Jenny and I wrote a story
In 1879, Master Braxton von Bates, a Haitian scientist trying to determine the effects of pufferfish meat on various humans inadvertently discovered that Zombies have a high threshold for pain and a great capacity for manual labor. Wanting to be the richest man in Haiti, which is really not an impressive feat, Braxton sold his ghastly scientific process to a capitalist fat cat convention that, incidentally, had come to Haiti to taste the supposedly exquisite pufferfish. The fat cats wanted the money to be able to import slightly less toxic oceanic delicacies to their homes and so they employed the Von Bates process and in turn the Von Bates processions. The Bates Zombies performed all sorts of menial tasks throughout the world for whoever offered the fat cats the highest price, but they kept a certain group of zombies with them on the peaceful island of Haiti to work in a minor’s mine where child laborers are cultivated.
“It’s purrfect,” the fat cats purred as they helped themselves to some caviar. “Cheap labor producing cheap labor.” It’s every cheapskate’s wet dream.
The time came for the worker’s first payday. Each child laborer was paid a shilling, though some of the older children frowned when they realized that shillings weren’t
exactly the currency on their little island and were, therefore, utterly useless.
When the zombies outstretched their decomposing hands, the fat cats grinned and twitched their tails as if they were seeing caged canaries standing before them.
“Listen we’ve been thinking…what’s the purpose of having money?”
“To buy stuff,” one of the zombies deadpanned, though somewhat unintentionally.
“Exactly,” said the capitalistic kitten. “Money is to afford the cost of living. And you,” his grin grew the way any good capitalist’s would when he realized he could save a pretty penny, “are not alive. So why should we pay you?”
The zombies could think of no reason why they should pay them, so they went home.
The zombies continued working in this unsatisfied mode for many years. After all, they didn’t really need to buy food and every time they felt the desire to have some new clothes, they could always go on a killing spree and remove the clothes from the victims’ bleeding bodies. Of course, they wished they could afford a washing machine to clean off the blood, but what can you do?
Society dissipated. People disappeared and, the local newspapers observed with an air of wonderment, the pufferfish population was rapidly declining.
The way the zombies saw it, through eyes occasionally suspended out of sockets, was that they were being asked to do far too much work for the nonexistent pay they were receiving and decided that it would be much better if they increased their numbers to decrease their individual workload. The zombies found a way to recreate the Master Braxton von Bates process, infesting the island of Haiti with an alarming number of dead people. (Note: Master Braxton von Bates strongly objected to this breaching of copyright law and attempted to sue the zombies to counter it, but they ate him). Yes, there was no doubt about it. Tourism in Haiti was deteriorating and barbarism in zombies was on the uprise.
Every once in a while with every species there is an anomaly in DNA. Smith Adams happened to be this anomaly, born-or rather spawned-with pretension inherent in his genes. Young Smith Adams was thereby employed by an untalented writer in the United States who gave him leave to pen whatever sort of existentialist crap ran rampant in his brain. When he wasn’t contributing to the world of useless novels, Smith Adams enjoyed writing political treatises, amusing himself with the idea that he possessed metaphysical sight beyond the eyes of all the living. His cult classic, The Zombie Manifesto, was still earning him prestige, though it had been written years ago. Wanting to feel truly superior, Adams sent off a crate of the book to Haiti and to the brain-dead… dead people he’d left behind.
Karl Mort happened to be working at the docks that afternoon when he dropped a tumid crate from America on his pustular foot. He temporarily neglected the busted crate to locate the foot in question. He found it inside, leaking ooze into a copy of a rather curious book. The puss only served to further illuminate the lettering on the front, which read: The Zombie Manifesto.
After thoroughly perusing the book, he hobbled (as he could not find a way to reattach his foot) over to the mines and moaned a zombie call. All of the zombie miners stood at attention and listened to a long, drawn-out ideological speech that they didn’t fully comprehend, but which sounded eloquent. When Karl Mort motioned for them to rise up out of the mines, they had no choice but to follow his charismatic limping. It was as if they were in a trance (they were zombies, after all).
When the Fat Cats sashayed into the mines, they found a crudely carved message reading “No Pay No Work No Pufferfish No Minors,” and in one corner was a copy of The Zombie Manifesto. They were appalled.
One particularly obese feline hissed, “That’s preposterous! Zombies can’t read… or write!” He turned around just in time to be consumed by a zombie who had previously been lurking behind a rock.
Let that be a lesson to all of you who might wish to question our story.