For what you are about to read, you can blame two women called, on Twitter, rosamundi and thefrolick. They are classy, erudite lasses (no, we’ve never met, why do you ask?), who normally tweet about Baroque music, fine wine, and bicycles. But today, we had this exchange on Twitter.
rosamundi: The man opposite on the bus smells like he’s been dead for a while. He’s also snoring.
thefrolick: At least you can be sure he’s not dead! Unless he’s a snoring zombie?
calbion: [that’s me, weighing in uninvited, as usual] Snoring zombies! Yes! *spots new genre, rubs hands together gleefully*
thefrolick: You find inspiration in all kinds of places. Look forward to seeing where you go with it.
rosamundi: [who clearly knows nothing about publishing] I trust there’ll be a share of the profits winging our way?
thefrolick: [getting impatient] *rubs hands together expectantly*
She had me with that last tweet. I mean, how many years have I waited, in vain, for publishers to rub their hands at me expectantly? A lot, that’s how many.
So, without need of more encouragement, although a wider acquaintance with the zombie genre would have helped, I present:
The Curse of the Snoring Zombie
Night. A flat somewhere in London. Okay, make it NW3.
A door swung open. A floorboard creaked. A sound assailed the silence.
“SNERRK! – Whuh. SNERRK! – Whuh. SNERRK! Whuh.”
Mungo woke, thrashed in his blankets, and pushed himself upright. With the moon full and his curtains drawn, he had no trouble identifying the prowler.
“Oh no. Not again. Curse you, Snoring Zombie!”
“Don’t blame me.” The zombie lurched forward. “I have to snore. It’s part of my brand identity.”
Mungo fell back against the headboard. “Holy stock markets. Don’t tell me zombies have gone corporate!”
The zombie shrugged. Part of his shoulder fell off. Kicking it aside, he took another step toward Mungo.
“Can’t you brand your identity in someone else’s bedroom?” Mungo carped.
“No! It must be yours! It says so on my spreadsheet!” The zombie shook his fist. The fist fell off. He said, “Oh, bollocks!” And then those fell off.
“Brand this,” said Mungo, and hurled an inkwell.
This did not improve the zombie’s appearance, but neither did it halt his progress. “SNERK! … Whuh. SNERK! … Whuh.”
“Oh, all right,” said Mungo. He hutched over to the left and reached for his earplugs. “But try not to drop any more body parts. And don’t hog all the blankets.”
Story points for analysis
Mungo had an inkwell on his nightstand. Does that add depth and mystery to his character?
Is anyone actually named Mungo these days?
“A sound assailed the silence.” This is: (a) simile, (b) sibilance, (c) litotes, (d) just plain bad writing.
Homoerotic subtext? Yes? No?
Suggest a Twitter name for the Snoring Zombie.
Is that the perfect illustration for this story or what? Thank you, Wikimedia Commons.