Leave Kyle Palombi Alone!
By David Edward Nell


At nine in the morning, the most beautiful man in Beverly Hills went outside, and was startled. A large crowd was pressed up against his driveway gate, chanting and calling his name, reaching for him through the bars, flashing cameras, proposing, singing, doing all sorts of desperate, shameless things. They were persistent, like rabid dogs, with mad expressions on their faces. He hadn't felt such fear before.
Snatching his newspaper off the mat with a shudder, he dashed inside and dialed the police. A few minutes later, sirens whooped. But then the arriving officers didn't seem interested in moving the crowd. Instead, realising they were at the mansion of the now-incredibly-famous Kyle Palombi, they joined in the idolatry. They stood with the civilians at the gate and snapped pictures of their own.
Kyle dropped his newspaper. It was the shock. The headline stated, in bold:
“World's First Zombie: Teen Idol Kyle Palombi Rises From The Dead...And Lives!”.
Feeling like he was about to faint, he phoned his agent. He didn't get an answer. He paced back and forth. He kept looking out the window, unsure of what to do. At half-past-nine, the crowd was so big, the road was blocked. The crowd was growing madder, rattling his gate, removing the barbed-wire lining his walls.
He tried his agent again. This time, he connected.
“Kyle, please don't be mad at me,” said his agent immediately. Judging by the sounds in the background, he was in a public place.
“Tony, you mother f–”
“Kyle, Kyle, Kyle, buddy, please. I know what you're feeling right now, but be cool. I know about the nutters outside your house. But, my man, I'm handling it.”
Kyle breathed in calmly. “What? How do you know about the–”
“The news,” replied his agent. “And I'm with them. I'm in front of your house. Can you see me?”
Kyle slammed the phone against his other hand. “What the hell? Bastard. Cunt. Shitstai–”
“Kyle, listen,” Tony shouted. “Right now, I'm trying to end the situation.”
“What about last night?”
“Wasn't me who gossiped, man. You have to believe.”
“Who got my address, then?”
“I don't know, paparazzi? I'd never give away your address, man.”
“Could only have been you. You snooped on me. How much did you get paid?”
“Dude, come on. I've been with you for ten years. Who's been more loyal in your down years? Just listen already. The paparazzi had the hospital covered, bro. They knew you were in a car accident last night. They bugged your room, they stole documents, they found out everything. Swear, that's the truth.”
“I wish I could punch your face.”
“And I'd let you. But damn it, Kyle, how many times have I got to tell you, it wasn't me?”
“So you're saying the paparazzi heard when the doc said I was going to turn into a zombie? They heard all that?”
“I guess so. Yes. Uh-huh.”
“What am I going to do now? I'm too scared to leave my house.”
“It'll blow off.”
“Will it?”
“But look at the bright side. At least you're more famous than you ever were.”
Kyle went red in the face. “What are you trying to say?”
“I'm saying the whole world is at your doorstep, not just teenage chicks now. Which is a good thing.”
“Screw you.”
“Any press is good press, right? Kyle, I'm just kidding. I'll get you out of this, I promise.”
Kyle peeked through the curtain. He panicked. “Oh, heck, no.”
“What is it? Talk to me.”
“Some moron just jumped the wall.”
“Don't do anything rash–”
Kyle disengaged. He stomped outside, clenched his fists, blocked off the young trespasser's path and puffed out his chest. In response, the young man gasped and waved around a pen and notepad. But Kyle wasn't interested in signing his autograph. Rather, Kyle wanted to hurt him. So, he grabbed the young man by the shirt and shook him around and shoved him to the ground and threw a sandal he was wearing. The young man didn't seem irked by the bout of physicality, however. As he raised the sandal in the air like it was a trophy, he declared to the sky that he could finally go to his grave a happy man.

Then the young man boasted, “I'm going to be famous.” He waved to cameras. “Hi, Mama.”
The crowd applauded and requested manhandling.
Kyle stood over the young man, and said, “Who do you think you are, stepping onto private property? This is my”–Kyle's tongue came loose. Before it could slip out his mouth, he twisted it back inside–“my house?”
Swooned the young man, “But I'm your biggest fan–”
Kyle smashed his phone over the young man's head, and didn't stop smashing, not until the young man's skull was caved in, until the young man was quiet. Quiet and dead. When he was done, he glared and growled at the crowd at the gate, who had gone silent. He told them, “Boo.”
They reacted with confused stares.
“See what I did there?” Kyle said, taunting them with a swing of his arms. He wasn't sure if his knees were weakening due to the trauma of killing someone or the rot. “Now get away from me and my house, or the same will happen to you. I'm not afraid to bust in people's heads, as you can see.”
They said nothing. Their mouths were wide open.
“Hear me? Do you people understand English or what?”
Their mouths slowly turned into smiles. A clap of hands started. Everyone resumed cheering and howling and whooing. Right then, the gate toppled inward from the crowd's collective weight.
Heart in his throat, Kyle ran.
He locked the front door, eloped upstairs, hid in his bedroom, curled up in a corner, wet himself and prayed. He heard the destruction of the front door and windows, the sound of their footsteps on the stairs. Soon, they came banging at the bedroom door. Then there was no door. Then they were in.
Kyle yelled, “Stop this. You're savages.”
The room went quiet.
“Don't you know I'm just a human being? I need my privacy, too.”
Someone said, “You're Kyle Palombi, Teen Idol, World's First Zombie. You're not human.”
Others agreed.
“Well, yes. But am I not like you? Am I not able to walk and talk? Do I not feel feelings? Do you see these clothes, these eyes and ears, this heart?”
“Buh?” said someone in the back. They lurched in his direction, stretching out their long, bony fingers. They trapped him up against the wall then had him where they wanted him.

Completely surrounded, Kyle bit his nails nervously. “Guys? It's me, Kyle Palombi. I gave the world Heartbreak. Remember? That number one hit?”

They swarmed in like wolves.
Someone shook his hand, someone rubbed his arms, someone pinched his cheeks, someone poked snot in his nostrils, someone wet his ears, someone punched his stomach, someone made him clap his hands together, someone rhythmically patted his hips, someone tore his hair, someone did a frog's leap over him, someone suplexed him, someone soothed him, someone insisted he smoke marijauna, someone cupped his groin.
“I just touched a zombie. OMG.”
“I love you, Kyle. You're my hero.”
“I hate you and hope you die a miserable death.”
“Hey, sexy.”
“He's real. Really real.”
“Your grandfather thinks you're a disgrace, boy.”
“When are you doing a follow-up to the First Kiss album?”
Kyle didn't know what was happening anymore. He let go and decided to answer their questions.
After a while, he noticed his arms were missing, and so was his right leg; and just as he realised that, his remaining leg was stolen as well; and he fell on stumps before those were taken, too; and almost every other part of his body, snatched by those greedy hands. Finally, the crowd, bored, began leaving. Afterwards, all that remained of him was his head.

He felt no pain, only a deep sadness.

But then he felt nothing at all, as someone else came into the room to dig for his brain. His agent wrapped it in foil and departed for the nearest museum.


- - -
David Edward Nell writes from Cape Town, South Africa. He can be touched at: http://davidedwardnell.blogspot.com