zombies, ninjas, and enron

Dear blog friend Cara, feeding our mutual weird obsession with zombies, et al:

With his ice cold hand, he lifted my chin so I had to meet his eyes. Gently he brushed my hair off my forehead, and then pulled the zombie finger from the mess of my hair, and tossed it into the trash with the burned money. I blushed, knowing a lady should not have extraneous zombie body parts in her hair. I did not look my best at all, with the zombie spatter and tentacle juice stinking upon my Edwardian-pale skin. But I felt that he looked beyond that, to the soul inside.

“Mr. Skilling, you’re making me quite dizzy,” I murmured.

I stood beside him, feeling warm inside. How could a man so dead make me feel so alive?

You HAVE to read the whole thing. Hysterical.