Because the object of this zombie story I'm trying to write is a comedy, and I understand a certain amount of disgustingness can be funny, I wrote a particularly graphic fight scene, in which a particularly brawny homeless man encounters the first zombie. I intend to have a lot of similar scenes, because zombie stories are violent by nature, but I'd like to know just how far I should go, as opposed to how far I can go. Here's the larger part of the fight scene.
"What's your problem!?" Boris asked, his interrobang marked with a shove that nearly floored the poorly-balanced drunk.
"Bleehhh...." The drunk dribbled some form of vomit or another and pimp-slapped Boris as only a ragdoll could pimp-slap.
Boris would have none of this. After looking around to make sure there were no policemen, his foot rammed with door-rattling force into the crotch of the man. He kicked so hard that he had actually lifted the man on his leg, and drew blood. The man really didn't seem to mind, and as he came down he grabbed Boris's leg and tried his level best to bite it. Boris shook him off, confused, and not willing to find out what the drunk was trying to do to him. The man got up after some flailing, and then... He roared.
It was a very odd sound for a drunk to make. It sounded as if a man was trying to roar like a lion while simultaneously dislodge some sort of leftover phlegm sticking to that obnoxious, non-phlegm-dislodgable spot in the neighborhood of the uvula. The very place that milk usually sticks to somehow if you drink it when you have a sore, phlegmy throat. Ever had that happen to you? It's a displeasing experience.
Anyway, the drunk roared like that, and then he ran at Boris with significantly increased motor skills
With surprising strength, the drunk grabbed him, and tried to bite his arm. With less surprising strength, Boris punched his front teeth in from one canine to the other, in both the top and bottom rows. The beast made angry hockering noises and a mix of gum-blood, teeth, and some form of pus ran down his chin. It was so disgusting that Boris backed away and decided that he wouldn't punch the drunk in the mouth anymore.
The thing leapt at him and grabbed him by the shoulder very tightly. Because this was a pressure point, Boris cringed and sank to the ground a bit. The thing tried to bite him again, but Boris held it off by holding its neck, trying, with all his effort, not to get any pus-drool on his hand, because it was disgusting. Boris took this opportunity to grab the beast with his other hand and then stand up, lifting the thing far over his head, and then dropping it, stomach down, onto his knee.
Its back broke, its legs stopped working, and whatever odd man that Boris had nearly murdered was projectile-vomiting. It was also splitting in half, because the knee-drop had ruptured its stomach and acid was getting all over its insides. It didn't cringe or anything, it just looked angrily at Boris and crawled after him at the speed a normal person would walk. He dragged his torso behind him, his spine was corroded apart, and his legs were left behind him in a puddle of blood, stomach-acid, and cheerios, with ruptured remnants of his stomach trailing behind on his asophagus like a pull toy.
