Goodbye Thrasher
"Ow!" snapped Scapegrace, "Careful with that needle!"
"Sorry, Master," whimpered Thrasher, his large head sinking slowly back into his shoulders "Just a few more stitches…"
"OW!"
"Finished!" Thrasher announced with satisfaction, "What do you think, Master?" he held up a large shard of glass that had once been part of a mirror. Scapegrace snatched it from Thrasher and studied his reflection. The Zombie King did not like what he saw:
"What the hell is this?" He shrieked at Thrasher. Thrasher raised his hands over his face for protection.
"I-it's yo-your new b-body, S-sire." He stammered. Scapegrace looked into the piece of mirror once more. Fat, pudgy hands; thick legs; a bad taste in fashion – neon pink is never the way to go – and hairy arms. But worst of all:
"This is a woman's body, you imbecile! A fat, middle aged woman with no fashion sense whatsoever!" Scapegrace shouted. Thrasher licked his ruined lips and lowered his head, his eyes looking at the ground.
"I'm sorry." Thrasher said in a small voice, still staring fixedly at his feet.
"You're sorry?" Scapegrace roared, "Where did you find this body anyway?"
"At home, Master." Murmured Thrasher.
"At… home?"
"It's my, uh… my wife, Geraldine: I thought you'd be honoured…"
"Your wife… Geraldine."
"Yes."
"YOU MORON!" Scapegrace bellowed, "You complete, utter, IDIOT!" He continued, thumping Thrasher round the head, with a meaty fist. He dismissed Thrasher and sat down on the operating table in the abandoned lab.
The lab had once belonged to a sorcerer in the late Victorian era. It was said he had been mad –deranged, even – and was driven out after the tragic disappearances of a boy and his pet dog. They were later found in a sick mix-and-match of arms, legs and heads – was there a more perfect place for a Zombie King to dwell? Scapegrace sat back and sighed: Thrasher was an idiot, no mistake. It wouldn't hurt to have a different second-in-command, would it? He smiled, his mouth looking like an open wound.
Goodbye Thrasher…
"Just drop me here, worm."
"Yes, Sir."
Scapegrace put an extra car freshener around his neck ('Midnight Jasmine' – his favourite), pulled the neon pink turtle-neck sweater down over his stomach, took a deep breath in and stepped onto the pavement. He squinted as the bright sunlight burned his dead eyes. Shielding them with the hairy back of a fat hand, The Zombie King made his way to a patch of bushes. He watched as the ice cream van turned a corner, a small gaggle of children chasing after it, waving purses and notes.
Imbecile.
He squatted down in the bushes, trying his best to hide his neon pink-ness, and waited.