Title: Shower Scum and Rotting Corpses: The Secret Life Of Adam Lazzara
Pairing: Adam Lazzara (Taking Back Sunday)/John Nolan (Straylight Run), featuring Jesse Lacey as the sarcastic best friend.
Rating: PG-13 for some language.
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Adam is not just any underpaid, overworked hotel maid. No. Secretly, he's Adam Lazzara, Protector of the Living, Sworn to Destroy Any and All Supernatural Forces That Threaten the Health and Safety of the Human Race. At least, that’s his official title...
Disclaimer: I don't own Adam Lazzara and, sadly, I don't think he works as a hotel maid. The rest, however is mine. And as for the zombies, well, I'll let you decide...
Warnings: Naked zombies? I dunno. None.
This is for the fanfic100 prompt green
Oh. Good. God. What the fuck is that? All you know is it’s green, it’s sticky, it jiggles when you poke it with the complimentary toothbrush, it’s stuck to the bottom left corner of the bathroom mirror and, to your great dismay, it’s your job to get it off. You so don’t get paid enough for this.
After all, it’s not like you get to lounge around when you aren’t up to your eyeballs in other people’s dirty laundry. It’s not like you get to go home and take off your apron and take a bath and watch TV while cuddling with your boyfriend, John. No, you leave work, go straight home, trade in your hideous uniform (a toothpaste apron and itchy, cheap polyester pants) for a ratty shirt and jeans, tug on your combat boots, grab your bag of large, heavy, blunt objects, sharpened stakes, holy water, silver bullets, and other useful weapons, then set off to go fight The Undead. That’s right. The Undead.
See, you’re not just any underpaid, overworked hotel maid. You’re Adam Lazzara, Protector of the Living, Sworn to Destroy Any and All Supernatural Forces That Threaten the Health and Safety of the Human Race. At least, that’s your official title. Among your friends you’re known as Whiny, which you think is completely unfair. You’ve pointed out time and again that if they spent every waking moment either battling evil or cleaning up other people’s shower scum they’d be whiny too, but you still can’t get any sympathy. Your best friend, Jesse, is quick to point out that you owe all of them big time for all the times they covered for you so you could actually, you know, get some sleep (and maybe some one on one time with John). Be that as it may, you’re less than fond of that particular nickname. Personally, you prefer to go by Laz, sometimes Ad. Even A-Dogg is fine by you. Protector Of The Living, not so much. Titles always made you feel kind of stupid.
Besides, you’ve got some serious issues with the wording of your job description. That whole “sworn to destroy blah, blah, blah” part? That makes it sound like you chose to spend every night knee deep in zombie brains, turning blue from holding your breath to keep from being found and having your soul sucked out by Chinese hopping corpses, while clumsily jabbing sharpened pool cues at vampires. Needless to say, you most certainly did not sign up for this. You just happen to be the Chosen One. Lucky you.
As you stare at the mystery blob, willing it to disappear on its own, you realize that if you look at it from the right angle, it almost looks like a piece of zombie flesh. Or a booger. You’re not really sure which is worse.
You pull your trusty spray bottle of extra strength bleach out of your supply bucket and pump the handle vigorously until it’s completely drenched. Standing as far away as you possibly can, you scrape at it with the toothbrush until it comes off, then unroll about three feet of toilet paper, wrap it around your hand, squeeze your eyes shut, reach out towards the offending gelatinous thing, and pick it up, tossing it quickly into your garbage bag. Next, you clean the rest of the mirror, replace the tissues and toilet paper, and squirt a generous amount of bowl cleaner into the toilet.
In hindsight, maybe you should have left the easy stuff for last, because from here on out, your job is just going to get grosser and grosser.
You decide to tackle the toilet seat first, using even more bleach and trying not to think about exactly what was sitting on it just hours ago. You try to envision fields of daisies and beautiful sunrises. Instead, all you can think about is how you’re going to have to give your favorite sledgehammer a good cleaning before going out tonight because of the damn zombies who spent all of last night trying to eat liquor store employees. Who knew zombies liked booze so much. Somehow, you can’t imagine vodka complimenting brains very well.
That’s it, you’re never drinking vodka again.
You finish the toilet and brace yourself as you throw open the shower curtain. Just your luck: the walls are covered in hair. Lots and lots of hair. These people must have been shedding or balding or something, because you swear there’s more hair than tile showing. Swallowing a gag, you put on three pairs of rubber gloves, step in and grab a squeegee from your bucket, and prepare to do battle.
You know, after spending the last thirteen years fighting zombies, you’d think you’d be less squeamish.
