King of Zombie Heath

Day 10 - "Eddie stole my custard!"

I hate sleeping on my front. Just woke up with crick in my neck and my face in a puddle of drool. My butt still hurts. Can only sit on half of it.

Seriously pissed off today. And, like the Hulk, I mustn't get angry, they don't like me when I'm angry.

Maybe I'll write more later. I'm not in the mood now. Need to lie down.

They tell me Eddie was on form tonight. Bananas and custard for pud. God knows where the bananas came from. Haven't had real fruit since... I can't remember when. Cook must be reading my journal when I'm asleep. I hear the custard was good. Bright yellow and so thick you could stick the spoon upright. Yum!

So good it seems, that Eddie, who usually limits the calories he ingests, finished his then started making a show of sucking his (plastic) spoon clean, turning it, checking the front and back and looking pensive. He stared long and hard at Nimby, then Nimby's custard, and asked him if he'd seen that YouTube video where the guy pries his eyeball out with a spoon. Nimby, who's twice Eddie's size, pushed his bowl away. Decided he wasn't hungry anymore.

I'm sure he'd have tried the same trick with Tubbs too but, by God, Tubbs is fast. His food vanishes faster than a fart in a fan factory. Sometimes I wonder if he was raised by wolves.  

Talking of wolves, Sobieslaw (Slobby) was transferred out today. Pneumonia. Unresponsive to antibiotics. So, "do widzenia" to the Slavic Slasher. Eddie thinks that makes him top dog. He would. He believes he's special. Ever since he was little. He craves attention, adulation, really, and revels in the fact that most of these retards crap themselves if he so much as squints sideways at them. I'm loathe to admit it, but he does have an abundant supply of mojo. Charisma. Even the psycho-psychos, the ones with the animal glints in their pin-prick eyes shambling round in shackles all day moaning like the undead, step aside when they cross his path. They give me the willies. No telling what they'll do. If you ask me, the best thing to do would be to put them all down. I did suggest that to Nurse Ratched not long after I'd arrived.

Ratched's not a sadist, and as far as I know she's never lobotomized anyone, but she has the same baby-blue eyes, perky little tits and wears sexy white stockings. She's expert at flouting the dress code without breaking any rules, and is always flashing her fanny like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. We place bets on what colour her panties will be. I'm pretty sure she knows we do it, but nobody's been wheeled off for electroshock, so I don't think she minds. Billy got a shot of her snatch on his mobile a while back. That did the rounds for a while. Mordsley paid a hundred quid for a printout. Don't know how they got it through the glass. Come to think of it, I don't know how they got the printout either. Or the cellphone.

Anyway, I digress. I told her offing them would save the tax-payers a shitload of money and free up a load of beds for people they might be able to cure. Not to mention making her job a hell of a lot easier and the world a safer place. Told her I could arrange it too, if she accidentally on purpose forgot to lock the drugs cabinet on night. By morning her problem would be over. She thanked me for my kindness, but said that she didn't see her patients as problems and that it wasn't the way they did things these days. If society condoned that kind of behaviour it wouldn't be any better than the people it locks up.

We agreed to disagree. At the end of the day, if the zombie-masses don't mind coughing up a hundred and forty grand a year for paint brushes and piano lessons, who am I to complain?

I can't stop thinking about what she'd said and the way she said it. The more I thought about it, the more it's getting me riled. Does she really think she's better than we are? The arrogance of it.