The zombie once confessed he didn’t really care for the taste of brains. He said they weren’t worth the trouble cracking open the skull. Raw, that is. Cooked, if cooked well, and maybe then he’d bother; but really, he’d say, unless you’d got it fresh on the fire and put it in some butter, you might as well just eat the person’s liver or face or something.
He was a nice chap to talk to. Shame he tried to bite me. Had to blow his head off with my shotgun. He was a strange chap, shuffling around with that skillet.
Tale Told 