unfamiliar and anonymous, regardless of the age difference. There was a real connection, not just in the common language being spoken, but also in personalities and motivations; in other words, cousin Mark was a good guy.

You found each other on Facebook years later, a happy reunion full of well-wishes and life updates and sending each other photos of your parents and pets and friends. Writing on each other’s walls. Commenting on each other’s holiday photos. It was all so very cousin-ish; albeit so social network-gimmicky as well, but it was certainly better than a return to zero contact and for that you remained grateful: the contact has not been very constant since that initial surge, which surprises you somewhat, but at least the option is there.

Having not heard from him for a while, you then get an email notification: ‘Mark Ooi sent you a message on Facebook’.

You excitedly click on that email, a hundred possibilities twirling through your mind as to what it could possibly contain. Important news? Good or bad? I hope nothing serious has happened. No no, I’m sure it’s okay. Maybe he’s getting married? Maybe he’s coming back to Sydney? It’s about time I went to visit him in England, I’ve always wanted to go…

You willingly stop yourself from over-thinking, deciding to just read the damned thing.

It is yet another miscellaneous, mundane, midweek work day. While sitting at your desk in front of your computer monitor, you find out via Google news that the Zombie Apocalypse has actually, finally, arrived. Initial panic sets in as the realisation hits that the world, as you know it, will never be the same again. You sit there stunned for a few moments, before thinking to yourself “Fuck Yeah.”

Scouring through your desk drawers for weapon options, you find scissors, thumbtacks, a stapler, and the cutting edge of the sticky-tape dispenser. These might be good as last-ditch weapons but they just won’t cut it otherwise, pun very much intended.

Scouting out the kitchen is also a disappointment; instead of any decent knives you only find an over-supply of sporks, and the largest sharp object available is a cake cutter. “Utterly useless!” you shout in frustration before calmly waiting out the remaining 1 minute and 42 seconds for your lunch to heat up in the microwave. One hand placed firmly on your chin, your mind ticks away. ”I need solid metal shapes. Knives and stabbing weapons”.

“I need to go outside”.

You know full well that you could be safe on the sixth floor of your building. That there are only two ways in which the zombies could get to you: via the two elevators, one of which is regularly unreliable, and via the fire escape stairwell which, if we are talking about the standard unintelligent species of zombie, makes you virtually untouchable. But what about food? Supplies? WEAPONS?! The fact that firearms are not publicly available concerns you as, unlike in America, you will be in uncharted territory, fighting off the horde with melee weapons only.

Something must be done. You need to get your hands on some serious arsenal sooner rather than later. If you get lucky you might run into a zombie police officer, and once you’re done bludgeoning it to death with the corners of a pack of Reflex photocopying paper, you can take his pistol, but until then there needs to be an alternative strategy.

Right beside your workplace is a motorcycle shop. Perfect. They must have guns in there, right?

Wrong.

The only objects immediately available for use as weapons are engine parts, bicycle pumps, and clothes hangers from the boutique store. How disappointing. That image you had of riding a Harley through swarms of zombies, unleashing a barrage of lever-action shotgun-fire deteriorates, as does the image of the ultimate bike made entirely out of chainsaws:

Having the option of fleeing on a motorbike if need be is promising, though, even without the weapons. As is the promise of an adequate amount of fuel: there is a petrol station directly across the road. Not only is it a good source of food, cigarettes, DVDs, even firewood, it can also be blown up as a last resort. Of course you won’t be able to shoot the pumps but you can set off the detonation with a cigarette lighter or, for the action movie fans, via a fuel trail like at the end of Die Hard 2.

Lure the horde in through the centre lane, then light the fuse.

Place these strategically around the complex in anticipation of those Left 4 Dead-style crescendo events.

Can be used for warmth or to set up barricades.

Whilst contemplating these possibilities, you hear that roar. That unmistakeable chorus of the marching undead, awakened from their Godless slumber as droplets of rain begin to fall. Readying your cigarette lighter and freshly-purchased deodorant can as a makeshift flamethrower, you have your next stop in mind: the hospital – for medical supplies, home defibrillator kits and scalpels.

Disclaimer: All of this really happened. Names, nationalities and suburbs have been changed to protect the innocent.

• So there’s a girl you like from Language Class. An Italian girl.

• You’ve met a couple of times, and even attended the same Language Class group dinner a few weeks ago. Since then there have been emails sent, promptly replied and responded to.

• You know she lives in Stanmore. It is pointed out to you by a friend that it is odd for a girl like her, a travelling student, to be living in Stanmore, as that’s more of a French area. You agree. You’re pretty sure she’s got a boyfriend. A French boyfriend.

