Hello~! Just want to let you know that this is an amalgam of Boondock Saints, the Telltale Game series and the Television show of "The Walking Dead." Thanks! ~DandelionFunky

Disclaimer: I do not own Boondock Saints, or Any of the Walking Dead franchises and media.

Only this fic belongs to me. ~DandelionFunky


Chapter One

If you asked Murphy and Connor why the world went to shit, they'd tell you it was a punishment from God for the paint job given to Hoag.

Not that it was the painter's fault he was hired to paint the place gay-as-fuck sea foam green.

Connor and Murphy sat together in the mess hall, the only place so far that remained un-cursed by that blasted color. Gray, gray, gray everywhere. Gray tables, gray chairs, gray walls. The floor was concrete so, of course, gray. The hue was better, but not by much.

"It'll make them calm," Connor sneered in a whiny voice, mimicking the warden as he ate a brown mash of something. Probably chicken from the taste of the slop.

"More like drop tha soap," Murphy sneered back, snorting.

Some of the chicken…vittles…getting lodged in his nasal cavity in the process.

As Connor patted Murphy on the back, his eyes crinkled at the view through the barred window of the poor fellow sullenly painting the outside wall in slow, melancholy strokes; his obviously six foot stature slumped over in anguish.

Smirking, Conn shook his head. "Somebody should just put tha fucker out a 'is misery."

Murphy glanced toward the window in between hacks. He scoffed, which resulted in a strange hiccup-hack.

"S' fuckin' retarded. With what? A spatula n' tha family prayer?" Murphy wheezed, laughing and choking on the mash further.

"Shut up, m' not fuckin' retarded."

Connor gave Murphy an extra powerful smack, dislodging the muck from Murphy's throat.

Several things happened at once.

The mash shot out of Murphy's mouth, hitting "Saws" Louinski, which you can tell by the name that's not exactly someone who you want to be friends or fuckbuddies with, and especially not someone who you want to nail in the back of the head with something that's covered in your saliva and looks like shit.

"What tha Fuck!" Murphy rubbed his back with his left hand and punched Connor with the other, placing a blow to the exact same spot on Connor's back that he had placed on Murphy.

"I 'elped ye, ye ass'ole!" Connor returned the favor, punching Murphy on the left shoulder where it was unblocked.

Saws decided to join the party, obviously ungrateful of the gift given to him by two loving brothers. Before long, there was a full blown riot in the mess hall. Food throwing, punching, noogies, and somehow in the brouhaha the warden got a wedgie.

Needless to say, Connor and Murphy were put to blame.

Which led to them being placed in isolation in their cell for three days.

Which led to Connor having a cold.

Which led to Connor charming the female attendants for soup.

"Fuckin' pussy," Murphy glowered, jabbing Connor in the arm as female-admirer-obviously-not-doing-her-job-number- four slid a bowl of chicken noodle soup, filled to the brim, obviously homemade, and steaming; on the floor through the bars to their cell.

"I'll get the bowl when you're done." She winked and walked away from the cell.

"Who are ye callin' a pussy? Yer the one that sweet-talked number two inta gettin' more fuckin' blankets." Connor hissed, small puffs of steam coming out in his breaths.

Lately there was a particularly cold spell blowing over the Boston Area, bringing the temperature down farther than the usual forty degree weather of April.

Murphy walked over and picked up the bowl of soup, handing it to Connor with a scowl and a raised eyebrow.

"We're both wrapped up in those blankets, though."

Connor hiked up his blankets from his position on the bed, scooting them from his shoulders to his ears.

"…Fuckin' Shut it."

He reached his left hand out of the blanket, accepting the bowl from Murphy. The twins eyed the bowl. There was no spoon. With a snort from Murph and a blank look from Conn, Connor began to sip from the side of the bowl.


Twenty Four Hours Later

Eunice fiddled with the radio as Smecker nonchalantly stared at the meandering corpses down below on the streets. Duffy and Dolly standing to the side, studying the two "special agents" while smoking a cigarette. Who knows when they'll be able to get their hands on another one.

Currently the four of them were lounging on the rooftop of an apartment complex in South Boston. The twin's apartment complex, to be precise.

Static resonated, fuzzing and cracking as Eunice adjusted the dial. Smecker turned his face in her direction, the expression on his face remaining no different than the impassive glance he was giving the undead below.

"Do me a favor and keep it down, Betty? I don't want to attract any more 'friends' than we already have today."

Eunice pursed her lips and scowled, ignoring the special agent as she adjusted the dial once again.

"Current Outbreak Status: New York catastrophe, level ten; Los Angeles catastrophe, level ten; San Francisco Catastrophe, level ten; Boston-"

All eyes were focused, full attention given to the small radio. Duffy and Dolly's eyes glimmering with Is-there-hope-at-the-bottom-of-this-Pandora-box, taking a deep whiff of their cigarettes tentatively.

"Catastrophe level ten."

The radio continued on about Atlanta being the safest area in the United States. Atlanta was nineteen hours away, if you had a car with enough gas to take the whole trip. Dolly and Duffy exhaled a tragic puff. The Myth Lied. Pandora's box had an elephant dick up the ass at the bottom of it.

Smecker nodded, unsurprised at the news.

"Well then, time to get the Saints out of prison."

"Shouldn't we be focused on our lives not getting fucked?" Dolly replied.

"If anyone could help us survive, it's them." Duffy attempted to take a casual drag of his cigarette, but the trepidation that glimmered in his eyes revealed his nonchalance to be a farce.

Eunice squinted at Smecker. "You just expect us to be able to walk in, grab the boys, an' walk out? No lawbreakin', an' no cops flippin' the fuck out?"

Smecker raised an eyebrow.

"Don't know whether you noticed, Betty Boop."

He waved a hand toward an old man devouring a chihuahua from a purse that had been discarded on the street.

"This is the apocalypse. No laws, no cops. I could piss in your ear, murder you with a toothpick and shove you off this roof and no one would give a fuck."

Dolly glanced down at the pink-purse-dog-eating-dead-man. "He would."