Zombies Are Not the Worst Thing Here

The tavern was warm, a rare comfort in the frozen wasteland of this 40th century apocalyptic world.

A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering golden light across the wooden beams. The scent of spiced mead and roasting venison filled the air, mingling with the musty dampness of unwashed bodies and old ale stains soaked into the floor.

It could have been a peaceful evening.

Should have been a peaceful evening.

The low hum of drunken chatter rippled through the room, broken by the occasional burst of raucous laughter or the clatter of tankards slamming onto wooden tables.

Quaraun and BoomFuzzy sat together in the shadowed corner of the tavern, tucked into the same side of the booth, close enough that BoomFuzzy could lean against Quaraun’s shoulder. BoomFuzzy’s arm was draped around Quaraun’s waist, fingers idly stroking the silk of his shimmering pink robes.

“Ghouly’s late, yeah?” BoomFuzzy asked.

“Yes,” Quaraun replied. “Probably got hung up pilfering peasant pockets again.”

“Aye.”

Quaraun, as always, was pristine, his twelve foot long silver jellyfish tentacle hair draped across his shoulders in perfect coils, his mechanical hands folded delicately on the table. He had not yet touched his drink, an absinthe glass placed carefully before him, while BoomFuzzy sipped his own mead, golden liquid glistening in the dim light.

It could have been a peaceful evening. Waiting for GhoulSpawn to arrive so they could order super and make plans for tomorrow.

It could have been a peaceful evening.

Should have been.

Then BoomFuzzy kissed him.

It was not much, just a fleeting thing — a soft press of lips against Quaraun’s, a teasing touch of affection meant to calm the Elf’s ever-nervous heart. Quaraun sighed and leaned into the warmth of his husband’s embrace, resting his head against BoomFuzzy’s wool-clad shoulder.

The room went silent.

Quaraun felt the shift in the air before he saw it. The thick tension, the slow turn of heads. The weight of hostile stares pressing against his skin like unseen hands.

The Humans at the bar had stopped drinking.

Then came the murmurs. Low, sneering.

The room had gone silent.

The Humans at the bar turned, watching.

Then came the jeering.

“Disgusting.”

“Filthy Elf lover.”

“Look at him, dressed like some pink silk whore.”

“Ain’t natural.”

Quaraun stiffened.

A slow, cold rage twisted through his gut, curling like a sleeping snake roused from slumber. He had heard worse.

Much worse.

He clenched his jaw and focused on his drink.

Endured worse.

Tortured, mutilated, exiled.

A lifetime of suffering at the hands of Humans.

His eye twitched. He clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching against his silk robes, but he said nothing.

“We don’t want yer kind here!”

Several vile slurs were shouted across the room at them.

“In a land of men, no one hates men, more then men,” BoomFuzzy muttered to Quaraun.

A Human pounded his fists on the table.

“Did yer hear me? I said we don’t want yer kind in here!”

Quaraun’s eye twitched faster. His tentacle hair lashed out.

BoomFuzzy, however, only laughed, a deep, rumbling chuckle that made his broad chest shake against Quaraun’s side. He lifted his mug in a mocking toast.

“Aye, lads, I heard ya.”

“You didn’t move.”

“Why would I?”

“You take that fancy pants boy toy of yours out of here.”

“Ya hear that, Love? Ya a boy toy. Lucky me!”

Quaraun was gritting his teeth together so hard he could not hear BoomFuzzy’s words.

The Human addressed Quaraun, this time.

“I said get out of here you fucking male whore!”

“Hey!” BoomFuzzy scolded. “If ya got a problem, take it up wit’ me. Ya leave me Elf alone.”

“I saw you kiss him.”

“Ain’t no crime for a man to love his husband.”

The laughter at the bar died.

Gasps of shocked horror were uttered from every mouth.

One of the Humans — a burly, red-faced brute reeking of sweat and stale beer — pushed away from the counter and strode toward them.

“Not right,” he spat. “Not here. Not in a decent place.”

“Well…” BoomFuzzy took another drink from his mug. “Good thing this place ain’t decent then, eh?”

