"When the world is burning, sing!"
- Charm: Radio star
- Adaptability: Unkillable
- Planning: Needs development
- Survival Preparations: Needs development
- Wealth: Spend spend spend
- Weapons Skill: Spectacular
- Intelligence: Cunning
- Warm Fuzzies: Toasty warm
- Leadership: Average
Your Bunker Lifestyle
ESFP Daredevils constitute about 10% of the population, yet they produce 60% of the world's fun supply. After the apocalypse there will be a severe fun shortage—some might even say a fun famine. But you will be rolling in more fun that you can handle. Being the generous soul that you are, you will give the extra fun away to the needy, namely everyone around you. They will appreciate this when they are holed up in their bunker during the long nuclear winter. You, however, will come very near to dying of boredom.
One reason the apocalypse will be boring is that for the most part there will be no television. Why this is, no one can say, but everyone will start using radios again. Only a few lucky souls will have TVs, and they will watch boring reruns. There will be many conversations like this:
Bob: “My bunker has a radio.”
Fred: (smugly) “My bunker has a color TV.”
Annie: “My bunker has two ESFPs.”
Bob and Fred will stare in at Annie in pure envy.
Of course, Annie never tells the part where she had to prevent you from slamming yourself against the locked bunker door in your numerous crazed attempts to escape. Naturally your “episodes” were just humorous impressions of insanity...or so you will tell yourself afterward. At any rate, it doesn't matter now, because the nuclear winter is over and you will never suffer from boredom again.
When spring comes (or what passes for it) you will walk out and find yourself in the middle of a vast, bleak wasteland populated by carnivorous mutants and flesh-eating zombies. Cool! You can hardly wait to get out there.
Having Fun on the Surface
Over the next few weeks, you will either be eaten alive or become a hardened survivor. But you won't forget your fun-giving duties to those around you. No, indeed, you will be brimming over with so much fun that you are in danger of suffering a “fun attack,” a psychological state unique to ESFPs in which your skin turns inside out to release the highly pressurized fun built up inside. It is irreversible, so don't let this happen to you.
Because they have so much extra fun inside, ESFPs are naturally good at raising group morale. For example, a group of survivors may be wandering through the urban wasteland, trying to get to the countryside where there is supposedly food.
"This is the last of the food," one survivor says grimly as he gnaws on a piece of genuine leather.
"This is the last of the water," says another survivor as he licks the rim of his water bottle.
"And this is the last of the ammunition," says another as he blasts away a mutant skullbear.
"I feel a song a song coming on!" sings the ESFP.
Before long the group will be dancing and singing in time. This will release the built up tension and allow the creative juices to flow, permitting solutions to be found. Thus the group will survive.
Once ESFPs have gotten their share of monster killing in, they will cobble together radio broadcasting equipment and begin expressing themselves over the airwaves. They will broadcast music, emergency advisories, and hilarious impressions of government officials reassuring everyone that it will be okay. Your listeners will call in to tell you how you saved their lives and how grateful they are that you are on the air. You will start getting fan mail.
Eventually you will begin to add paid commercials for weapons and potassium iodide pills. The money will allow you to obtain a better transmitter and a bigger antenna, and you will start attracting the attention of the Federal Communications Commission. (Though not in a good way. Fortunately the end of the world will make it a lot easier to ignore pesky government regulators.) As this point you will add an ENFP Fury cohost (Alias "Mutant Dude") and a cute ISTJ Sentinel (alias "Gun Chick") to handle the monster killing while you and the ENFP are on the air.
A typical session will involve you and the ENFP doing improv. He plays the FEMA disaster representative, and you play the honest citizen trying to get answers.
ENFP: "Things are getting better folks. Slowly the situation is getting back under control."
You: "So you're going to kill all the zombies?"
ENFP: "No, but don't worry. We've got water purification tablets."
You: "There's nothing worse than giardia. So how soon will the pills get here?"