• Indeed, he even picked her up from the dinner, you think. You didn’t get a very good look at him though as everyone was drunk that night.

• Despite all this, you’ve never really, properly, had a chat with this Italian girl. You just have a ‘feeling’. And her email and Facebook.

• But the last time you saw her in class, she seemed strange. ‘Keen’, even. It’s a surprise.

• She proposes that the two of you meet up – she even gives you the times she is free during the week, and the fact that she tends to be free on weekends.

• She states these facts nonchalantly.

• So…

• The next day you send an email to her containing your phone number.

• A day later, and still no reply. Strange. She usually replies quickly to emails.

• Then you get a strange mobile call early the next morning. You do not recognise the number. You say “Hello?” with a fleeting sense of hope in your heart that you will hear the Italian girl’s voice, but there is no response. “Hello?!” After a few nervous seconds, the person on the other end hangs up.

• Then you’re thinking thoughts such as “The email has been intercepted” and “The boyfriend’s trying to sabotage me.” The fact that if he is indeed intercepting the email and sabotaging your attempts of communication then his actions are somewhat justified given that he is the boyfriend seems irrelevant right now.

• You think to yourself “Ah ha! But the joke’s on you…I’ve got your number now,” which brings a mischievous, slightly evil smile to your face.

• So a few hours later, you call the number back, asking what it was about. The person who answers tells you he rang the wrong number before quickly hanging up.

• Accent: French.

• You store the number on your phone. It could come in handy later. Today.

• The first thing you do is go to her Facebook page, scouring through her photos like a bargain-hunter ravaging a box of used clothing knowing precisely what it is you are after and knowing that you will spot it as soon as you see it. And sure enough, there he is. The fucker. Posing in photos together with her. Who else could it be? You now know his name. Marco.

• You look for and find the guy on her friends list.

• You join the France Network so that you can access his page.

• Inadequate information. You leave the France network.

• You start thinking of asking for a favour from your old market research call centre friends. To call up that mobile number. To try and fit in the question “Am I speaking to Mr Marco”. To confirm it in your head. Or rather, to confirm the voices in your head telling you it is him.

• You look up his name on the online White Pages like the Terminator looking up Sarah Connor in the phonebook, finding someone that fits the information gathered thus far. Stanmore. Marco. French surname. It has to be him!

• You call up the home phone (while masking your mobile number), and someone picks up.

• You don’t say anything. You just listen. “Hello? Hello?!” You hear an accent. French. You put the phone down, calmly. You smile that evil smile.

• Then you get another idea: call the home number again and, with your mobile ready in hand with his number already entered (complete with masking prefix), have your thumb ready to press Call. Then, when he picks up the home phone, call through on the mobile and see if you hear another, separate ring in the background. That will confirm it once and for all.

• The person on the home phone picks up. “Hello?”. “Hello?!?” He is angry. You say nothing.

• You call on the mobile. You do not hear a ring in the background. Disappointed, and with the man on the home phone shouting “Hello?!” with venom, you hang up both phones. You assure yourself this could mean anything. His mobile could have been on Silent. Or in another room. The fucker. I know it’s him.

• So you have another idea. Call up again tomorrow and say, “Marco … 7 days”.

• Then the day after, call up and say, “Marco … 6 days”. And so on.

• A different voice in your head starts speaking now. It’s the voice of reason. It asks you “But what if the cops get involved?” You start thinking of the worst case scenario: he could report it to the police as a death threat.

• You formulate your alibis. “But it could mean anything. It could even mean he’s about to receive a prize when the countdown’s over.”

• You even prepare that prize.

• And then you realise that the tenuous grasp you have on being the person in control of this situation is now threadbare.

• And that this is all in your head, and nothing at all has been confirmed yet.

• But then you receive a call on your phone. Unknown number.

• This shit just got real.

* Logic may be skewed

Today, I deduced something INCREDIBLE: a life-changing, world-shattering REVELATION about the TRUTH linking my mate, Fergus, with Chuck Norris.

It has nothing to do with those Chuck Norris Facts from a few years ago.

This man is Yip Man. Yip Man trained Bruce Lee, man

Yip Man also trained Fergus’ Tai Chi Master

And so Bruce Lee is the equivalent of Fergus’ Tai Chi Master

Bruce Lee then went on to, of course, train Chuck Norris

Whereas Tai Chi Master, in the meantime, was busy training Fergus…

∴ therefore…

Chuck Norris = Fergus

Indisputably.