The man grabbed BoomFuzzy’s arm.

Quaraun felt his breath hitch. BoomFuzzy’s body tensed against him, but he did not move, not yet.

“Get yer hands off me, laddie,” BoomFuzzy warned, voice still calm, but there was danger in it now, like the low growl of a wolf before it strikes.

The man sneered.

“What? You like being touched by a man don’t you? Thought you did.”

The others laughed.

Quaraun did not.

The Human yanked at BoomFuzzy’s arm, trying to drag him from the booth. A mistake. BoomFuzzy did not get the chance to reply.

Quaraun moved before he even thought.

His hand shot to BoomFuzzy’s belt, fingers curling around the hilt of the Phooka’s dagger. The blade sang as it hissed free, flashing in the dim light. Without hesitation, without thought, in one swift, fluid motion, Quaraun plunged it into the man’s side.

The laughter stopped.

The man gasped, staggered back, his mouth opening and closing in silent shock. His hands flew to the wound, hands clutching at the wound, crimson spilling through his fingers.

A heartbeat of silence.

Then the room erupted.

“Kill the damned Elf!”

They rushed him.

Quaraun did not flinch. Did not cower. His silver tentacle hair lifted, writhing like living things. His lips parted, and ancient words spilled forth, lilting, rhythmic, terrible.

The air turned cold.

The candles flickered, their flames snuffed out in an instant.

Shadows stretched, lengthening into twisted shapes.

Then the dead rose.

The tavern keeper.

A barmaid.

Patrons who had perished here over the years, bodies left to rot in the permafrost. They clawed free from the walls, the floorboards, crawling out from places they should not be.

The freshly slain rose first — Quaraun’s attacker, his face twisted in terror, the gaping wound in his side spilling something black and rancid.

Screams filled the air.

They clawed free from the walls, from the dirt beneath the floorboards. The barmaid who had died last winter, her frostbitten fingers still blue.

The tavern keeper, long drowned in his own ale, his bloated corpse dragging itself from the cellar.

Freshly slain patrons, their blood still warm, their screams still caught in their throats.

The chaos was instant.

Screams.

Blood.

Flesh torn from bone.

Quaraun watched, his gaze empty, his expression cold. His mechanical fingers drummed idly against the wooden table, and beside him, BoomFuzzy chuckled, sipping his drink, utterly unbothered as the dead feasted on the living.

The tavern floor was slick with blood when the last voice faded.

But the spell was too much. Quaraun was too weak. He felt himself grow weaker. Dizzy. The room spinning around him. The last thing Quaraun saw before the scene faded to blackness was BoomFuzzy laughing, reveling in the carnage.

A short while later…

GhoulSpawn stepped into the tavern and stopped dead.

The tavern was in ruins. Bodies lay strewn across the floor, half-eaten, half-rotted. The scent of death was thick, cloying. Zombies shambled between the tables, feasting on what remained.

The stench of rot and death was thick, choking.

Blood painted the walls, bodies lay in heaps across the floor, half-eaten, their glassy eyes staring sightless at the ceiling. The undead milled about, gnawing on limbs, dragging corpses into corners.

And at the far end of the room, Quaraun and BoomFuzzy sat in their booth, untouched, unharmed, sipping their drinks, hugging, kissing, as if nothing had happened.

BoomFuzzy raised his mug.

“Ah, Ghouly, there ya are. Took ya long enough. Come join us!”

GhoulSpawn stared.

“What the hell happened?”

Quaraun lifted his absinthe glass, clinking it against BoomFuzzy’s mug. A small, satisfied smile curled at his lips.

“We had a very good day,” Quaraun murmured.

“Doing what?”

BoomFuzzy grinned.

“Collectin’ souls.”

