Sorry about the loopy title. I can't embellish my stories like some of y'all do, and I couldn't think of a title. I'd been spending the last coupla days doing a stakeout to find this fella in the trench and brim hat. Even I get bored. So I logged into Lazlo and read through a few entries. I'd just finished replying to Kolya in KonThaak and DarKnyht's thread when my dirtdigging finally paid off. I wouldn't have even noticed him had I not been goin' to toss the bag of fast food in the trash.

The guy I'd been tryin' to find for the last three weeks finally showed up, scrounging in a dumpster of all things, right behind my car and around the corner.

Slick.
Or Stupid.

I was hopin' for the latter as dropped the rest of my sandwich and gave chase. The guy runs like a cheetah and jumps like a gazelle. But this time I knew ahead of time the tricks he keeps up his sleeve. I wish I could say I kept up speed, what with all the fence leaping, alley ducking, and hey do. But the truth of the matter was, the only thing keeping me on this guy's festerin' wart was the old days when I ran track in high school and adrenaline.

Them, and pride.

Nothing gets a man going like getting his pride pricked. Or missing a step on the fire escape and landing in a pile of rotting leaves while his quarry jumps it entirely. But this time I wasn't gonna let something so small as a three story lead on me put a stop to the chase. Just took a different route that paid off. He was lifting a sewer grate when I turned the corner, adrenaline pumping and pride fuming. There was a mist flowing around the street like air current, something very unsual for LA at this time of year. In the dark, he looked huge and menacing. His trench coat billowed about as though an invisible hands were searching through the pockets. I could see nothing of his face, but I was positive it was him.

I charged.

He had a keen sense of hearing, twisting like a mongoose just when I was in the process of tackling him frrom behind. There was a flash of yellow glowing eyes. There was a crash of metal, the circle of steel was hurled from his grip. We wrestled the ground. He was tough, but knew nothing about fighting. I straddled his waist, which was skinnier than I had imagined, and twisted both his thumbs and wrenched them to the ground, forcing his back flat to the pavement and hammering his head against the sidewalk.

"What the hell are you?"

He was stunned, I was stunned. In the rumble, his wide brim hat had fallen away, and our tussle had taken us to a sort of shelter between a parking lot and a condemned building. He had fallen into a pool of half light from the light of the buildings a street away. His face was the face of a corpse,his hollow cheeks accentuated by the shadows filling in the holes. His eyes had dimmed to a rotten, pussy yellow, wide with death's slap. His skin was tight and mottled, stretched taut across a loose skull, green as a bitter gourd. He struggled once, but a simple yet definitive push to his thumbs gave him pause.

His wrinkled lips pinched into a straight line and twitched, revealing needle-like teeth as black as olives.

"Master?"

A talking zombie...? Maybe a ghoul...

Or a guy who knows a makeup artist with WAY too much time on his hands.

But I'm gonna lean more towards one of the first two for my bet...

KonThaak wrote:A talking zombie...? Maybe a ghoul...

Or a guy who knows a makeup artist with WAY too much time on his hands.

But I'm gonna lean more towards one of the first two for my bet...

I ain't sure. Could've been a zombie, I 'spose. They normally keep their traps shut?

"Tell me of your...old master," I said, tightening the pressure and giving his thumbs a slight twist. His skeletal nostrils fidgeted and his breath rasped in pain. But he did not speak. "Well?" I pushed a little harder, provoking a whimpering shriek. A thin, purple slimed between his lips and wiped them, before snaking back inside his mouth.

"Master is...a man of medicine," the corpse whined. "Power and influence. Please don't hurt me, master."

"That depends on how cooperative you are, pal," I replied, giving his thumbs a squeeze. He glared, but said nothing, waiting for me. "Where can I find him? What's his name?" He didn't speak immediately, his shaking, yellow eyes glaring at me. "His name!" I repated, twisting harder. He shrieked and arched his back, and with a monumental effort, sat up. His thumbs snapped with no effort on my part. His face rose nearer, his mouth an open, snarling square of pain and frenzy. The white flesh inside was outlined with the sharp edges of his teeth. I held on, though the thought he might try biting me in spite of his mangled hands flashed the length of my mind. My palms began vibrating.

