It's Always Bloody In Dead Island: Becoming a Movie Character, and then Breaking Out of the Role

There have been many films that portray a foolish decision made by an idiot. It happens often during the course of horror flicks, repeatedly leading to the demise of Dingleberry McNoname. Most of these nincompoops conjure me to speak, out loud, as if they can hear me.

“Don’t go in there,” I say. “Don’t forget your gun!” I courteously remind them. “I warned you,” I eulogize. It’s a sad, bewildering way to end the fictional life of a fictional character on a good-not-great movie.

Yet there I was, living a nightmare, driving recklessly down a narrow road on Banoi Island. I skidded around a corner, as nervous as a teenage girl with braces and holy-cow-those-are-magnifying-glasses glasses, who’s waiting for the phone call from the hottest guy in school (who is really her blood brother that was given-up for adoption by her promiscuous mother, but neither one will find out until they are to be married years down the line), hoping that I could make it safely back to the lifeguard tower. Blood clouded my vision; most of my weapons were broken because I was gang-attacked by a group of overly-cruel zombies; and the truck I was careening around in was in a bad way.

Things looked grim.

As I zoomed down a hill, I tried moving to the left side of the road to avoid the broken-down bus blocking the right side. Instead, I clipped the backend of the bus, spun sideways, and managed to stick myself between a wall and a pile of wrecked cars. Panic quickly set in. I tried a five point turn to no avail. Worse, zombies began swarming my truck, punching out windows like Chris Brown punches Rihanna (too late?).

Then the world began rocking back and forth right in front of me.

It was only the briefest of moments I thought there was a glitch occurring. I quickly realized that it was the zombies pushing against my car, toppling it over. I felt completely trapped; trapped and foolish. Why wasn’t I driving more carefully? I should’ve listened to the guy watching me, calmly stating “Drive slower, nincompoop.”

Except I was the guy saying that, to myself, and I didn’t listen. I was Dingleberry McNoname.
But I had a secret weapon: a nail-laden bat with each and every zombie’s name on it. I cleared my thoughts; I opened the door and stepped out.

Moments later I recognized that I was bashing in the head of a zombie that had no head – no legs or arms, either. Guess I got carried away.

Oh well, just another bloody day in Dead Island.