The studio lights on the set of the Murray Pavlovich Show were almost blinding, so the zombie reached for his sunglasses to tamp down the glare. Given the government designation “Undead Alpha-679-A” – he preferred to be called Al – the reanimated man had spent years hoping to educate the public about his kind.
The zombies of literature and modern media were nothing like the actual revenants, who simply wanted to go about their undead existence quietly. Yes, they were pale, cold to the touch, and sensitive to light. They often had unsightly lesions on their faces. But otherwise, they weren’t all that different than people with a heartbeat. Al had reached out to major news organizations several times in hopes of telling the true story, but to no avail. Once he shared it, he was told “it’s just not sexy enough” or “this won’t hold an audience’s attention.”
Going on a lowbrow program like Pavlovich’s wasn’t ideal, but it was at least something. So, Al waited in the wings as the first guest – a man who married a Standard Poodle – was confronted by a veterinarian who insisted the union wasn’t legal.
A fistfight ultimately broke out between the dog lover and vet, ending when they were drug off the stage by security. Then Pavlovich hyped the high-energy audience for his next guest.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “Only in recent years have we learned that zombies walked among us.”
The crowd began booing.
“We’ve come to believe they eat humans, terrorize communities, practice poor hygiene and lower property values.”
The boos grew louder.
“But today, we’re going to let one of them explain to you – patriotic, red-blooded Americans – why we should allow non-blooded Americans to live and work side-by-side with you and me. Please give a rowdy Murray Pavlovich Show welcome to the zombie next door, Mr. Undead Alpha-679-A. Undead … step into the Murray Zone.”
The zombie was horrified by the screaming, and actually had to duck to avoid being hit by a set of dentures as he made his way to the chair across from the host. Once he finally settled into his spot, the crowd began chanting, “Drop dead, Undead!” over and over.
“OK,” Pavlovich said, aggressively waving his hands. “That’s enough … that’s enough. Let’s hear him out.”
Pavlovich sat down, leaned back, and stared straight at Al.
“So,” he said. “Right now, as you, a zombie, look at me … is the urge to eat my brains strong? Do you take some kind of medication to help you quell your desire to devour living humans?”
Al rolled his eyes, although it wasn’t visible to Pavlovich since he still had his sunglasses on.
“Murray, I have no desire to eat your brains or any other part of your body – or any part of anybody’s body, for that matter,” Al said. “That’s why I came here today … I want to dispel these ridiculous myths.”
The studio audience once again broke into the “Drop dead, Undead!” chant, and a woman in the front row – wearing a red, white and blue tank stop and sporting a faded Chef Boyardee tattoo on her neck – rushed towed the stage and yelled, “Baby eater!” at Al.
“Calm down, dear,” Pavlovich said. “Let the baby eater explain himself.”
Al shook his head, realizing that those who told him appearing on the Murray Pavlovich Show was a bad idea were absolutely right.
“Good grief … none of this crap you’ve heard is true,” the zombie said. “Why would we want to eat humans? I mean, that’s just gross. Personally, about all I eat are bananas and almonds. Every now and then I’ll get a hankering for dark chocolate raspberry cordials, but not often. We’re dead … we’re not cannibals.”
“But you are evil, are you not?” Pavlovich asked. “You were conjured, I assume, by voodoo or some form of black magic.”
“No!” Al shot back. “Again, those are just ridiculous stories. There are several different ways corpses get reanimated, and as far as I know none of them have anything to do with voodoo or curses or magic. My wife, Edith, was struck by lightning just as her casket was being lowered into the grave. I know a guy in Fresno who got jump-started by a cracked AGM battery and jumper cables. And me? The ambulance taking me to the morgue was involved in a fender-bender and something happened during the collision that sent a charge through my body. All I remember was sitting up on the gurney, hearing an EMT say, “Holy hell, that bastard’s alive,” and then smelling poop. We don’t know why we came back to life, we just did. And we don’t want to bother any of you. We just want to be dead in peace.”
Boos once again filled the studio as Pavlovich stood up, pointed at Al and shouted, “You died for a reason, sir, and I think I speak for my audience when I say we don’t need you pushing your undead agenda on us. I just pray for your next victim.”
Al shielded his face from flying debris as he raced off the stage, running through the corridor and heading straight for the exit while calling an Uber. Although a few audience members had made their way to the backlot and began hurling epithets at him, the car arrived quickly and he was able to escape unharmed.
The trip back to the Romero Housing Complex took only 10 minutes, and he had never been so happy to be away from the living.
“How did it go?” asked Edith, who was waiting for him at the front door.
“Awful,” Al said. “Worse than I thought. I figured it’d be a shit show, I just hoped I’d have a chance to reach a few people. But I didn’t. They had their minds made up before I even got there and they were too busy booing to listen to anything I had to say.”
Edith hugged him, squeezing him tightly with her icy arms.
“Sorry, mister,” she said. “At least you tried. Makes you wonder though … maybe we should eat their brains.”
Al chuckled.
“No point in that,” he said. “It’d just be empty calories.”