Quaraun and BoomFuzzy

The Pink Necromancer, Moon Elf silk weaver & merchant: Quaraun on Noodle Beach. His master chef Phooka turned Lich husband: BoomFuzzy with his 1968 VW Bus Beach Noodle Food Truck. And their on again/off again mad scientist Sheep Demon lover: GhoulSpawn with his 1974 AMC Gremlin time machine. Time Travel setting swings back and forth between 40th century Maine after a comet hit the moon decimating the planet, and the 1970s, Maine. Quaraun in the main character, he and BoomFuzzy are a married gay couple. GhoulSpawn is their shared live-in lover. Art by Wendy Christine Allen.

BoomFuzzy

Quaraun

GhoulSpawn and BoomFuzzy

GhoulSpawn

GhoulSpawn and Quaraun

Faeries vs Elves (In The Quaraun Series) A Pink Necromancer World Lore Post

The Pink Necromancer: The Adventures of Quaraun The Insane aka The Twighlight Manor Series

🌸🦄🌸 Furry Yaoi Fiction about Elves and Faeries and Satyrs and Demons and Unicorns and Technomancer Wizards and Liches living in a Lighthouse and surviving as Travelling Merchants and Food Truck Chefs in Cyberpunk Dystopian 40th Century Maine, and Zombie Apocalypse and Time Travel but it’s Slice of Life Vignettes of Mundane Daily Lives of The UnSeelie Court’s Royal Family trying to survive after a comet hit the moon and turned the Earth into a CyberPunk Ice-Age. 🌸🦄🌸

• eBook Editions from this series can be found on: GumRoad

• Kindle, eBook, Print Paperback, & full colour illustrated Hardcover Editions from this series can be found on: Amazon

Meet The Characters

Wendy Christine Allen, 2019, able to sit up in a chair for the first time in years, and able to raise up my arm and wiggle fingers. This was when I started playing Witcher 3 on Twitch as part of my physical therapy to regain finger movement. Playing Witcher 3 daily from 2016 to 2019, is how I regained the use of my thumb and two for fingers on my right hand... it is also why I stopped playing Witcher 3 in 2019, once I had strengthen my two forefingers enough to start typing again. Wendy Christine Allen, Old Orchard Beach's Autistic Author, Artist, Illustrator, & Art Car Designer Counting Down to the September 23, 2028 50th Anniversary of my first published book (September 23, 1978) If you are here looking for The Twighlight Manor series, The Crystonite Wars series, The Wild Years series, The White Rock Asylum for the Criminally Insane series, The Twisted Tales series, the Captured By a MerMan series, The Space Dock 13 series, The Kats of Planet Ptarmagin series, the stories about Miss Citten the Eel-Kat, or the stories about Etiole... ALL of those series were combined and consolidated into The Adventures of Quaraun the Insane Pink Necromancer series in 2014, so ALL the different series, are now under one series title. List of the published titles still in print: The Index of over three thousand stories in The Pink Necromancer series What the series is about, for those new here: The introduction to The Pink Necromancer Series.

If you want some stories to get you started in The Pink Necromancer series, reading these first will give you a good introduction to the 3 main characters: BoomFuzzy's Chowder Dilemma If your ass ain’t freezing or your brains ain’t scrambled, you’re ain’t really trying A Very Important Clump of Grass The Washer Woman & The Fae Absinthe Slushies: An Ode to Frozen Green Fairy Wine Bone Dice Excited For The New Baby Zwodder: A Drowsy Stupid State of Mind Pink Sheep, Cheesy Burritos, and The Grim Reality of Zombies Open Grave The Phooka's Dragon School The Moon Goddess Laughs From The Rooftops The Jar of Pickled Toes The Book Burning Maggots, a You Can't Spell Hatred Without Red Hats A Day In The Life of a Bumbling Necromancer The Three-Seventeen Pee Expedition

My Elves Are JellyFish...and I asked Google AI and ChatGPT 5.6 what they thought of this.

As requested, my daily writing prompt series is now available print paperback editions on Amazon.