ENFP: "I should say very soon. I would be very optimistic about it."
You: "So, like, in a few months then?"
ENFP: "Well, you've got to think long term here. Things won't be fixed overnight."
You: "Oh, okay. I'll remain hopeful and optimistic. So how are things going for you in Hawaii?"
Once you've gone through the act, you play some zombie moaning, gunfire, and a scream and say, "Uh oh, looks like Gun Chick needs some help. We'll be right back folks. In the meantime, enjoy these classic hits that were popular before the end of the world." You throw on the music.
Next up, it's time for the listener call-ins.
"Hi, welcome to Station Zero, the Last Holdout of Civilization and Good Taste," you say. "You're on the air."
"Uh, oh hi," the caller says. "I'm Ben, and my wife and I have been wondering if you could recommend a zombie repellent."
"No such thing," you say. "All those rumors about smearing yourself with hot sauce and Raid were started by the zombies to get you to baste yourself. I mean, you might as well use gravy. Or barbecue sauce. If you want a good repellent, try a good semi-automatic. We recommend the—"
"How do you know?" the listener interrupts. "Can't chemicals destroy a brain just as easily as a gunshot? What about cobra venom? Wouldn't that paralyze them or something?"
You mute him and reply, "If you want to smear yourself with cobra venom, be my guest. We don't recommend that though, right Mutant Dude?"
"Well I don't know," the ENFP says. "I bet if you wrapped yourself with cobras—"
"But what if you're scared of snakes?" you say.
"It's better than zombies, man."
Your next segment consists of local advisory warnings, a sort of free service you provide to your nearest neighbors.
Caller 1 has an advisory about ducks with fangs climbing out of Tom Pond. Caller 2 warns that a wave of windborne radioactive dust is approaching Appleton from the west. Caller 3 notes that there is a zombie outbreak near the big antenna on Atomic Ridge.
"Uhh..." you say, "How many zombies?"
Suddenly you become aware that the gunfire outside has become particularly intense. You and the ENFP exchange an ominous look.
Your walky-talky crackles. "Guys, I could use some backup here," the ISTJ Sentinel says.
"Be right back folks! Here's some music!" You snatch up your guns and race for the tower.
Fortunately you were smart enough to build your radio station in a defensible location with clear lines of fire in every direction. The ISTJ is up in the lookout tower, her raven hair streaming in the wind as she pops off zombies through the scope of her SKS. Not for the first time, you admire her—then you notice the zombies.
The radio station is surrounded by hordes of undead.
“Oh, crap,” you mutter.
But there’s no sense whining about it. You load up and start shooting, but what a chore this is going to be. You hate zombies. You hate their moaning, you hate their hungry eyes, you hate their smell. The bloated-corpse odor of the undead is always disgusting, but with so many of them gathered in one place it’s downright nauseating.
"Man, these guys could use some deodorant," the ENFP says, reading your thoughts.
"And a bath. Where'd they all come from?" the ISTJ says.
"Probably these are all people who tried smearing themselves with Raid as a protective measure," you say. (You find that it's best not to dwell on the fact that the undead used to be people with hopes and dreams. Your mind is efficiently compartmentalized to prevent you from being driven mad by the horrors of the apocalypse.)
As the days go by, the question of where the zombies are coming from will become less and less academic. New zombies show up to replace the ones groaning and clawing at the bottom of your tower, and they just keep coming. The waves arrive on an almost hourly basis, and your shoulder aches from the recoil of the rifle. At night you turn on the spotlights and go right on killing them. The (really dead) undead are scattered around the base of the tower in literal heaps. By day three you can barely hold the rifle up.
"Aw, no!" the ISTJ cries as she opens a new ammo box.
You stare at her with eyes red from lack of sleep. "What now?"
"These are the wrong caliber! Those morons must have mixed our order up with somebody else's."
"You're kidding me!"
"I'm the straight man."
"Great," you mutter. "Just great. I'm gonna kill 'em. I'm gonna kill 'em!"
