ZOMBIE ALERT

Clan Elisson, freshly returned from a therapy session with the Vodoun-Doctor.

It’s Hallowe’en, an American pop-culture holiday that has long since outgrown its roots as a bizarre amalgam of Christian and pagan practices and beliefs. Now it’s all about delivering a mild frisson of terror to the toddlers, an excuse for drunken partying to the grownups, and a massive sugar high to everyone.

Zombies, however, take the day seriously: It’s the only day they can move among us unmolested.

Think about it. On the other 364 days of the year, if you see an individual who resembles a corpse in both appearance and aroma shambling around your neighborhood, you’ll either blow him away or run as fast as you can in the opposite direction. But on Hallowe’en, you figure it’s like as not going to be some seven-year-old kid, and you’re going to hand him a piece of candy.

Big mistake.

Big problem for you if it turns out you’re dealing with the Real Thing, hiding in plain sight on the one day it’s possible to do so. He’ll grab you by the Candy-Hand, and within thirty seconds he’ll be carving the cerebrum out of your head with a grapefruit spoon after having cracked open your skull like an extra-large turkey egg.



My recommendation? When the trick-or-treaters come a-knocking at your door, don’t bother handing out candy at all. Just hand out brains. Smart brains, stupid brains, cervelles au beurre noir, shit-fer brains, doesn’t matter. Hand out brains.

If your trick-or-treaters are just that, they’ll run like hell. And if they’re really zombies, they’ll be so busy snarfing up that grey matter, you’ll have time to make your getaway.

No need to thank me. It’s what I do.