My hands and knees thudded to the ground, the corpse as insubstanstial as a reflection in the glass. He sneered and moved unnaturally slow, a dream inside a fishbowl full of water. I grasped for him, but he was already on his feet and running, regaining his solidity half a minute later. A roaring in my ears prompted me as I rushed to my feet, and a bright light followed, forcing my face away from the running stiff. There was a whistle of pain and the fleeing deadbeat was suddenly skidding on his back in my direction.

A small, slender, pale figure emerged from the shadows of the alley as though claiming it's territory.

"Hi, Ethan!" clarity greeted me brightly.


I was too surprised to ask questions. The light was already fading, she was standing over the fetal corpse.

Who knew a girl that size could be so intimidating.

I stepped back up tto the dead dude, grabbing his coat collar and dragging him to his feet.

"His name, rotsack."

His yellow eyes shifted to Clarity, who was watching the proceeding with interest, arms folded.

"Raphael," he croaked like a zombified toad. "Raphael Mortellini."


Clarity and I exchanged looks.

It was time to do some more hunting.

KonThaak wrote:A talking zombie...? Maybe a ghoul...

Or a guy who knows a makeup artist with WAY too much time on his hands.

But I'm gonna lean more towards one of the first two for my bet...

I ain't sure. Could've been a zombie, I 'spose. They normally keep their traps shut?

"Tell me of your...old master," I said, tightening the pressure and giving his thumbs a slight twist. His skeletal nostrils fidgeted and his breath rasped in pain. But he did not speak. "Well?" I pushed a little harder, provoking a whimpering shriek. A thin, purple slimed between his lips and wiped them, before snaking back inside his mouth.

"Master is...a man of medicine," the corpse whined. "Power and influence. Please don't hurt me, master."

"That depends on how cooperative you are, pal," I replied, giving his thumbs a squeeze. He glared, but said nothing, waiting for me. "Where can I find him? What's his name?" He didn't speak immediately, his shaking, yellow eyes glaring at me. "His name!" I repated, twisting harder. He shrieked and arched his back, and with a monumental effort, sat up. His thumbs snapped with no effort on my part. His face rose nearer, his mouth an open, snarling square of pain and frenzy. The white flesh inside was outlined with the sharp edges of his teeth. I held on, though the thought he might try biting me in spite of his mangled hands flashed the length of my mind. My palms began vibrating.

My hands and knees thudded to the ground, the corpse as insubstanstial as a reflection in the glass. He sneered and moved unnaturally slow, a dream inside a fishbowl full of water. I grasped for him, but he was already on his feet and running, regaining his solidity half a minute later. A roaring in my ears prompted me as I rushed to my feet, and a bright light followed, forcing my face away from the running stiff. There was a whistle of pain and the fleeing deadbeat was suddenly skidding on his back in my direction.

A small, slender, pale figure emerged from the shadows of the alley as though claiming it's territory.

"Hi, Ethan!" clarity greeted me brightly.

I was too surprised to ask questions. The light was already fading, she was standing over the fetal corpse.

Who knew a girl that happy could be so intimidating.

I stepped back up tto the dead dude, grabbing his coat collar and dragging him to his feet.

"His name, rotsack."

His yellow eyes shifted to Clarity, who was watching the proceeding with interest, arms folded.

"Raphael," he croaked like a zombified toad. "Raphael Mortellini."


Clarity and I exchanged looks.

It was time to do some more hunting.

Sounds like the kind of zombie African shamans used to raise... Maybe still do, I'm not too sure on that. Most zombies are mute by the fact that their vocal cords have rotted away. African shamans, however, usually granted their zombie slaves some amount of intelligence and the gift of speech, unlike most other zombies of the world, which are basically no more than just mindless constructs who "live" for nothing more than to obey the will of their makers. It can be said that African zombies retain more humanity than other zombies for that reason, and for the reason that they can feel pain, whereas most other zombies cannot. Finally, if an African zombie's shaman is killed, they will oftentimes try to return to their old lives... If a regular zombie's maker is killed, they exist only to destroy.

The art of African zombie-making is not a secret to those who wish to find it... It's very likely that the process could be modified.

If I'm right, then likely, this zombie could've betrayed his old master for one of two reasons: 1) his old master told him to, or 2) you actually managed to seem more powerful than his old master.

This is all, of course, under the assumption that I'm right. There may be another explanation, and I'm too distracted by a number of other problems, mundane and otherwise, to search more deeply right now...