Includes: 225 Total Cards -- 216 White Cards, 9 Black Cards
Description: A pack of cards inspired by The Walking Dead television show, comic book series, and video games. The cards are intended to play well with the base deck, even with audiences unfamiliar with the series. Most cards are original, and a small portion of the cards are compiled from various online card submissions.
WHITE CARDS:
112 ounces of pudding.
A barn that's perfect for storing human bodies.
A big macho man who uses his muscles for good.
A big, dangerous guy who wants to kill us.
A black character whose catchphrase is "Aw hell naw".
A bond of friendship greater than any force in the universe.
A bottomless well of horrors.
A catholic priest that actually respects boundaries.
A charred corpse clawing its way out of the flames.
A child beckoning me into the woods.
A conveniently-timed thunder clap.
A corpse with hope in its eyes.
A crossbow bolt straight to the heart.
A dead guy.
A decomposing toddler.
A diverse cast of likable characters.
A fascinating mullet.
A figment of the imagination.
A fucking hatchet.
A full pantry, a warm bed, and advanced plumbing.
A good dog.
A graveyard smash.
A guy named Rick.
A horsey!
A human corpse dangling from a meat hook.
A motherfucking crossbow.
A person full of blood.
A secret tribe of seafaring lady warriors.
A simpler time when men were men and women were sex slaves who did laundry.
A slowly expanding puddle of blood.
A stab wound, an explosion, and a fall from a great height.
A tank. A motherfucking tank. Can you believe that?
A total misinterpretation of the source material.
A very dead baby.
A whole entire barn.
Abandoning a racist on a rooftop.
Aimlessly floating downriver.
All out war.
All the flesh melting off of my body.
All these dead bodies.
An 80% mortality rate.
An emotional gravity that can only be created by a good book or the death of your firstborn.
An entire church congregation’s collective screams.
An incestuous manipulative necro-pedophile rapist with a Fu Manchu who chops people’s heads off for fun.
An unfortunate misinterpretation of the Bible.
An unnecessary amount of tigers.
Another show about a bland frowning white man with stubble.
Begging God for the sweet release of death.
Being a goddamn badass.
Being all stinky.
Being impaled and escaping from death by the sheer power of my own will to live.
Being missing and presumed dead.
Being so sad all the time.
Being tricked, backstabbed, and quite possibly bamboozled.
Biochemical warfare.
Bleeding and crying and stuff.
Bleeding everywhere.
Blood and guts all over me.
Botching an execution.
Burning a man's eyelids off with a hot iron.
Burning half my face off with a waffle iron.
Burning people alive.
Bustin' into tears.
Changing my pronouns to "your majesty”.
Chaos and bloodshed.
Childhood innocence.
Chronic masturbation!
Cicadas up the wazoo.
Closing my eyes for the last time.
Collapsing in grief.
Coming into someone’s life, making them care, and then just checking out.
Confessing my sins.
Crushing the skulls of enemies underfoot like autumn leaves.
Crying about the dead baby.
Crying in the shower.
Crying into a bottle of peach schnapps.
Cutting down children with a katana.
Cutting off a boy’s tongue as a power move.
Dangling from a noose.
Death on a scale that can only be described as "biblical".
Debilitating childhood trauma.
Decapitating a farmer.
Decaying away into nothingness.
Demanding that everyone lower their weapons right now so we can talk this out.
Dismemberment.
Drifting in and out of consciousness.
Dubious pseudoscientific nonsense.
Dying in my bed surrounded by my friends and family.
Dying right now in a fiery explosion due to the carelessness of a friend.
Eating many little girls.
Endless fields of corpses.
Fairly violent seizures.
Falling down an elevator shaft.
Falling into a deathlike slumber for several months.
Falling into a ravine.
Fear mongering.
Finding the strength to go on.
Gargling blood as I lie dying on the floor.
Getting bonked on the head and becoming unconscious.
Getting caught in a bear trap.
Getting clubbed.
Getting everybody killed.
God, guns, grits, and gravy.
Going cannibal.
Going fucking berserk.
Going out in a blaze of glory.
Grunting in dismissal.
Grunting repeatedly, like a man.
Hearing for the first time that my child bit someone.
Hiring the guy who made Ghost Rider 2: Spirit of Vengeance and just expecting everything to turn out okay.
Holding me tight and telling me everything will be okay.
How revolutionary trains were.
Infant chunks.
Just surviving somehow.