Of course, there is nothing to do but retreat down Atomic Ridge road and try to make it to the sanctuary of the nearby town of Appleton, preferably before the next radiation wave hits. Hopefully when the radio tower is empty the zombies will decide to go bother someone else.
"Bug-out bags!" you announce.
Grousing at the inconvenience, your colleagues head down to the station. While the ISTJ fires out of the slots in the boarded-up windows, you and the ENFP shoulder your packs. You open the garage door, blow away five zombies that were waiting, and get into the car.
"C'mon, Gun Chick," you yell. The ISTJ throws herself into the back seat among the gas tanks and spare parts.
You rev the ignition and head out, sending zombies flying over the hood. The ENFP turns on the radio. You are treated to your station's big hit, "Post-apocalyptic Blues." Though depressing, the song is somehow uplifting too. A fitting soundtrack for your retreat.
"So when's the dustfall coming?" asks the ISTJ. “Isn’t Appleton right where that caller said the radioactive dust was blowing?”
You shrug as you weave the car around potholes and zombies. "Guess we’ll have to get out fast."
As you descend the barren heights of Atomic Ridge, you enter the forest and then cross into the open farmland surrounding Appleton. Nice place, Appleton. Lots of food around. Not a lot of cannibalism.
Within the town, everyone is holed up behind boarded windows, hiding from the zombies that are roaming the streets. You had hoped to find help here, but it looks like the townsfolk have problems of their own.
"Ew, let's not stop," the ISTJ says as you drive past a horde of zombies surrounding a shopping mall.
"I think they want help," the ENFP says, pointing to the survivors on the roof yelling at you to slow down so that they can jump in your car.
Obviously letting all those people into your car would be a recipe for disaster, but you've got enough ammo to at least clear the zombies so that they can make a break for their own cars. Still…that’s ammo you might need later.
"I suppose we'd better help them," you say with a sigh. You’re a nice guy at heart. Maybe a little too nice. "I'll drive past slow, and you guys blow away the z-men."
Your compatriots do as bidden. Leaning out the window like mobsters from a ‘20s flick, Gun Chick and Mutant Dude mow the zombies down in a crackle of gunfire. Soon the street has been swept clear.
You glance up at the survivors on the roof. Curiously, they have not moved. They are still screaming and waving at you, though. A few of them are pointing at something only they can see. Are they trying to indicate the incoming wave of radioactive dust?
Actually, they are trying to indicate a tidal wave of zombies lurching around the corner towards your front bumper.
"Bleep bleep bleep!" you shout. You jam the clutch into reverse and roar backwards, tires smoking. Your rear bumper smashes into a mass of undead bodies that have magically appeared behind you. You don't have enough momentum to plow through them; there are just too many packed together.
One of the survivors on the rooftop throws a knotted rope down to you and waves his arm frantically.
"What now, boss?" the ISTJ asks.
"Now we get ourselves trapped in a shopping mall besieged by zombies," you say, not unaware of the irony. "Bug-out bags!"
You and your coworkers snatch the BOBs, leap out of the car, and swarm up the rope like squirrels. You are last, and you almost don’t make it. A zombie grabs your ankle before you can get out of reach. You draw a pistol and blow the creature's brains out. Your colleagues help you up onto the roof.
Moaning and shrieking, the survivors seize you with their clawing hands and attempt to rip you apart.
"Oh my gosh, I can't believe I'm actually meeting you!" squeals a girl as she tries to rip off your shirt. "I loooove your station soooo much!"
"Are you Gun Chick?" a teenage boy cries, invading the ISTJ’s personal space. "I'm your biggest fan!"
"Mutant Dude! Can I have your autograph?"
Well, at least your fellow survivors aren't trying to steal your food, water, or vital organs—yet.
You are taken down to see the head honcho, who is some kind of army dude in full camo who chews a piece of tobacco in one cheek while smoking a cigarette on the opposite side of his mouth. His men call him Sarge.
