Congratulations Zombie!

You and your friend Sam will be at the Lyn-Lake Rainbow Foods at three in the morning. You often find yourselves there, stoned off your asses and buying Ben and Jerry’s so you can eat it while you watch Jay and Silent Bob and giggle to one another about how much cooler people who smoke pot too often are than everyone else.

You’ll be shuffling down the isles, considering some Shark Bites fruit snacks to go with those Cooler Ranch Doritos you’ve selected when you’ll notice a young man running through the store.

It will be Reggie, the manager, who normally just looks at you like you’re human waste. But tonight his eyes will be wide with panic as he races past, gasping. He’ll be muttering “What the fuck” over and over to himself. You’re really high, so you’ll giggle at first thinking that Reggie is totally wigging out.

But after a few moments standing there, thinking about your snack food choices it’ll dawn on you. Reggie couldn’t have been wigging out. He’s a square, doesn’t smoke pot, and therefore simply could not wig.

You’ll explain this to Sam in a series of monosyllabic grunts that the two of you have fine tuned into some retarded working system of communication and he’ll nod in response and suggest that the two of you investigate the cause of his distress.

When you come to the front of the store you’ll see that it has been overrun by shambling corpses in various states of decay. “Bro,” you’ll say to Sam, indicating that this is an unthinkable scenario, one which rattles your perception of reality to its core.

Sam will nod, indicating that he is also shaken, but remains comforted by your friendship and the support you offer. The two of you will hold hands for a moment and squeeze, briefly becoming lost in each others eyes.

Unfortunately this momentary distraction, lasting around two minutes in length, will be long enough for those zombies to get their teeth and claws into Sam, drawing him into their mass and devouring him as he screams horribly. You’ll try to pull him out, but all that you’ll get for your trouble is a nasty bite on the arm.

You’ll shout his name, then flee down the isles to the back of the store, where you take shelter within the walk-in freezer. Your entire body will be numb in there before long, with the exception of your arm.

The bite there will be throbbing and giving off the most intense heat you’ve ever experienced. It won’t hurt, per sec, but it’ll feel as if your life is leaking out through the wound. It will also have a strange warming effect on you.

Fearful that you will have become infected you’ll engage in your standard emergency medical procedure, smoking the last of your stash. Good and proper stoned, you’ll reflect on Sam and how good a friend he was, the way he always giggled absently when you spoke, the way he appreciated all the same movies you did and junk.

It is with these thoughts that sleep will finally find you, dragging you into a deep, comfortable slumber.

You will awaken, a mindless undead creature, in a few hours, immobilized by the combination of the THC and the cold. Your pathetic brain will be wracked by confusion and frustration, and all you’ll be able to think of now is your hunger, insatiable and unquantifiable, consuming all you’ve ever known.

It’ll be like the worst munchies you’ve ever had. Just hold out, though. In a few hours an Army zombie-eradication squad will find you and destroy your tortured shell with a flamethrower, although they will notget a sweet high from the smoke and ash as you had always hoped.

Congratulations Zombie!