Bob The Zombie
I lead a very Griswoldian life. If you've ever seen those 'National Lampoon's Vacation' movies, you know what I mean. Even my death was hysterically funny. I was a twenty five year old college dropout and was living at home with my parents. In fact I had been hanging out, relaxing in their garden, when I decided to prune my mom's roses. I was cutting a stem near the house and turned to respond to a neighbor who hollered a hello. It's at that point the stepstool I was using tipped and I impaled myself, jugular first, on the pruning shears when I fell to the ground. Sure, at the time it was horrifying, but now I can look back, see the vague similarity to a Chevy Chase character, and laugh.
My mom was distraught at my demise and she hired a witch who specialized in necromancy to bring me back. The spell went a little funny and instead of being brought forth from the ground in a geyser of dirt, I awoke in my casket and had to dig my way out. Luckily, Mom waited for me and gave me a nice mug of hot chocolate after I dug myself out of the fetid earth. Unluckily, my body was dead and the hot chocolate really messed with my stomach and I threw up all over mom's shoes. She forgave me. It took some time to learn how to eat food again. Not to mention having to learn which foods I could tolerate better than others. Chicken nuggets are fine, but beets lead to Exorcist style vomit.
It wasn't long before I had to leave home. The rotting began and it creeped my family out when large chunks of me fell off. The necromancer had told my mom it would happen, and had suggested I invest in a ton of cheap staples and a good stapler. The iron in the staples bonds with the magic that animates me and voila; whatever has been reattached looks just like it did before it sloughed off. Not that it makes me good as new, what with the constant greenish hue and festering wounds, but it's nice to know that I won't have to worry about leaving pieces of myself behind.
The clouding of my eyes bothered my mom (and me, really) the most. I have the eyes of a corpse now, mostly because...hello, Undead American over here! Now, don't get me confused with the ghouls. No, we zombies are sentient, and able to talk. We're the same people we were before our death and raising, it's just that now we need a steady diet of meat. Sometimes, we can tolerate other foods...and nonfood items. As for me, I like cake.
Sadly, I don't get cake often. There's oddly not a lot of supernatural bakeries around, and it's not as if I can go into the town bakery up the road and ask for a quarter sheet cake without setting off warning bells. Most of the world has no clue supernatural creatures exist. The humans that need to know about it, already do, but everyone else is kept in the dark. I imagine if I did hike on up to the bakery the conversation would go something like this:
"Hello Ma'am I'd like a..."
"ZOMBIE!!!!" Then out comes the shotgun and off goes my head. Nope, I think I'll stick around with the other supernatural critters and stay away from humans. Even though these days when people do spot me they tend to think I'm just some special effects genius with a hard on for zombie fiction. I'm a much more complicated guy than that, really.
Take for example how much it hurt when my family rejected me. I didn't ask to be brought back from the dead. Oh, and before you ask; no, I don't have a gaping wound on my throat where the shears pierced me, the funeral directors sewed that up and it healed when I was raised. I came out of the grou nd whole, my only flaws were scars marking the place that wound was and where there was a shaving nick I received the morning of my death. I stayed looking mostly human for awhile, it took about two weeks for the decomp to actually start. I am told the woman who raised me was a very powerful necromancer as the rotting usually starts by sundown on the day of the raising. The greater the magic of the witch, the longer putrefaction is staved
I lead a very Griswoldian life. If you've ever seen those 'National Lampoon's Vacation' movies, you know what I mean. Even my death was hysterically funny. I was a twenty five year old college dropout and was living at home with my parents. In fact I had been hanging out, relaxing in their garden, when I decided to prune my mom's roses. I was cutting a stem near the house and turned to respond to a neighbor who hollered a hello. It's at that point the stepstool I was using tipped and I impaled myself, jugular first, on the pruning shears when I fell to the ground. Sure, at the time it was horrifying, but now I can look back, see the vague similarity to a Chevy Chase character, and laugh.
My mom was distraught at my demise and she hired a witch who specialized in necromancy to bring me back. The spell went a little funny and instead of being brought forth from the ground in a geyser of dirt, I awoke in my casket and had to dig my way out. Luckily, Mom waited for me and gave me a nice mug of hot chocolate after I dug myself out of the fetid earth. Unluckily, my body was dead and the hot chocolate really messed with my stomach and I threw up all over mom's shoes. She forgave me. It took some time to learn how to eat food again. Not to mention having to learn which foods I could tolerate better than others. Chicken nuggets are fine, but beets lead to Exorcist style vomit.
It wasn't long before I had to leave home. The rotting began and it creeped my family out when large chunks of me fell off. The necromancer had told my mom it would happen, and had suggested I invest in a ton of cheap staples and a good stapler. The iron in the staples bonds with the magic that animates me and voila; whatever has been reattached looks just like it did before it sloughed off. Not that it makes me good as new, what with the constant greenish hue and festering wounds, but it's nice to know that I won't have to worry about leaving pieces of myself behind.
The clouding of my eyes bothered my mom (and me, really) the most. I have the eyes of a corpse now, mostly because...hello, Undead American over here! Now, don't get me confused with the ghouls. No, we zombies are sentient, and able to talk. We're the same people we were before our death and raising, it's just that now we need a steady diet of meat. Sometimes, we can tolerate other foods...and nonfood items. As for me, I like cake.
Sadly, I don't get cake often. There's oddly not a lot of supernatural bakeries around, and it's not as if I can go into the town bakery up the road and ask for a quarter sheet cake without setting off warning bells. Most of the world has no clue supernatural creatures exist. The humans that need to know about it, already do, but everyone else is kept in the dark. I imagine if I did hike on up to the bakery the conversation would go something like this:
"Hello Ma'am I'd like a..."
"ZOMBIE!!!!" Then out comes the shotgun and off goes my head. Nope, I think I'll stick around with the other supernatural critters and stay away from humans. Even though these days when people do spot me they tend to think I'm just some special effects genius with a hard on for zombie fiction. I'm a much more complicated guy than that, really.
Take for example how much it hurt when my family rejected me. I didn't ask to be brought back from the dead. Oh, and before you ask; no, I don't have a gaping wound on my throat where the shears pierced me, the funeral directors sewed that up and it healed when I was raised. I came out of the grou nd whole, my only flaws were scars marking the place that wound was and where there was a shaving nick I received the morning of my death. I stayed looking mostly human for awhile, it took about two weeks for the decomp to actually start. I am told the woman who raised me was a very powerful necromancer as the rotting usually starts by sundown on the day of the raising. The greater the magic of the witch, the longer putrefaction is staved
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