365 Cozy Writing Prompts For Fantasy Writers Vol.1: Daily Writing Prompts Series For Writers of Serial Pulp Fiction

365 Cozy Writing Prompts For Fantasy Writers Vol.2: Daily Writing Prompts Series For Writers of Serial Pulp Fiction

365 Cozy Writing Prompts For Fantasy Writers Vol.3: Daily Writing Prompts Series For Writers of Serial Pulp Fiction

365 Cozy Writing Prompts For Fantasy Writers Vol.4: Daily Writing Prompts Series For Writers of Serial Pulp Fiction

365 Cozy Writing Prompts For Fantasy Writers Vol.5: Daily Writing Prompts Series For Writers of Serial Pulp Fiction

There are 20 volumes of this writing prompt series currently planned and in varying stages of finishing, hopefully all 20 will be published by the end of 2026. I likely will do a 2nd series of writing prompt books in 2027.

Health update: August 4, 2026 - in recovery for 6 months+ (at least until mid-January 2027...all book and video game releases are pushed back at least 6 months) see video below for why...

@eelkat health update #maine #disabilityawareness #wheelchairlife #wheelchairvlogger #multiplesclerosis ♬ original sound - Wendy C Allen | 📚 Author

Update Sept 3, 2026:

I am able to get around enough to take Koko to dog park... today is 29 days since getting out of hospital. My diet is still mostly liquid, but im eating some solid food again, but its like rice or soft mushy baby food type stuff because I still can not chew yet, though I can swallow again. My jaw is still not functioning good so im having trouble talking still. So there's been slight improvement to my mouth, throat, and jaw, but, zero improvement to my eye, which is a major concern, be Im almost fully blind right now. im legally blind since birth in my left eye, so I have no ability to fall back on using my left eye. My right eye is the one injured and my vision in it is "40% decreased" according to my doctor, but it wasn't good vision to begin with, and right now my right eye is not much different from my legally blind left eye. Which I why I have to have someone drive my car for me instead of me driving my car myself right now, which is very frustrating, because, being a female, I had to fight for over twenty years to be allowed to drive. I started sneaking out at age 31 and dressing as a man to go to Old Orchard Beach high school to get a ged, because us females are not allowed to go to school. And i was 37 years old when snuck out to the DMV and got a driver's permit and started going to college. I was 42 and 8 months pregnant when my family found out I was going to college and thats when I was punished by the backhoe driving over my house and my spine broken with a golf club and my baby born right then and killed with same golf club. So it's very frustrating now, so soon after finally being able to drive , to now not be able to drive because of an eye injury, especially after 14 years of being paralyzed from the golf club and not being allowed to have a wheelchair, again, because i am female and we females are simply not allowed to do anything. I hate the culture I was born into. I wish I had the freedom to go to school and drive a car the way American women do. I wish having my spine broken with a golf club and my baby killed with a golf club and a backhoe driven over my house was not how men in my family punishment women in my family for learning to read and write. Its so frustrating not being able to to drive again, so soon after 14 years being paralyzed, and being paralyzed by the golf club was the punishment for getting a driver's license back in 2013 after 30 years of men not letting me have one. I hate my family's culture and how they treat us women.

I get so sick of Americans telling me how they wish they could be a Gypsy… they are either misogynist woman hating pigs, or delusional idiots who haven't got a clue how shittily we Gypsy women are treated by Gypsy men, because no one in their righ mind who knows anything about Gypsy culture would ever want to be part of it. I hate that I was born a Gypsy. 

update sept 7, 2026

"You would not make a good teacher"... what does that mean, and why are there so many people on Railroad Ave and Western Ave and Cutts St why walk up to me and say that to me?

I find it very confusing. I have low functioning Autism (the Rain Man type) and so i have very little understanding of words beyond the basic ones, and i never went to to school, so I never learned maths or sciences, and I only had remedial classes at Southern Maine Community College, because I did not have an education to enroll with regular, I was there taking every reading and writing class they had to learn how to read and write, and also took speaking classes to learn how to talk (i spoke Shetland Scottish language because that was language my grandmother spoke but she died when I was 8 so I only knew that language to speak and write, and I was 37 when I went to college and 42 when I learned English speaking and I still cant speak English good yet), all the other classes I took were art painting and cooking.

