"I think they're actually rare members of the Sahiri tribe of Western Mongolia," Sam said. "The high priests of their religion are known as kumquats, which doesn't translate well into English."

Sam knew lots of interesting things. Most of them were complete bullshit.

"You're not allowed to start another religion, Max," Sam reminded him firmly. "We still haven't gotten all of those bloodstains out of the couch."

The rabbit had an odd sense of fun. But then, there was a very sad zombie who rarely ever got to have any, himself.

After all, he was missing a hand, and could no longer play foosball without it. But hark! His zombie!sense told him that there was a hand within. It would do!

And that was why there was a living corpse attempting to chew its way through the doors of the Freelance Police HQ.

"Maybe our new client doesn't have any hands," Sam said. "We shouldn't discriminate against the differently-limbed. They have money we can take just as easily as anyone else's."

Sam flung the door open and adjusted his hat. "Greetings, citizen. You've reached the Freelance Police Headquarters. This isn't a voicemail message; I just like saying that."

"I don't believe I'm familiar with your dialect," Sam said apologetically. "Languages were never my strong suit. If you tried enunciating the consonants, I'm sure we can have a rational exchange with little difficulty." He turned to Max with a shrug. "I suppose beggars can't be choosers, but I'd really prefer a client that spoke something resembling basic English."

That reminded him: he should call the commissioner. They hadn't heard from him in a while. He was dialing the phone when he caught sight of the intruder again, and this time, he dropped the phone.

"Zombies!"

There was yelling. Why was there yelling?

The zombie found his attention rudely swept away from the prize laid out before him, and the noise served to remind him exactly how hungry he was.

The dog, he looked like he had a fair amount of meat on his bones. Perhaps he'd go for him, first. Yes.

Well, that, and he was closer.

With a grunt, and unable to reach and actually grab his prey, the zombie did the one thing he could do. He simply toppled forward with the canine underneath him, mouth wide open.

Nobody got to maim Max except him, dammit!

Sam held the gun against the zombie's head and fired. Which was messy, but it certainly stopped the damn thing from hitting his little buddy.

"That was an exciting turn of events," Sam said, brushing the dirt off his suit. "Do you think there's room in the closet for his corpse?"

All adventures deserved keepsakes. Even really short ones.

Sam glanced down at his arm. "I don't think so," he frowned. "I'm sure I would have noticed all the blood. Must be a gift from our new friend."

He couldn't help scratching it. Something about the seeping, pus-filled bite itched.

Probably nothing to worry about.

"You know what they say about Freud, little buddy. Sometimes, a thermonuclear radiation burn scar is just a ..."

Sam interrupted himself, abruptly, to fan himself with one hand. "Has the room taken a sudden leap in temperature, from 'generally comfortable' straight to 'prickly and humid'?"

"Does your bite-mark ooze something that smells discouragingly like gangrene?" Sam asked, sniffing his hand. "Gangrene takes long than this to set in, unless zombies have some kind of accelerated-gangrene-inducing abilities."

Speed-gangrene. When tissue needs to die, right now.

"Maybe the gangrene is only temporary," Sam said cheerfully. Temporary gangrene. It was the new rage. That explained the speed of it, right?

Sam picked up the legs of the zombie-corpse and started to drag it in the direction of Leonard's closet. "Would you mind supper being a little early tonight?" he asked. "I know we just had lunch, but I guess temporary gangrene gives you an appetite."

For his part, Sam fully intended to reply to that by noting that Max was always hungry, to the point that his stomach was possibly the only force in the world as powerful as his bloodlust, and might have gone on from there to note the futility of having asked the question to start.

This, somehow, came out as, "Braaaaaaaaaaains."

Sam's eyes were glowing a deep, vibrant red. He was covered in dirt and muck, and he had a sudden craving for brains. Braaaaains.

One look at Max told him all he needed to know.

"/We're zombies!/" Sam gasped.

Okay, it sounded like "mroooohunnnnnnughhughhughh," but that was totally what he said.