Disclaimer: I don't own Hey! Arnold, I'm bored, I need zombies. This is a filler while I pound out Apple Circus. And to those who read my crap and don't review, I give you this note:

~ Suck it ~

HA

His first mistake was that it was raining. The sound of angry water pounding against the metal of the car; the car which was the dual force of protection and destruction against the outside elements. Another large puddle of standing water on the road and he nearly lost control of the vehicle.

Or maybe the first mistake was that it was dark – well past midnight the stereo told him as Nocturnal Ned gave an introduction to yet another jazz song. The headlights were swallowed viciously by the darkness around them, and should a deer or young child suddenly appear, the consequences would be dire. Another set of beams crested the hill in front of them, bright golden eyes shining in the night, and he could feel himself press the gas, speeding up as the two high-velocity metal machines passed each other, inches from death.

Actually, his first mistake would probably be driving drunk, when he was supposed to be the designated driver. Yeah, that sounds about right.

1) Driving drunk.

2) In the rain.

3) After midnight.

It had started as a routine date, they had decided that staying home and snuggling was far too regular, and so hit up all the bars on the upper eastside of Hillwood City. Thanks to a losing streak in Roshambo, he was bestowed with the honorable and boring duty of DD, which he accepted obediently. Although not before questioning why he played that when she had no balls anyway. Well, that wasn't true, she had his – which she ferociously kicked in order to get drunk.

He had been doing so well, not drinking at all while she became more and more plastered on the different bar stools next to him; it wasn't until the last joint where his resolve failed in the saddest fashion to date, and he had a few drinks. Alright, honestly it was a few more than a few. And maybe a little more than that, too. Not nearly as far gone as the woman beside him, he was still coherent but definitely not driving worthy – but he was the designated driver, and he had the car keys, and he was cognitive enough to know he could drive but not enough to know he shouldn't.

A soft, drunken sort of sleep giggle reminded him again of his passenger, and he turned to see his girlfriend burrow herself deeper into the seat, the seatbelt she should be wearing hanging limply at her side. Reaching out a sluggish hand, he began to stroke her face with a sort of drunken reverence, amazed that a guy like him and a girl like her could get together and work; really work. She moaned, and he felt a contented and dare he say happy feeling bubbled inside him at the sound.

The compact car started to vibrate more than normal, and mistake number four became quickly apparent as he drove along the rumble strip. Fifty feet later, he lost control of the wheel, and the car swerved off the road, flipping once or twice for good measure before coming to a stop another thirty feet down a sloop at the base of a tree.

The world went dark after the first roll over.

When he came to, he found himself in their apartment, disoriented and disheveled. His clothes were torn and dirty, he was bloody, and apart from a few scattered memories of darkness and rain, he had no recollection of what happened over the course of the night. He turned on the local news channel as he prepared for a much desired shower, but only succeeded in getting halfway naked before the anchorwoman made an announcement that had him stop in his tracks.

Young blonde, found dead at the scene of a single car accident. Alcohol and speed on the rainy night were believed to be factors, if not the cause. The force of the collision with the tree, even after it had rolled, had been enough to jettison her from the vehicle. Hard to tell if anyone else was involved, but at this point authorities believe she was alone.

And then they said her name.

He had been broken in their apartment after the police had come to deliver the awful news, wandering around the small space seeing memories of her everywhere. In the kitchen as she threw together a dinner made from leftovers, in the utility hallway smirking as she caught him doing laundry, gloating over him and the boys because her team beat out theirs, laying naked, sweaty, and completely satisfied after a night of ridiculous sex, because she was always the kinky one.

And now she was gone. For good.

Although . . .

There was always that stuff his Aunt Helen was into, that weird voodoo black magic shit. She may have been crazy, but if it could bring her back to him, then maybe it was worth a shot, right? Helen was always a cool cat, and maybe she did have a touch of the dark side in her, for before he had a chance to hit her up on some advice, he found a package at the entrance to their apartment, elegant handwriting addressing it to him. And inside, a Complete Idiot's Starter Kit to Resurrection, and a complementary Voodoo 101 book, to which she signed in the same elegant script

To My Darling Nephew,

Thought this might interest you, and I think you'll be pleasantly surprised with the outcome (maybe it'll get you little shits to stop calling me crazy!)

Sorry about your girlfriend.

Love, Your Aunt Helen

Breaking into the morgue had been exceedingly simple – way easier than he had expected, and kind of had him worried about just where his tax dollars were going. A few hours later found him back in his kitchen, her sweet, beautiful, pale complexion a stark reminder of just how dead she was. He stroked her frozen cheek once before beginning the long process of playing God, spending the rest of the afternoon and going late into the night making powders and chanting in foreign tongues. He wasn't even sure if it had worked by the time he black out sometime around four the next morning.

When his eyes opened, they landed on her still body. Had it worked? Please, please, please let her come back to him, he couldn't function without her. He needed her to simply live. Wait, had she been facing that direction when he passed out? And weren't her feet at the other end of the kitchen table?

"Angela . . .?" he dared to voice, praying to anything that called itself Devine that she would move.

Unfortunately for him, she did.

HA