Pits and Pieces---
They call me Lars, at least now they do. I am the Zombie King of Philadelphia. Others rule Montreal and Los Angeles and Houston and Manhattan. I believe there's one in Baltimore too. We saw each other once in Atlantic City. No words passed between us. But I skipped something. The one in Baltimore is a queen... a zombie queen. The world of flesh is open to all.
I could tell you where I shelter, but then I'd have to eat you (quivers) Oh, God I love fresh meat. Expect not the rotted simpletons they push on you. Granted, occasionally during fast times certain abstainers affect such demeanor. Ears fall off. Breasts wither. Scrotum dry and crumble. Lips shrivel... And toes get lost. But good meals work wonders. Regeneration, you know. Once I even grew a cunning, little tail.
You've seen us. We sit by you in Starbucks, or on the subway, or in church. And 'zombies' walk the streets at night too, when it suits us. But we have no aversion to the sun. Some avoid excessive heat. You know, although there are few records of it, we 'played' the Coliseum back when it was still called IL Ampiteatri Flaviani. ... Night shows... Torch lit spectacles worthy of Nuremberg.... Kettle drums and everything. Oh, how they screamed... How they pleaded. They knew what was coming. Up through the sand we came... naked like statues... all powdered white. Some lead based antimony I think it was... the better to show the blood. And we fell upon them . Here's the rub. Our teeth, my teeth, are no sharper that yours. But my jaws are strong. We bite and rip like rusty spoons. And we don't stop. Before I forget... I am not a veteran of that place. The coliseum, I mean. Though I am of that line. Lines are the pivotal thing among flesh-eaters. God, I know how vampires feel. I hate the word 'zombie' too. Some small, varietal on a remote West Indian island bears that name and so we're all painted with the same brush? Why not call all mortals Lichtensteiners? It's the same thing. But you can call us that, if you like. We don't care what the hell you do.
Here's how it happens. We catch mortals in lonely places. Squatters in abandoned homes are a particular favorite. A quiet, battered soul eating slices of bread from a plastic bag... Maybe a smidgen of light... Sterno can, or something like that... And then a closet door silently opens... A being steps out, smiles and nods. How the tiny, dancing flame illuminates our features. The bread eater bolts. He makes for the door. But we never travel alone. You know that. When he opens it another of our number fills the frame. Strong fingers press against the mortal chest, pushing him back. Number three comes down the stairs. Four comes up from the cellar. There could be more... No rules.
Once they're down it's over, though some bands keep the meat breathing as long as possible. Circulation preserves the flavor. So they start on the limbs and work in toward the torso... ripping and snapping and biting and chewing. Oh, I forgot. The tongue goes first. Some merry, prankster always sucks it out, slurps it up and bites it off. Prevents excessive noise too. Me, I like the nose. It's crunchy. Ass is good too. Can't tell you how we make our escapes when it's all done, 'cause like I said, then I'd have to eat you.
Do we have weaknesses? You'll never know. You'll suspect. You'll reach conclusions based on movies, books or urban legends. Be my guest. Knock yourself out.
Those 'mall rats' better be careful, or some cheap, little thing will wake up minus her eyeballs, or possibly wake up while the procedure is still... going on... or possibly never wake up at all.
Here's something I can tell you. We eat when the protein... when the connective tissue... when the collagen begins to break down... calcium too. Some of us crunch the bones... Warm marrow from a still living 'source' is quite the delicacy.
You should try some on toast...
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