As you scrape the hair down the sides of the wall and pick it up in clumps, practically hurling it into the trash, you decide that nothing is grosser than this part of the job. You’d rather spend every waking moment covered in rotting zombie flesh than five minutes of touching people’s hair. At least you get used to the smell of zombie after a while. In reality, decaying bodies really aren’t that smelly. You’ve smelled grosser things in the back of your fridge after a blackout. Besides, after a while your nose goes numb. Your fingers never go numb when you’re picking up hair. There’s no escaping the horror of wet, slimy strands clinging to your body. You will never, ever get used to the feeling of hair.
Speaking of zombie flesh, as you scrub the sides of the tub you notice another, slightly larger green blob, and when you get to the mass of hair clogging the drain, you find yet another. These people must have had some kind of horrible sinus problem. At least you hope that’s what it is. Laughing bitterly, you think about how, if someone had told you two years ago that you’d actually hope some mystery substance was snot, you would have laughed in their face. That’s what this job has reduced you to. Choosing between unpleasant body fluids. As a rule, you’re an atheist, but at times like these you start to think that maybe there is a higher power, and that its sole purpose is to make your life as miserable as possible.
After you pick up the damp, dirty towels and toss them into your hamper, you give the bathroom floor a cursory mop and move on to the bedroom, muttering to yourself about the injustice of having to touch strangers’ sheets.
However, when you get close enough to see into the rest of the suite, you stop short in shock. There’s a trail of wet footprints leading to the bed, but the sheets and pillows are completely untouched. Now, ordinarily you’d be overjoyed at the prospect of less work, but something about this room is starting to freak you out. Considering the shape of the bathroom—between the blob on the mirror and the mess in the shower you can confidently say that it’s one of the grossest you’ve ever encountered—you’d think the room would be equally foul. But, aside from the footprints, it’s completely immaculate. As in the TV remote is exactly where you put it yesterday; the covers are turned down at the exact same angle as when you left them. Even the coupon for a complimentary continental breakfast is right where you left it. Something is definitely up.
Your suspicions are confirmed when an all too familiar groaning noise emanates from under the bed. Fuck. You’re really going to have to start bringing your weapons to work.
You scan the room for a large heavy object. Unfortunately, the room seems to be completely devoid of potential weapons. In fact, it’s so ill equipped it looks like the fire extinguisher is going to have to suffice.
Brandishing the powder filled can, you creep toward the bed. The zombie clearly senses fresh, yummy brains heading its way, because with every step you take, the growling gets louder and more frantic. Then, sure enough, when you’re about fifteen feet away, a smelly, discolored hand pokes out from under the bed, swiftly followed by an arm, then a torso, then…
Oh, God. Just your luck. A naked zombie. A very rotting, very smelly, very stark naked zombie. The damned thing didn’t even have the decency to put on a towel before stumbling under the bed in an undead stupor.
Sometimes you wish you could just stick to vampires like that Buffy girl on TV. They always wear clothes. More importantly, you really wish you got some sort of royalties. After all, it’s not like you’re exactly rolling in cash from your hotel paychecks. You deserve some sort of compensation for spending practically every night protecting the human race. That’s gotta be worth something, right? At the very least you deserve a trip to a spa, because, in all honesty, you’re just a wreck. Your once famously beautiful hair is limp and dry; your pleasantly thin body is wasting away from exhaustion. Last week you even got a pimple, and, let’s face it, no amount of face wash is going to make that puppy go away. Not at this rate, anyway. Now that you think about it, you really, really hate zombies.
The disturbingly nude Undead creature rights itself and starts stumbling towards you, dragging its feet against the cheap carpet, leaving a little trail of putrid water in its wake. Bracing yourself for the attack, you tighten your hold on the fire extinguisher and bring it back over your shoulder, preparing to swing.
As soon as it’s close enough, you lash out with the can, hitting its arm with a squelch. The can bounces back, catching you off guard, and a cloud of white powder flies into the air. So much for not having to change the sheets.
Unsurprisingly, the zombie isn’t phased by your pathetic attack, and gnashes its teeth in anticipation, arms reaching out to try and grab your neck. You duck out of the way and, in an act of desperation, give it a swift roundhouse kick to the head. Unfortunately, aside from knocking part of its face off and covering your foot in gore, all you manage to accomplish is to piss the thing off even more; its guttural groaning becomes more menacing and it starts clawing at you with greater enthusiasm. Frantically, you dive towards your cart of cleaning supplies and start rooting through it in hopes of finding something to bash this thing's brains an and get it over with.
Bleach? No, not heavy enough. Toilet brush? Definitely not heavy enough. Towel? Yeah, right. Mop? Actually, that might work…
Grabbing the mop, you whip around just in time to see the zombie just inches away from you. You awkwardly jab at its head and, luckily, manage to stab it in the eye. It howls and stumbles backwards and, using the mop to hold it on the ground, you drag it towards the TV. In an act of almost superhuman strength, you topple the TV off of the dresser and onto its head, where it lands with a sickening crunch.
The noises cease, the body stops thrashing around—your job is done. Well, aside from cleaning up the mess, that is.