So the phrase "You would not make a good teacher" makes no sense to me because it seems to imply that I am trying to be a teacher, but I don't have anything close to the education ti be a teacher, and im not trying to be a teacher. So I don't know why people keep saying this phrase to me and I assume it must have some sort of a slang meaning, but I can't figure out what it could be of why do these people keep saying it to me.

see video below for more information: 

@eelkat "You would not make a good teacher"... what does that mean, and why are there so many people on Railroad Ave and Western Ave and Cutts St why walk up to me and say that to me? I find it very confusing. I have low functioning Autism (the Rain Man type) and so i have very little understanding of words beyond the basic ones, and i never went to to school, so I never learned maths or sciences, and I only had remedial classes at Southern Maine Community College, because I did not have an education to enroll with regular, I was there taking every reading and writing class they had to learn how to read and write, and also took speaking classes to learn how to talk (i spoke Shetland Scottish language because that was language my grandmother spoke but she died when I was 8 so I only knew that language to speak and write, and I was 37 when I went to college and 42 when I learned English speaking and I still cant speak English good yet), all the other classes I took were art painting and cooking. So the phrase "You would not make a good teacher" makes no sense to me because it seems to imply that I am trying to be a teacher, but I don't have anything close to the education ti be a teacher, and im not trying to be a teacher. So I don't know why people keep saying this phrase to me and I assume it must have some sort of a slang meaning, but I can't figure out what it could be of why do these people keep saying it to me. #mainelife #biddefordmaine #maine #disabilitytiktok #Biddeford ♬ original sound Wendy C Allen | 📚 Author

update Sept 15, 2026:

I have some slight movement in some my fingers again again after over a decade being paralyzed

you remember how I used to be a professional doll making, pattern designer, and embroiderer, back before I became paralized and before my son was murdered and being the backhoe drove over my house?

all my equipment, sewing machines, ect were all destroyed by the backhoe driving over my house, and I have been quardepelegic for over a decade because of it so could not use my hands to sew or draw or embroider, and so only continued to do my writing of novels since then because I could do that with dragon dictation software,

well, since 2016, I been playing Witcher 3 and don't starve video games on twitch livestream, one hand two fingers, as part of my therapy to regain nerve and muscle use of my fingers, and now after 10 years of that, I have somewhat more movement in my fingers and im thinking maybe I can try to do embroidery and doll making again, but not sure, anyways, now im rebuying all of my sewing and embroidery equipment that the backhoe destroyed when it drove over my house, and hopefully I can use my hand enough to embroider again.

waiting for stuff to arrive in mail, so soon I should find out if ten years of twitch gaming has given me enough muscle strength to use my fingers to embroider again.

update to the previous video, answering viewer question about lack of hospital vs broken spine

Wheelchair Fundraiser... I need to upgrade to a power wheelchair, the manual one just isn't enough anymore. But the power wheelchair is $25k. Yes, twenty five thousand dollars. Wtf? I can get a car for a quarter that price, why are wheelchairs so damned expensive? That's more money then I make in five years, so I need to start a fundraiser for it.

Books By Wendy Christine Allen
Currently Available on Amazon Kindle:

Index of the Quaraun novels, novellas, & short story collections on Amazon

And GumRoad:

Index of the Quaraun short stories on GumRoad

On Medium:

An Index of the more than TWO THOUSAND Quaraun Short Stories on Medium

(NOTE: a $5 or $15 per month paid subscription required to access stories on Medium)

On Vocal:

Index of the Quaraun short stories on Vocal

On Notd:

Index of the Quaraun Short Stories on Notd

On OnlyFans:

Index of the Quaraun Short Stories on OnlyFans

(NOTE: a $4.99 per month paid subscription required to access stories on OnlyFans)

Pink Necromancer Merch: On CafePress:

An Index of the Quaraun Merch on CafePress

Pink Necromancer Merch: On Zazzle:

Index of the Quaraun Merch on Zazzle

Not Quaraun:

This page was written by Wendy Christine Allen of 146 Portland Ave, Old Orchard Beach, Maine.

All Rights Reserved.