"Now you've done it, you fool," Sarge blurts when he sets eyes on you. "We had almost tricked them into going away. Now they know we're here again."
Dumbfounded at this…original…approach, you offer, "So, you weren't planning to escape then?"
"What's the use?” Sarge says. “The city's surrounded. Our only hope is to wait for helicopter pickup."
You laugh. "It's not surrounded. The roads are clear just a mile out. Seriously, we'd better get out of here before the radiation wave comes."
"What? A radiation wave?" Sarge demands. "Nonsense! That's just a trumped up paranoid rumor. We'll stay here until the helicopters show."
You and your colleagues exchange a thoughtful glance. The ISTJ fingers her gun. She's so cute when she's trigger happy.
"Suit yourself," you say, shrugging. "We aren't going to stick around, though. When the zombies thin out, we'll be driving out of here."
"You're a dead fool," Sarge spits.
And in a couple of days you'll be glowing in the dark. Aloud you say, "Well, we're gonna try."
You head back to the roof to survey the situation. Your car is still surrounded by hordes of zombies.
"So is there really a radiation wave coming?" asks a survivor worriedly.
"Yeah, and it's probably what made all these zombies," you say, gesturing out at the deserted cityscape. "The government probably decided some city or other was too infested to save, so they nuked it to kill all the moaners. So now the zombies that didn't get killed have all wandered down here. Great. Radioactive zombies."
"Can we go with you when you leave?" a man asks.
"Don't see why not, so long as you've got your own car," you reply. Glancing at your colleagues, you ask, "How much ammo have you guys got left?"
Taken all together, your little squad has exactly 27 bullets. There are approximately 500 zombies milling below.
"Let's find a stairwell somewhere and get some sleep," you mutter.
The ENFP takes first watch. No sooner have you gone to sleep then you are awoken by his hand shaking your shoulder. It is night out and you can hear the snores of the other survivors over the incessant, eerie moaning of the zombies outside.
The ENFP leans close and whispers, "Hey, I'm getting some really bad vibes from Sarge. We're messing up his whole plan here. I was listening to some talk up on the roof, and I'm getting the feeling that he's got some ideas for us that we aren't going to like. In fact, I'm pretty he sure he's gonna kill us tomorrow."
A cold chill runs down your spine. Your private opinion of Sarge and the situation had tallied with the ENFP's evaluation right up until that last, fatal sentence. Unfortunately, your intuitive colleague's "feelings" are rarely wrong.
You review your options.
- Get eaten by zombies.
- Die of radiation poisoning.
- Get shot by Sarge.
So much for getting any sleep tonight. You get up and fish a flashlight out of your bag. Going up the stairs, you emerge on the roof. You beam the flashlight downward. Yep, the five hundred zombies are still there.
"What's going on?" barks a harsh voice from behind, and your fingers slip from the flashlight, which tumbles downward and hits an unsuspected zombie on the noggin. You turn to see Sarge glaring at you, the little orange point of his cigarette glowing in the dark.
You shrug nonchalantly and pull a bartering cigar out of your pocket, offering it to him. "Just checkin' out the zombies."
A little smirk appears in the corner of his mouth. He takes the cigar. "You like watching zombies, huh?"
"Some people watch birds. I watch zombies."
"Fascinating creatures," says Sarge, a philosophical look coming into his face. He looks at you from top to bottom, as if measuring you for a coffin. "How must it feel to be driven by nothing but simple hunger?"
"I bet it feels a lot like being a mosquito."
"Ha ha," Sarge says. "Well, you just keep watching those zombies." With an ugly little chuckle, he saunters off.
You glare at his back, then turn to look at your fallen flashlight. The zombies are gathered around the light, staring at it vacantly. You try to find the one you hit on the head—if only your flashlight was bigger maybe you could KO'd the moaner. At that moment a thought occurs to you.
Bullets are expensive. Bricks, on the other hand, are cheap.