Killing all the men.
Killing someone and wearing their face.
Killing without remorse.
Latching onto a man's throat and biting out his pulsing jugular.
Long, solemn silences.
Losing my favorite arm.
Losing my grip on reality.
Losing the will to live.
Lying down in the dirt and letting the earth slowly reclaim me.
Making an example of this kindly old man here.
Mass graves.
Masturbating to my dead spouse’s final voicemail message.
Me and the other wolf boys.
Meat from a can.
Murmuring to myself that this isn't real, that this isn't happening, that I need to wake up.
My daddy, the congressman.
My first shower in months.
My slowly draining sanity.
My trusty hacksaw.
Napalm.
Nearly forming a coherent sentence.
Needless cruelty.
Norman Reedus’ son, Mingus Reedus.
Ominous whistling.
Our capitalist overlords.
Our most basic primal instincts.
Our random and cruel universe.
Partial decapitation.
Physical abuse.
Punishment.
Quietly sobbing around a mouthful of dick.
Rapidly deteriorating peace talks.
Raping, pillaging, and plundering.
Realizing that I’m the asshole.
Refugees that aren't so bad after all.
Repopulating the earth.
Rinsing off all the blood.
Ripping an elderly boy open.
Ripping open a pregnant woman and tearing out the screaming blood-soaked fetus.
Rolling around in the grass because I am a severed head.
Roundhouse kicking a man in the face.
Scooting under a dumpster.
Sensitive cowboys just looking for love.
Several knives.
Shit that happens.
Shock value.
Shooting a propane tank and it's exploding and now we’re all on fire.
Shooting on sight.
Shooting people with guns like a big boy.
Shuffling off this mortal coil.
Signing up for AMC Premiere and then regretting signing up for AMC Premiere.
Sitting in the corner and thinking about what you've done.
Skin. Just the skin.
Slamming into a table and perishing.
Slowly bleeding out.
Slowly rotating on a stick over a roaring fire.
Slowly wringing the life out of this fella.
Smashing into a window at full speed.
Society.
Southern values.
Spending quality time at home with what remains of my family.
Spluttering and convulsing.
Spreading Socialism to all who will listen.
Stabbing me with knives.
Still being alive, I guess.
Stuff and things.
Suddenly being forty years old.
Suffering.
Taking a head as a trophy.
Tearfully putting down my best bro.
The baby inside me.
The benefits of suicide.
The blood. Oh God, the blood.
The choke hold.
The easy way out.
The eerie squelch that emanates from a grown man’s head when you crush his temple with a crowbar.
The end of civilization.
The end of the fucking world.
The gallows.
The guilt that pervades my very being.
The gun I keep on my person at all times.
The inherent trust I place in my father.
The lone desperado riding into town.
The moral ambiguity of my violent actions.
The most powerful thing of all: friendship.
The piked skull of the last person who dared cross into our land.
The pleasure I experience from dissecting my sibling.
The rash and emotionally driven impulses of a thirteen-year-old boy.
The reality that we're all going to die, and there will be no one to remember our stories.
The smell of rotting meat.
The sound of breaking bones.
The visceral pleasure of revenge.
This curious and highly inventive structure called a windmill.
This red machete that I promised to kill you with.
Unnecessary profanity.
Visiting my son in prison.
Waking up in an abandoned hospital.
Wearing a trench coat to let everyone know you’re hip and mysterious.
Wearing an eyepatch and being a bad guy.
Wearing skin suits to infiltrate their ranks.
Wearing the ears of the men I’ve killed.
Wrapping barbed wire around a baseball bat to memorialize my cancer-stricken wife and beating an Asian boy to death with it.
BLACK CARDS:
Don’t open, _ inside.
I can’t profess to understand God’s plan. Christ promised the resurrection of the dead. I just thought He had _ in mind.
I’m looking for my family. They’re _. Can you help me?
Listen, damnit. You step outside, you risk your life. You take a drink of water, you risk your life. And nowadays you breathe, and you risk your life. Every moment now you don't have a choice. The only thing you can choose is what you're risking it for: _.
Mother Fuckers. They're going to feel pretty stupid when they find out they're fucking with _.
There's no way you can ever be ready for it. I try to be, but I can't. The best we can do now is avoid _ as long as we can, keep one step ahead.
This is how we survive: we tell ourselves that we are _.
What happens when the countdown reaches zero? _
When you care about people, _ is kind of part of the package.
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