Katie Death, a zombie who dresses in a cheerleader uniform, was washing the dishes with blood in the sink when her husband, Death, walked into the room. God’s Hitman opened up the refrigerator, looked around, and then slammed the door shut.
“Why is there never any food in this house? I have Snore Games coming up in just a couple of weeks, and I need to bribe The Great with food apparently so he won’t do a job for the either Steve Studnuts, Trey Vincent, Sarah “The Jobber Slayer,” Seth Harker, or Dr. Silaconne M. Plants apparently now, too. And I still haven’t figured out what to bribe my other teammates with. Let’s see…write this down. Let’s see, for Trable…how about some fried chicken, watermelon, and grape juice? For Jerri Li? Hmm. Some Jagged Metal Krusty-O’s and battery acid. Kid Pirate probably likes booze. Rum. Hell, how about some peg leg polish as well. Did you get all that, Katie?”
“Braains!” Katie roared.
“Why do you make everything so hard except right here,” Death said, performing a crotch chop in his wife’s direction.
“Braaaains!” Katie replied.
“Is this mansion not big enough for you? What about all those dead people stacked in the meat locker? Where’s the respect for Death?”
“Did you at least dry clean my wrestling cloak.”
“Son of a…” Death started before pounding his bony fist on the countertop. “I’VE HAD IT UP TO HERE, KATIE!”
“Brains brains brains brains brains brains!”
“What does this have to do with my yacht? Don’t I deserve a little ME time? I work my fingers to the bone…wait, they already are bone. I work my bones to the…you know what I mean! I work non-stop for the Big Guy who created this universe. He created you for ME, not me for YOU! You’re just a bit player.”
“It’s ironic. I figured I would’ve been the one to kill this relationship…”
“You want out? That’s FINE with me!”
Katie Death shuffles away to her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. She grabs a framed picture of Zombie Mr. Fantastic off her dresser.
Meanwhile, outside, Death has his scythe and begins bashing a trash barrel with the handle. After several seconds of clatter, Death looks up and notices a zombie eating somebody’s face in the street. Both are starting at him curiously.
“Help me?” the victim gurgled out, blood oozing from everywhere on his (or her?) face.
“Rar?” the zombie queried.
“Sorry, Face Eater. Go about your business.”
The zombie continued eating the victim’s face as Death threw his trash back into the trash bucket. One of the plastic bags ripped and several cans fell out with a dull clatter as they hit the driveway. Brains In A Can. It was eerily silent — as long as you ignored the dying screams and disgusting face-eating noises in the background.
“And she can’t even recycle on top of everything else?”