You turn to the ENFP. "Go get Gun Chick and tell her to find every hard, heavy object she can find—bricks, bowling balls, whatever. You go find all the ropes and extension cords you can lay your hands on."
You grin. "We're gonna put on a little show."
As the glow of dawn begins to lighten up the sky, you and your team gather the materials onto the roof. There is already a crowd watching; a hubbub of voices echoes through the morning air. You have two piles. One contains all kinds of heavy objects, and the other contains every scrap of rope, cord, and line that you could lay your hands on.
Questions murmur through the air, but you have carefully instructed your team not to say anything about your plan. Within an hour, all the survivors have gathered. Even Sarge is there with his armed cohort, staring at you with a combination of hatred and curiosity. H
With natural showmanship, you climb up onto a desk, a flame-colored bowling ball in one hand and a string of Christmas lights in the other. On cue, the ISTJ and ENFP begin cranking a hand generator. The Christmas lights blaze into life.
You turn to the crowd and whirl the end of the light string around your head. Smiling, you shout, "Who's ready for some fun?"
The ISTJ and ENFP shout, "Yeah!"
A ragged chorus joins in.
"Who's ready to kill all the zombies?"
This time the chorus is universal, "YEAH!"
"Are you sure?" you yell.
You truss the bowling ball up in a harness of Christmas tree lights made for the purpose. "Ladies and gentlemen—please stand at the edge of the roof—no shoving, no shoving, there's room for everyone."
The survivors line up, peering over the shoulders of their fellows. Ceremoniously you hold the bowling ball over your head. The ISTJ gives you a drum roll.
You look down at the milling zombies, and pick a large one out from the others. Focusing intently on it, you hold the bowling ball high over your head, draw it back, and—toss!
The ball arcs down and fells the creature to the ground, cracking open its maggot-filled skull. It does not get up.
As you reel the ball back up, you do a little victory dance. Then you face the crowd and shout, "Who's ready to bowl for zombies?"
A roar of applause rises from the audience. Then, as one, they stampede for the pile of rope and weights.
It’s a massacre. Bricks, batteries and cement blocks are wrapped up in extension cords and tossed from the roof, killing zombie after zombie. Three men push a washing machine over the side. You throw your bowling ball again and again, braining a moaner with each toss.
Gun Chick and Mutant Dude go through the crowd, yelling, "Good shot!" "Can you get two with that?" "Head shot!" You make it into a game and soon everyone is competing to see who can kill the most zombies. Roars of laughter go up as you peg a zombie with a tomato and shout, "I'll dedicate my next show to the guy who kills the one with the ketchup on its head!" The zombie goes down in a hail of heavy projectiles.
Within two hours there are nothing but five hundred honest to goodness corpses down below. Laughing and crying, the survivors gather around to congratulate you. (You had heard the phrase, “smothered with affection” but you have never literally been unable to breath.) Sarge watches with a deadly expression.
Finally you remind everyone that there's a radiation wave coming. That puts the damper on it, and people begin heading for the exits, jingling their car keys in their pockets. You and your team head out. Clambering over the mound of dead outside the mall, you get into your car.
All around you, engines are starting up. You start yours. As you begin the tricky process of pulling out, you notice something out of the corner of your eye. A lone figure stands on the roof. A cigar is clenched between his teeth and he holds a gun in his hands. Coolly he raises it towards you.
You whip out your gun and fire. The tip of Sarge's cigar disappears. The gun falls from his hands and lands with a clatter. He stares cross-eyed at his blasted cigar.
"See ya Sarge!" you yell merrily. Then you floor the gas and peel out, laughing.
"Whew, that was fun," the ENFP says as you make it out onto the road. "So when are you and Gun Chick gonna get together?"
You glance into the rear view mirror and Gun Chick you an embarrassed—but not unwilling—grin.
"I love the way you kill zombies," you say.
"And I love the way you throw a bowling ball," she replies.
"Wanna go on a date?"