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A GOOD FEED
A "Take Your Pick-Axe" Honorable Mention
Option Aby
Michael A Kechula
“Chief Carter, I want answers and I want them now! Who the hell is tearing the heads off our beautiful female citizens and eating them?” asked the mayor.
“You ain’t gonna like my answer,” Carter said.
“Try me.”
“I think it’s a zombie.”
“That’s nuts. Werewolves, vampires—that I can understand. But zombies? That’s stretching it.”
“Mayor, I’ve sent the killer’s MO to police agencies worldwide. The only answer I got was from Dr. Dumont, Head of the Haitian Zombie Institute. He said a zombie escaped from their research lab. A vicious bastard that feeds exclusively on the heads of pretty women. And get this: it likes chocolate chip cookies."
“Sounds bizarre,” said the mayor. “How could a zombie get here from Haiti?”
“Maybe it got to Mexico, then crossed the border.”
“Suppose Dumont’s missing zombie is the culprit. How do we stop it, Chief?"
“Set a trap and catch it. I’d like to use your wife as bait.”
“Are you crazy?”
“She’s the best looking woman in Santa Buffoona. She can lure the thing out into the open. My men will jump it with nets.”
“No way. I don’t want my wife attacked by a zombie.”
“He won’t get near her. We’ll put her in a gorilla cage on Main Street. She’d be real safe. Even King Kong couldn’t break those bars. My men would hide in the shadows. When we catch the zombie, I’ll give you the pleasure of killing it—after the news conference where you’ll make it sound like you captured it single-handedly. That’ll ensure your reelection.”
“Reelection or no, I doubt my wife would do it. And how the hell do you kill a zombie?”
“With a chain saw.”
“Aw, hell. I hate the sight of blood.”
“Don’t worry, Mayor. Dumont said this zombie don’t have blood. It’s filled with green gunk. The worst that’d happen is you’d get zombie crud on your clothes. Ain’t that worth reelection?”
“Yeah. But keep my wife out of this. What about using that kid we crowned Miss Pumpkin Festival? What a doll. She’d make perfect zombie bait.”
“She ain’t eighteen yet. Could cause big legal headaches for the city.”
“Well, who can we get? Who’s good looking and ballsy enough to sit inside a cage at night, waiting for a zombie attack?”
“Officer Crouch ain’t scared of nothing. Offer her a promotion, and I’ll bet she’ll volunteer.”
“But she looks like she was French kissed by a bulldozer,” said the Mayor. “If I was a woman-eating zombie and saw her, I’d lose my appetite and run all the way back to Haiti.”
“We could put a Marilyn Monroe mask on her.”
“Wouldn’t the zombie know and look for somebody else?”
“Not if she’s in a cage at night under dim street lights.”
“Hmm,” the Mayor said. “Sounds like it might work. On the other hand, you said it likes chocolate chip cookies. Why don’t we forget the caged woman idea and buy a bunch of cookies. We can put one every couple of feet to form trails leading to a humongous cookie pile on Main street. When the thing finds the pile and begins to stuff itself, your men could jump it.”
“Good idea, Mayor. I’ll send somebody to Wal-Mart to buy their entire stock of chocolate chip cookies. We’ll tell citizens over the radio and TV to avoid Main Street after sundown. We’ll say we’re having anti-terrorist drills.”
Although 5,784 chocolate chip cookies were used to setup trails leading to a six-foot high mound of cookies on Main Street, the cops didn’t catch the zombie. The zombie ate two dozen at the beginning of a trail, got full, then disappeared.
The next night, Officer Crouch sat in a gorilla cage in the middle of Main street, wearing a Marilyn Monroe mask and slinky nightgown. She munched chocolate chip cookies, while a hundred cops with fishnets hid in the shadows.
Midnight. All was silent.
“Where the hell’s the zombie?” the Mayor whispered to the Chief.
“Maybe he don’t know Marilyn Monroe’s waiting for him,” the Chief said. “Maybe he’s prowling some other neighborhood. I think she oughta make woman noises to attract his attention.”
“What kind of noises?”
“Maybe she oughta moan or make believe she’s nagging somebody. Or maybe she should call out to the zombie. Wait, I got an idea. She can sing ‘Happy Birthday Mr. President’ real loud.”
“Hey, Officer Crouch,” the Chief said over the radio. “Sing Happy Birthday Mr. President like Marilyn Monroe did for President Kennedy. Make it sexy. Make it sound like you want your head torn off and eaten.”
Crouch sang off key in a horrible screechy voice. After five choruses, an eerie sound could be heard echoing down Main Street. Someone was walking slowly, dragging one foot along the asphalt.
“I see something coming,” the Chief said. “It might be the zombie. Get ready everybody.”
Tension mounted as the zombie reached the cage. Suddenly, it broke out into song, joining Officer Crouch’s rendition of “Happy Birthday Mr. President.” Its voice was unbelievably magnificent.
“I’m gonna count to three,” the Chief whispered over his radio. “On three, we’ll rush the bastard.”
“Wait,” said the Mayor. “Listen to that voice. He sings better than Pavarotti. It’s so fabulous, I can’t believe a zombie’s singing. Don’t capture it until it stops. I don’t want voters thinking I don’t support the arts.”
The zombie finished the birthday song, then immediately went into “When Irish Eyes are Smiling.” Next, it sang some old, Sinatra tunes. The singing was so beautiful, the cops and Mayor were mesmerized.
When the zombie switched to soft lullabies, all his would-be captors got so relaxed they fell asleep. Snores could be heard from all directions, including the interior of the gorilla cage.
That’s when the zombie broke through the bars, tore Marilyn Monroe’s head off, and ate it.
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© Kechula, 2006