“Get ready for the doit nap.”
Cesar “Dirt Nap” Lucero shambled toward me. “Wormsy” Scapini guarded the door to the speakeasy proper. I sat in the middle of the storeroom, tapping my fingers on my knees. They’d tried tying me to the chair, but their fingers, now little more than tendon and bone, couldn’t handle knotwork.
“We want the money, see?” Mr. Lucero rasped. “And you’re going to give it to us. See?”
“Or what?” I retorted. “You’re going to eat my brains? How? Your teeth rotted out of your skulls years ago.”
“Why you—! Punk!” Mr. Lucero’s lips drew back in a snarl, his lips splitting from nose to chin. “I’ll moidalize you!”
“Get ready for the doit nap,” “Wormsy” gloated.
Mr. Lucero reached for his tommy gun. The weight of it tore his arm off at the elbow.
Rolling my eyes, I stood and elbowed past “Wormsy” into the speakeasy. He tried to block me, but at this point he weighed little more than a small child. “See you in hell,” I sighed.
The lesson here? I’ll make it short if not sweet: Never double-cross the Zombie Mafia. It just isn’t worth the aggravation.