crackle… static… soft vinyl hum…
“You’re listening to Deadwave Radio… where the static’s got soul and the night never skips a beat.You just heard the angelic song “Thoughts in My Mind” by Donnie and Joe Emerson. A track that drips with longing. Speaking of which… I got a thought rattling around my skull tonight. One I haven’t spun in a while. Not about death, no no… this one’s about rebirth. Or, as I like to call it, the best remix I've ever lived through.But first, let’s play a game: What’s the best feeling in the world?Back in my human days, I might’ve said: the breeze of dawn after a night of poor decisions…But now? Nothing, and I mean nothing, compares to the first time I got bit.I know. Sentimental stuff for a crusty old DJ. But give me one track’s worth of your time, and I’ll spin you the record of how I got here.
Back in the before times when I still had a pulse, I wasn’t spinning vinyl. I was filing listener complaints at the FCC.
For years, I sat in a windowless office listening to every flavor of buzzkill whine about the “moral decay of modern music.” From late-60s prunes outraged by electric guitars, to pearl-clutching PTA moms convinced rock made their kids pierce their ears and hiss at the mailman.
And I took it. All of it. For decades. Until one day, something in me just… snapped. Let’s just say a mass email went out with the subject line: “The Kinks didn’t ruin your marriage, Barbara.”
After that, I wasn’t just fired, I was liberated. So I did what any broken, banished believer in the power of noise would do: I bought a leaky boat from a guy on the street, packed it with vinyl, and set sail to become the last true pirate radio DJ. No compass. No plan. Just music, mayhem, and a cooler full of beer.
A few weeks in, sun-poached and hallucinating (spoiler: beer has no vitamin C), came the meanest looking storm you ever saw. Then came the crash. The rocks. The blackout.
Managed to paddle what was left of my sorry vessel to a nearby island. Turns out… it was Porto Morto.
I was half-dead on the sand; sunburned, cracked-lipped, chunk of my left leg missing, whispering lyrics to the sky.
“This is the end… my only friend… the end.”
Then a giant cruise liner rolled onto the same beach a few days later, thankfully for me, the zombiric infection had also boarded. Sunhat-wearing zombies spilled across the beach like champagne foam at a cursed wedding.
Didn’t take long before I got infected too. When I woke up there was no pain. No breath. Just clarity.
And wouldn’t you know it, the only thing this afterlife was missing? A damn good DJ.
So I fixed that.
I dragged what was left of my boat to shore. Bolted some antennas to palm trees. Hooked my mic up to an old car battery and began broadcasting. Turns out the rest of the zombie community had no complaints.
Moonlit beach parties. Scratchy vinyls echoing off the cliffs. The undead swaying in rhythm like they’d never danced in their lives, because they hadn’t. And for the first time in my life—living or otherwise—I felt heard.
But then came the Cure…
It happened one day during a full-on rager at the beach. Music bumping, potion punch flowing.
Then—plop!
Something cold and sharp hits my arm. There was a noise, thump-thump. It thudded like a bad remix, offbeat, too loud, unwelcome. Took me a second to place the sound. Then it clicked: it was my heartbeat!
And with every thud, I was transported back into my old life. The desk at the FCC. The paper piles. That cursed motivational cat poster. It was horrifying.
That’s when Rotzy appeared, cool as a cucumber. No words. No warning. Just sinks her teeth into my arm like she was dropping the needle on Side B.
And before you know it, that horrible cubicle nightmare vanished as fast as my pulse.
I was back on my feet. Back in the beat.
Rotzy, baby… if you’re listening, call me. I still owe you a bite back.
You know, if you stick around this afterlife long enough, you start to notice something.
Death… simplifies things.
No more forms to fill. No quotas to hit. No censoring the all-encompassing miracle that is rock and roll.
So wherever you are, rotting pretty on Porto Morto or just floating through your own weird little static, I hope you find your frequency.
The one where you stop tuning in to them… and start blasting you.
Now if that ain’t a slow jam outro, I don’t know what is.
But enough philosophy—time to let the Stones say the rest.
This is DJ Ziggy broadcasting from the edge of the end … and next up, it’s Jumpin’ Jack Flash by The Rolling Stones.
cut to vinyl scratch → echoing laugh → signal fades out
You’re still here? Still tuned in?
Then I have some news for you, sugar skull: your infection has already started.
Might as well wishlist it:
And when you do… tell ’em DJ Ziggy sent you.