The Living Dead Bike Gang

June 27th

"What do vegetarian zombies eat?"
"... this sounds like a joke," Tisi shouts from behind me.
"Yes. That's because it is a joke."
"K, what do vegetarian zombies eat?" indulges Jo-Lynn, off to my left.
"Graaaiiiinnsss!!"

We're biking along Brunswick Road amid the Saturday night traffic, en route to a zombie-themed warehouse party. Now and then, our appearance generates perplexed stares from the motorists around us:
Zombie Coroner, Zombie Bride, Zombie Rock Star.
In bike helmets.

***

I told Tisi about the party earlier in the week. Zombie Rock Star was born out of a pair of fourth-hand, skin-tight, snake-skin-patterned pants so atrocious, they supersede any possibility of fabulousness and land squarely on hideous. [Still, I can't help but love them.]
I, however, was stumped. Harrie offered up a lab coat covered in fake blood. A perfect fit.

And really, who more likely than a coroner to succumb in the early days of a zombie incursion?

***

It's 10:45pm on Saturday when I get home after a long day, a gnawing headache the result of wearing my glasses for too long. Tisi tells me Jo-Lynn is up for the party, which is exciting since her studies [medicine] monopolize her time and energy.
I give a meek wuss-out attempt, but Tisi's not biting. We won't be out late, I'm told. Go rest for a few minutes, then we'll head to Jo-Lynn's: she has make-up.

***

Impromptu Make-Up Requirements for The Living Dead:

- talcum powder, over a thick base of moisturising cream
- black eye liner
- dark blue eye shadow
- red lipstick, the color and texture of cheese wax, ideally aged upwards of 10 years

***

We turn onto the bike path that runs along the train tracks, a route I don't normally take. There's something surreal and magical about the dimly-lit landscape. Sheltered from direct view, it encourages astoundingly complex, detailed street art and graffiti, amazing pieces even by Melbourne's high standards. It's like riding through a long, narrow gallery space.

The cyclists who pass our mini group, now travelling single-file, typically take until the last of us to register that something's up.

Approaching the leader: no response.
Passing the next in line: "Wait a minute..."
And the third: "What the hell?!"

Not a mob, and certainly not an incursion, three zombies definitely qualify as a gang.
The Living Dead Bike Gang.

***

As we enter the warehouse on Florence, the band is just starting to play Thriller. Impeccable timing.
Jacko covers are appropriately a continuing theme even after Thriller -- which, I'm pleased to say, included Vincent Price's "rap," read off a crumpled sheet of loose-leaf -- and there is much dancing.

I see Justin and say hi.
"Do you recognise me??" he asks, equal parts surprised and slurred.

His face is painted blue and gold, but otherwise, he's in his standard outfit: hounds-tooth blazer, brown hat.
"Of course! But... just barely, " I add, tacked on in answer to his crest-fallen expression. "You look... good."

He's come as a Pharaoh "'cause for zombies, that's as old school as it gets."

***

The next morning, I wake up smelling of baby powder and stale smoke and head off to work with red stains on my face, remnants of the lipstick unwilling to budge after several scrubs.