I remember walking through a maze one night as I entered some bloody abbatoire. Taking center stage was a really fucked up looking bitch zombie with blood smeared across her lips and chin. The blood dripped onto her ragged white dolly dress as she rocked back and forth in her thigh-high striped stockings, her hair a mess of gooey natty dreadlocks. She clutched and waved a butcher knife in one hand and a drippy cow tongue in the other. I dunno what it was, but I was sporting serious hots for this bitch zombie — I couldn’t believe how fucking atrociously sexy she was. I went through the maze a second time just so I could see her again, and she and I made a connection. A very human/bitch zombie connection.
“You again?!” she said! “Come here and become a slab of meat.”
“An honor,” I said, melting away.
Ultimately we realized that we really had more differences than similarities and we just kind of decided to each go our own way. I never saw her again after that second time. Ah, my whirlwind romance with the bitch zombie tart at Knott’s Scary Farm.
[c] 2008 Russ of America