Halloween Image Part 10 The Zombie Who Became a Vegetarian

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Halloween Horror Comedy
After Harold became a vegetarian, his friends stopped inviting him to dinner. Then the broccoli screamed. When Harold lifted a floret toward his mouth, it gave a tiny, indignant squeak. He stared at it across the kitchen table. “I beg your pardon?” The broccoli squeaked again. From the opposite chair, a skeleton wearing a chef's hat sighed. “That's Gerald. He complains about everything.” Harold had been dead for eighty-three years and had followed the traditional zombie diet: brains, more brains, and the occasional lost tourist. But after eating a tedious accountant, Harold had spent six hours thinking about tax deductions. He decided that something had to change. “Vegetables,” he announced. “From now on, only vegetables.” His chef, a skeleton named Basil Bones, had dropped his ladle. “You can't just change eighty-three years of dietary tradition.” “Watch me.” Now Basil had prepared broccoli, carrots, Brussels sprouts, and an enormous salad. Harold inspected the broccoli on his fork. “Why is it making noises?” “Because it knows what's coming,” Basil said. “Most vegetables do. Humans simply lack the courtesy to listen.” At the window, two zombies pressed their faces against the glass. They were Edgar, whose left ear had been missing since 1962, and his nephew Norman, who regularly confused doors with walls. “He's eating a tree!” Norman gasped. “It's broccoli,” Edgar replied. “That's what trees look like before they grow up.” Harold opened the window. “Would you two like to join us?” Edgar recoiled. “We've heard about your condition.” “It's called vegetarianism.” “Sounds contagious.” Norman held up a pamphlet. “The Undead Residents' Association has called an emergency meeting. They're concerned you'll start making us exercise.” Harold shut the window. “I only wanted a peaceful dinner.” Basil offered him a carrot. “Try this. It hasn't complained once.” Harold bit into it. A tiny voice from beneath the table shouted, “MURDER!” A miniature broccoli in a chef's hat marched out from behind a basket of cabbage, waving a wooden spoon. “You can't serve my cousins without a permit!” Basil looked offended. “I have a catering licence.” “Issued by whom?” “The Department of Eternal Hospitality.” “Expired in 1894,” the little broccoli snapped. Harold put down his fork. “Who are you?” “Sproutley. Vegetable rights representative, union organiser, and occasional garnish.” Sproutley climbed onto the table and examined the platter. “Carrots arranged without consent. Brussels sprouts subjected to boiling. Lettuce torn into pieces. This kitchen is a crime scene.” Basil crossed his bony arms. “You walked here on your own. Aren't you worried someone will eat you?” “I'm mostly stalk,” Sproutley said. “Very disappointing texture.” Harold pushed his plate away. “I wanted to stop frightening my neighbours. Now I'm frightening my dinner.” “You need food that doesn't talk,” Basil observed. “Such as?” “Gravel.” Before Harold could object, the front door burst open. Edgar and Norman stumbled in, followed by Mrs Wimple, the cemetery ghost, clutching a clipboard. “Harold, this has gone too far. The graveyard is in turmoil.” “Because I ate a carrot?” “Because Norman has started a petition.” Norman displayed three signatures and a muddy paw print. “We demand the right to remain carnivorous.” “You don't even know what carnivorous means,” Edgar whispered. “It means having very nice teeth.” Mrs Wimple cleared her translucent throat. “There are rumours that you intend to turn the crypt into a wellness retreat.” Harold glanced at Basil. “Do we have a crypt?” “Two. One leaks.” “Then perhaps we should repair the roof.” Everyone screamed. Mrs Wimple dropped her clipboard straight through the floor. “Home improvements!” Edgar cried. “First vegetables, then plumbing. Where will it end?” Harold knocked three Brussels sprouts onto the floor. They rolled toward the door. Sproutley blew a whistle. “Evacuation!” Norman chased the sprouts, mistaking them for eyeballs. Edgar barricaded the salad bowl. Mrs Wimple emerged from the pantry covered in flour. Basil kept shouting, “Nobody touch the dressing!” while Harold attempted to restore order with the authority of a corpse who had just discovered kale. Then a tremendous banging came from outside. The gates rattled. A voice thundered, “OPEN UP! INSPECTION!” Silence fell. Through the window they saw an enormous figure in a black coat, carrying a silver briefcase. His face was hidden beneath a broad hat. “The Grim Reaper,” Edgar whispered. “We're doomed.” “We're already dead,” Harold reminded him. “Then we're doomed again.” The visitor entered and removed his hat, revealing an irritated man with spectacles. “Health Inspector Percival Crumb. Department of Posthumous Nutrition.” He produced a thermometer and a stamp marked UNSUITABLE.The Zombie Who Became a Vegetarian “We've received complaints about an unlicensed change of diet.” Harold pointed at Sproutley. “He started it.”