“Look at me, Daddy. I’m a zombie. I’ve got red eyes like you when you work at night.”
I think, shut up you cheeky monster. What do you know, you’re like seven and you’ve never seen “Night of the Living Dead” and you don’t even know who George Romero is, for crying out loud.
Then I stop my rant and think, ah, yeah, I get it, you cheeky monster.
Okay, yes, it’s time for a holiday. Just let me finish writing this story. It’s about zombies. You’ll dig it, really. It’s about a man who wants to quit but can’t, but not because he’s a workaholic… well, like me sometimes, but because, well… You’ll have to read the story to find out. You can read it when it’s done and when we’re on holiday. Soon, my dear, I swear. Just give me a couple of days to wrap it up and edit it and then sell it somehow because we don’t want the repo man coming round to our house, do we?
“Dad?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s a zombie, anyway?”
“Oh, well. It’s a well… why, let me think, ah, yeah, well… Why don’t you go and ask your mother?”
