John and Martha

“Oh, John. Are we mad? A zombie and a vampire, in love?”

“I’m mad. Mad for you, my dear.”

“But if you bite me, if you try to drink my undead zombie blood, you’ll die the permanent death, in an instant. How can you deny yourself like this and still love me?”

“Oh, Martha, my dear, there is more to life, or not-death, than physical pleasure. We share the soulful life of the spirit. Or if we don’t have spirits or souls, we share the daily routines of this world. These too can bring pleasure. When I get thirsty, I can always step out and get a quick bite… to drink.”

“Yes, but nevertheless I do want to eat you. But if I do, I’ll melt into a puddle and then the puddle will explode with the force of one hundred tons of dynamite and then when the little tiny pieces of me rain down, they must slowly start to draw together again, taking eons to reform the molecules of my body, but in a manner that will render me so dense that I become heavier than carborundum and then heavier, so that I will sink through the Earth to its molten core, where my atoms will spread out and circulate, and return to the surface of the planet through volcanic activity, and then cross the planet, atom by atom, to clot together again, at which point, with my luck, you will have already hooked up with another zombie. It’s depressing.”

“Nonsense, my dear, I’ll wait patiently. I am immortal, after all. If I ever even look at another zombie, may all her limbs fall right off. And about that weight thing, becoming so heavy, you know I don’t have a problem with that. The bigger the undead carcass, the more there is to love.

“But for now, I’ve got to run down to the coffin store and work the night shift. When I come home, let’s play a little whist, listen to Perry Como, and go to bed early.”

“Wonderful, Darling. I’ll go out and rend a few of the living from limb to limb and pick up some kibble for Fido.”

“We’re living the dream, Babe.”

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