“Probably not,” Randall agreed.
“So I have to concentrate on physical pleasure instead of love. But I'm still enough into love that I feel we should look beyond surface beauty.”
She snapped her fingers, transforming back into the wretched creature. Randall gagged.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Uh ... could we go back to that darkness motif?”
The block of light vanished.
“And is it possible to temporarily get rid of my other four senses?”
“You should be more open to new experiences,” Grysh scolded. “Am I that repulsive?”
“No, no,” Randall lied. “It's just that, well, I'm
“Kiss me,” said Grysh.
“You mean now or sometime in the future?”
“Now.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“There already?”
“It's my hand.”
“Interesting hand.”
“Kiss it.”
“I will.”
“Now.”
“I will.”
“I don't feel it being kissed.”
“Figured I'd practice on my own hand a few times first.”
The witch cursed ('fiddlesticks') and illuminated the room. Randall's stomach twitched a bit as he saw that there were at least ten men chained to the walls.
“Who are
“My previous love slaves.”
“Any special reason they're chained to the wall?”
“Purely decorative.”
The men were all giving Randall dirty looks, which he felt rather insensitive considering that he was the one currently getting the worst of the situation. He gave them a light wave. “Hi. How's it going?”
“They won't answer you,” Grysh told him. “They're giving me the silent treatment. They think it bugs me.”
“Does it?”
All of the chained men began to nod.
“Liars!” Grysh shouted. “You think something like the silent treatment can bother a witch of my power? I laugh at your feeble attempt! Ha! Ha again! I laugh in your collective faces!”
The men said nothing.
“I'm still laughing in your faces,” Grysh insisted. “Doesn't bother me a bit that you won't talk. Not a bit. You hear me? Your little stunt isn't working. So you might as well quit it and start talking.”
The men remained silent.
“I'm gonna kill them,” said Grysh, reaching underneath the pillow and taking out a wicked-looking knife with a twelve-inch bloodstained blade and flower designs on the handle.
“No!” said Randall. “I mean, it's very hard for me to stay romantic after multiple murder. Last time that happened—poof!—my lips wouldn't pucker for hours.”
Then, proving that mercy can be granted, there was a knock at the door. “Hate to interrupt,” Demon Baby said through the wood, “but we have a serious problem out here.”
“How serious?” Grysh asked, thoroughly annoyed.
“Well, on a scale of one to ten, one being peace and quiet, ten being the world coming to an end, eight being the zombies outside getting ready to make a violent raid upon our mausoleum, I'd have to rank it an eight.”
Grysh got up, motioned for Randall to follow her, then left the bedroom. Joining Demon Baby, they walked back to the main part of the mausoleum.
At that moment, three very bad things happened.
First, and most noteworthy, four stained-glass windows shattered from having zombies crash through them. These zombies did not look happy. Part of this was due to the shards of glass now sticking in them, but one can safely assume that their anger had been present before the actual vandalism. In a related incident, the door to the mausoleum burst open, revealing another helping of irate living dead.
Second, in a coincidence rivaled only by the time the King of Lockhart made the comment that “it would sure be amusing if those little things that dangle in the back of people's throats suddenly fell from the sky” mere seconds before the legendary Uvula Rainfall, Grysh lost her magic powers. This was something that happened once a century to all witches, and it only lasted eight minutes. In a further coincidence rivaled only by the time the King of Adams said “I wish I had a trout in my pants,” seconds before his advisors dropped a fish down his pants (though they replaced the trout with a piranha), the situation would be resolved in seven minutes and fifty-two seconds.
Third, Randall remembered he hadn't brushed his teeth that morning. It was a minor problem, comparatively, but still noteworthy considering that gum disease takes no prisoners.
The zombies were still pathetically slow-moving, but they had all the escape routes covered. Grysh snapped her fingers, trying to conjure her mystic powers. When nothing happened, she snapped them again. And again.
One of the zombies took this as his cue to begin a musical number, but thankfully was interrupted before he could sing.
“I wish to read from a prepared statement,” said a zombie at the front door, as the zombies began shuffling forward. “This has been signed by all of us. ‘To whom it may concern. We are sick and tired of the oppression brought upon us by the dictatorial policies of the management. If our grievances are not heard and acted upon, we shall be forced to take severe measures.'”
The zombie cleared his throat, being one of the few zombies whose throat was in clearable condition. “Okay, here are our grievances,” he said. “First, we are fed up with the lack of decent food around here. I guess ‘fed up’ isn't the best way to phrase that, but you know what I mean. We're not saying you have to breed humans for us, just quit killing so many of them in the Realm of Mystery! Ditch the ‘legs’ question.”
“I'm listening,” said Grysh. “What else?”
“Second, we'd like some sort of beautification project implemented in the cemetery. It's embarrassing to have what few victims come around see the place in such deplorable condition. If we could get some cleaning products for the tombstones, we'd be very appreciative. And flowers go a long way.”
“Tulips or daffodils?” Grysh asked.
“What do you guys think?” the zombie foreman asked his comrades. They discussed it amongst themselves for a few moments. “Could we get back to you on that?” the foreman asked.
“Of course. Anything else?”
“Yes. A change of clothes would be nice. Most of us were buried in our finest garments, but it's been a while, and they're starting to get tattered. Plus, our rotting flesh isn't doing much for the smell.”
“No problem,” Grysh said.
“There was one more thing,” said the zombie foreman, trying to recall. “Chuck—what was that suggestion you made at the meeting last week?”
“Hats.”
“That's right, we want hats that say ‘Grysh's Graveyard Guardians’ on the front. White ones, with green lettering.”
“I see,” said Grysh. “Anything else?”
“I have something,” said one of the female zombies, raising her hand. “But you'll think it's stupid.”
