“How are you supposed to kill what’s already dead?â€? Jack asked, peeking out the Venetian blinds at the decomposed bodies that were jerking around the yard like meaty puppets on invisible strings. It was nauseating to see his landlord Mrs. Potts, her grayish-blue rotten skin clashing with her pink-tinted hair, stumbling about in her paisley quilted housecoat.

He shuddered. Nobody should wear that outside. Not even when you’re dead. He himself had changed into his best suit. If he was to die he wanted to get some wear out of it first.

“Well if I were to hazard a guess based on every horror movie out there, I’d say that you sever the brain from the torso to stop any electrical impulses from animating the body,â€? came a muffled voice from the closet. He turned to see his best friend Sasha emerge with a triumphant smile as she blew the dust off a machete. “I told you this would come in handy one day.â€?

Jack frowned at his own paltry baseball bat, pouting. She always outdid him.

“I call Mrs. Potts,â€? he said.