Charmy’s Army in “DEE SEAST – The Hell of the Ball” – Part 4: The Ethics of the Undead
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Our fourth comic strip delves into the bizarre social politics of our newly integrated society. The girls are standing alone, processing the fact that zombies are very much still part of the local ecosystem. The ponytail girl mentions she was planning on dressing up as a zombie for next week’s highly anticipated Halloween Ball—only to be swiftly reprimanded by the blonde! “How offensive! Zombies are people too!” To which her cynical friend delivers the ultimate grammatical reality check: “You mean WERE people too.” The existential weight of politically correct terminology for the reanimated dead leaves them with only one proper exclamation: “Holy macca noodle…”
The afternoon sun cast long, amber shadows across the town square. Charmy and Dee had vanished down a side alley toward the municipal park, leaving the two girls leaning against the painted wooden railing of the municipal gazebo. The quiet of the town was almost surreal. Pigeons pecked at breadcrumbs near the park benches; children rode bicycles along the paved trails; a street sweeper hummed lazily along the curb. It looked like an idyllic postcard of small-town America, completely masking the fact that just five minutes ago, an actual walking corpse had been drooling near their espresso cups.
“I still can’t wrap my head around it,” the ponytail girl confessed, kicking a loose pebble into the grass. “I spent forty-five dollars at the pop-up spirit store last Saturday. I bought liquid latex, fake blood made from corn syrup and red dye number forty, prosthetic bone fragments, and a torn flannel shirt. I was going to do the whole nine yards for the annual Halloween Ball. The classic Romero stagger, the dragged left leg, the vacant stare, the works.”
The blonde turned on her instantly, eyes flashing with righteous indignation, her hands planted firmly on her hips. “Are you out of your mind? Have you completely lost your moral compass? You can’t wear that!”
The ponytail girl froze, her shoe suspended an inch above the grass. “Why not? It’s Halloween! It’s the one night of the year when everyone dresses up as ghouls, vampires, werewolves, and the undead! It’s tradition!”
“That was tradition before the invasion,” the blonde lectured, shaking her index finger with schoolmarm authority. “Context matters! Before the outbreak, zombies were fictional archetypes created by cinema and folklore. Now? Now they are our neighbors! They work in our commercial supply chains! They pay municipal parking meters! Dressing up as an undead shambler today is cultural insensitivity at its absolute worst! Zombies are people too!”
The ponytail girl stared at her companion, her jaw dropping open in sheer, unadulterated disbelief. She let out a laugh that sounded like a tea kettle hitting maximum boil. “Zombies are people too?! Have you suffered a traumatic brain injury while we were standing here? Did the airborne rot fumes finally seep into your prefrontal cortex?”
“I am simply advocating for basic social decorum,” the blonde insisted, lifting her chin with an air of profound superiority. “Dee is out here trying to assimilate into civil society, overcoming massive systemic prejudice and rampant biological decay, and you want to reduce her painful medical condition to a cheap costume for a Saturday night mixer? It’s callous!”
“Medical condition?!” the ponytail girl practically shrieked, throwing her head back toward the sky. “She isn’t dealing with chronic seasonal allergies or a mild case of eczema! She’s legally, biologically, and technically deceased! The heart has ceased to beat! The brainwaves are flatlining on every known medical monitor! You don’t say zombies are people too—you say zombies WERE people too! Past tense! Completed action! Finished chapter!”
The blonde opened her mouth to mount a blistering rebuttal, but the words withered on her tongue. She closed her mouth, looked down at her shoes, glanced sideways at the empty alleyway where Dee had shuffled away, and then looked back up. Her moral superiority melted away into a hollow, glazed stare as the cold, inescapable logic of the English language collided with modern etiquette.
“Holy macca noodle…” the blonde whispered under her breath, the sheer absurdity of the philosophical rabbit hole collapsing on top of her.
“Thank you,” the ponytail girl said smugly, crossing her arms over her chest. “Finally, a shred of cognitive sanity returns to the premises. There is no political correctness for a creature that literally had to be reminded not to eat the cashier’s pen. If someone’s skin is peeling off like dry wallpaper and their primary nutritional intake consists of outdated T-bone steaks from the deep discount bin, I am fully within my rights to use past-tense pronouns.”
“Okay, fine,” the blonde admitted, running both hands through her hair with a defeated groan. “Grammatically speaking, you have a point. But socially speaking, you’re still stepping on a massive landmine. If you show up to that dance dressed as a reanimated corpse, and Dee walks in as Charmy’s date, what do you think is going to happen? Do you think she’s going to appreciate the artistic nuance of your fake prosthetic ribcage?”
The ponytail girl paused. Her smirk faded, replaced by a sudden, chilling realization. Her eyes darted toward the community center at the end of the block, where a large vinyl banner advertised the upcoming Halloween Ball in bold, festive lettering.
“Wait…” the ponytail girl said, her voice dropping down an octave. “You don’t actually think Charmy would bring her to the dance, do you? To an indoor event with mood lighting, punch bowls, and a crowded dance floor? That’s an absolute recipe for a public safety incident.”
“Charmy is completely devoted to her,” the blonde warned, stepping closer. “He takes her to the diner. He walks her down the boulevard. If there is a major social gathering in this town, you can bet your entire savings account that he’s already bought two tickets. And if you think a minor detail like an absence of vital signs is going to keep him from showing her off under the strobe lights, you haven’t been paying attention.”
The two friends stood in the fading light, the absurdity of the afternoon giving way to a new and far more terrifying prospect: the imminent social collision awaiting them on the dance floor.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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