The Lost Bones: A Zombie Parody

Rita Ora vs Oasis – R.I.P. vs Wonderwall mash-up, by baDJa…

“Now you!” Higham Dry Senior’s shaking finger of doom finds me, pointing in an almost accusatory manner. “You are in my power… your mind is bending to my will…”

I don’t feel any different. But then, I wasn’t exactly expecting to. Mostly just curious – at what he might find to instruct that I would cheerfully have done anyway, like Carvery Slaughter and Homer just demonstrated…

“Mercy!” the prisoner Justin Time pleads into the carpet, ignored.

Apparently he is the only one falling for this little sideshow.

The elderly robed man gestures at Ace Bumgang, standing next to me.

“Kiss him!” he snaps, a glint in his eye. “Like you mean it!”

Ooohh – any excuse!

But as I turn to look at Ace and catch HIS eye, it’s evident that someone in the room has bigger mental powers than the Dry brothers’ zombie grandfather.

I can almost hear Ace’s voice in my head…

Sarah, you so much as try it, and you’re going home in a padded envelope…

I gulp, wondering what the punishment is for rebelling against supposed Jedi mind tricks. Either the old man’s, or Ace Bumgang’s.

But as I procrastinate over what I would rather die doing, we are interrupted by breakfast arriving.

“Ahhhh, you all get off lightly this morning!” the old man cries appreciatively, smacking his lips as the servers file into the dining hall, with silver tureens and platters. “Just in time – sit. And the rest of you. We eat first. Then play more mind games.”

We all move cautiously towards the long table, and Justin Time peels himself tentatively off the floor. The only ones who move confidently are the three outsized bounty hunters, who settle themselves into the three largest chairs, and take out their own chopsticks.

Even Higham Dry Senior’s remaining guard is included, although he pauses before seating himself to tie a bib onto the old man first.

It has a picture of a white rabbit in a waistcoat on it. Now why does that remind me of something…?

“Chicken soup!” Higham Dry Senior approves, lifting the lid of his own tureen. “Mmmmm… and plenty of extras. Everybody must eat. Good for your braaiiins.”

Two of the servers heave the body of the dead guard onto their shoulders.

“Tell him when he wake up that he only get his usual rest break allowance!” says Higham Dry. “I am not running a hotel for layabouts here!”

The two servers nod, and carry the body out between them.

The soup does smell appetizing. I examine mine first for any bits of chicken anatomy that can’t be identified. Or ones which I’d rather not.

The enthusiastic slurping of the bounty hunters behind their chain-mail veils indicates that it’s safe to start, so we pick up our spoons in turn.

“Maggots!” the old man suddenly shrieks, and I drop my own spoon in fright.

The others take no notice. He is prodding something yellow on his side-plate, and a server hurries over to his side.

“What sort of cheese is this?” Higham Dry demands, poking at it.

“Goat’s cheese, Lord,” the server informs him, obsequiously lowering his eyes, in a half-bow as he speaks.

“I told you before, you cannot make cheese out of billy-goat!” the old man rants. “And not even one maggot! It taste of nothing, I tell you! Bring me the blue cheese. With the holes in. The one that hums when you blow on it.”

“Yes, Lord.” The server removes the offending plate, and scurries away.

We continue eating, although I check to make sure my soup has no active swimmers in it. Even Carvery and Ace, who claimed not be hungry, are tempted enough by the aromas to taste their food.

Crispin and Homer both have their heads down, eating as heartily as the bounty hunters and the wayward rickshaw pilot, who is eating and sobbing at the same time. I wonder what that means the elderly man has in store to follow…

“I see you enjoying your noodles, my boys,” Higham Dry beams, nodding his approval at the two younger Dry zombies. “Gobble up so fast, too. You must all have the worms, no?”

“Just very hungry, Grandpappy,” Crispin replies, while Homer pats his own naked gray belly in agreement.

“Something to drink!” shouts Higham Dry. “Bring the special brew!”

“I can’t face Special Brew this early,” Ace remarks, as more servers rush to comply. “I downed enough dirty pints last night.”

A huge tea urn is wheeled in, steaming, and many small cups are quickly arranged.

“This stuff very good,” Higham Dry tells us. “Make men of you! Put hair on your palms.”

The bounty hunters exchange glances, and I swear I can sense their evil grins, behind that chain-mail covering their faces.

The cups of hot brown translucent liquid are distributed, and I look at mine with concern. But it seems benign, and has only a faint scent of cinnamon.

Higham Dry raises his tiny cup in salute.

“Everyone drink!” he says. The bounty hunters put down their chopsticks, and do likewise. “Later, we go up on the roof again. More flying experiments. We see if Mr. Time has enough hot air in him to float unaided now…”

The Chinese food scene from ‘The Lost Boys’ – enjoy 😉

More mindless mayhem: The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum

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