13 November 2009

"Harold & Kumar Get Left 4 Dead Once Upon A Time In Mexico"

By Curtis C. Chen

Tijuana after the zombie apocalypse didn't look that different to Harold Lee. Of course, all the previous times he'd visited, he'd been drunk, stoned, or both.

He heard rustling outside the front door of the motel. Harold crouched down behind the counter and aimed his assault rifle.

The doorknob turned, and Harold hesitated. Zombies don't do that! Do they?

Kumar Patel threw open the door and ran in, holding an automatic shotgun in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. "Harold! Where are you?"

Harold stood up, his heart still pounding. "Close the door and keep your voice down, man!"

Kumar kicked the door shut. "You're not going to believe—"

"Dude!" Harold said. "Knock before entering. I almost blew your head off!"

"It's cool, I forgive you. Check this out!" Kumar laid his shotgun on the counter, opened the paper bag, and pulled out a plastic-wrapped green bundle.

Harold stared at the bundle. "What is it with you?"

"I know! It's like a sixth sense or something. I was just coming back through the alley—"

Harold slapped Kumar across the face.

"What the fuck!" Kumar said.

"Exactly," Harold said. "We're stranded in Tijuana. There are thousands of zombies between us and the border. We have two guns. It's going to be dark soon.

"And all you can think about is getting high?" he screamed.

Kumar nodded. "You're right. We'll probably be dead in a few hours." He held up the bundle. "So do you want to bite it with a stick up your ass, or do you want to go out in a haze of glory?"

Harold glared at him.


The back door of the motel clanged open. The noise echoed down the alley.

"Fuck me, that was loud," Kumar said, stepping through.

"It's cool, man," Harold said, following. "Zombies can't hear shit."

Harold had to admit, Kumar had found some amazing weed. He took a long drag off the joint and handed it over.

Kumar puffed and said, "Fucking zombies." He hefted his shotgun. "Come and suck on this, you undead assholes!"

"Sshhh!" Harold hissed.

They stopped. The sound of a little girl crying drifted toward them. They inched forward until they saw a thin, pale body kneeling at the end of the alley, rocking back and forth.

"Witch!" Harold whispered. "Turn off your flashlight. We gotta sneak around her."

Kumar put a hand on his belt. "I have a better idea."

"What? Nooooo..."

Harold seemed to move in slow motion as Kumar raised the bottle, touched the gasoline-soaked rag in its neck to the burning joint in his mouth, and threw the Molotov. It smashed open against the witch's head, spilling flame everywhere. She screamed.

Kumar chuckled. A sparkle in the distance caught his eye. He squinted at a building across the street. A figure walked into the amber light of sunset. Kumar saw cowboy boots with spurs, a sequined shirt, and a giant sombrero. A dark mustache obscured much of the face, but it looked like—

"Neil Patrick Harris?" Kumar said.