Venus Justus was an ugly duckling throughout grade school, but she didn’t turn into a swan. No, she grew up to become something much more valuable: a duck that didn’t give a shit. Ironically, Venus’ parents named her after the goddess of beauty, but with her beak nose, weak chin, and mousy hair, Venus was anything but beautiful. Happily, this did not bother her, because she knew what really mattered in life: knowing how to kill zombies. Before the zombies invaded, the pretty ones were obsessed with trivial things, like makeup, accessories, and how to look exactly like the women in magazines. They plucked, waxed, cut, dyed, sweated, and squeezed until they became the objects that the magazines told them to be. Venus knew better than to fall into this trap.
She spent her days preparing for the imminent zombie apocalypse. While the pretty ones were primping at salons or teetering through shopping malls on their high heels, Venus could be found at the shooting range, practicing with her beloved Glock 19. She spent her days studying Krav Maga, knowing she needed a way to defend herself if her gun was taken. Venus had no need for Louis Vuitton handbags or Prada clutches; her bug-out bag was the only sack she carried.
When the zombies finally invaded, Venus loved watching the pretty ones die. The stiletto-wearers were the first to perish. Even the slow, shambling zombies could catch the ones in five-inch heels. All those years spent cleansing and moisturizing their perfect skin were all for naught when the zombies ripped the flesh from their pristine faces. The pretty ones realized that the hours spent doing yoga to achieve perfectly toned bodies were a complete waste, as the zombies greedily tore out their guts and ate until there was nothing left of their once-perfect bodies.
Venus did feel a little sorry for the pretty ones. It must have been devastating for them when they realized their lives were wasted on trivial matters, like shaping their bodies into perfect objects so that people would like them. What a shame. Venus knew all along that the undead wouldn’t discriminate. That was the beauty of zombies. They would eat anybody. Any body. The zombies wouldn’t care if your hair was perfect, or if your thighs were cellulite-free. No, they’d happily consume any flesh they could get their hands on: young, old, dark, light, beautiful, unattractive; it didn’t matter.
Venus had been waiting for the zombies to invade for as long as she could remember. How satisfying it felt to know her life’s work was not in vain. She grabbed her bug-out bag and her precious Glock, and she stepped out into the zombie-infested streets with a huge grin on her face. She was finally a swan.