We meet Dudley, the zomby master.
A lonely, quiet, unattractive street stares blankly into the coming night. On a nondescript corner sits a house. It would look like any other house built just after World War II if it had a paint job and glass in the windows. However, the cement steps are crumbling and the black weathered wood has given up trying to hide behind curls of peeling paint.
The fact that it is settling into the ashes of history doesn't stop it from celebrating what is left of its existence. Soothing, electronic music rolls out of glassless windows. Following the tune inside we see a group of people of various ages, most sitting cross-legged, in a semicircle near the boombox. They sit in a practiced hunch some inhaling deeply through glass pipes some injecting something into themselves. They all wear worn and dirty clothes. It's obvious they are homeless.
These folks curl up into their respective highs, throwing up shields against the world. They are oblivious to the awkward sound of people entering up the back stairs. One of the drug users in a fading flannel shirt lurches toward the newcomers. He says, "It's about time. I thought..." His comment is cut short with sounds of gurgling and breaking. What exactly is breaking is hard to determine.
Is it rotting wood tenuously held together or is it the neck of Mr. Fading Flannel? Before anyone knows what's happening these homeless partiers are set upon by putrid, formerly dead (or formerly alive) people. The zombies begin snacking randomly on those who do not resist. The people that do resist are beatin and broken into submission. Ben, a big tough guy hyped up on who knows what, yells at the zombies to "bring it on" he will take everyone. That is until two zombies do in fact "bring it on", bringing Ben to his knees. Carl, his befogged mind grasping that something is not quite right, rolls out the front door onto the steps like a drunken receiver with the football.
The zombies are enjoying their smorgasbord too much to notice. Carl stumbles down the steps of the battered crack house as fast as he can. He shakes his fist and roars a few obscenties. Then not sure what to do, he does his best to run away. One of the neighbors pushes aside clean drapes, looks through a pristine window and says, "those damn crack heads are at it again."
Electronic music rolls out of glass-less windows in a broken down crack house on a nondescript corner. Inside, recently alive humans have become the main course in a ghoulish banquet. One of the zombies sways in a morbid dance as he holds one of the corpses very close to him while enjoying some fresh biceps.
"At this very moment my troops are, if you'll pardon the pun, taking a bite out of the drug problem in your fair city. Think of the deterrent possibilities of such a force."
Mr. Dudley Mankel-Punter explains to the assembled council members the benefits of having zombies in the community. Mr. Mankel-Punter is quite striking in a charcoal gray pin striped double breasted jacket over a green pinstriped oxford shirt, green plaid pants which refuse to hide his white sports socks stuffed into shiny black loafers. Snugly hugging the crown of his head is a green and white plaid fedora with a small parakeet feather stuck in it.
Each of his dark rimmed eyes tries to hide any truth that it might accidently reveal. Perhaps it's the jacket or maybe it's his naturally lean frame but Dudley seems to disappear right before our eyes. Yet, his voice is confident and commanding, it compels us to listen.
We want to believe him when he says the zombies have rights too. After all they may well have been our own relatives at one time. We didn't turn them away when they were alive why would we turn them away now? They just don't move as fast as the rest of us.
One council member points out that these "previously alive people" are a safety hazard to those still living.
"What hazard could they possibly pose?", asks Dudley.
"They want to eat us.", is the councilwoman's reply.
"But they will only scare those who are grossly breaking the law."
"And who decides who these law breakers are?"
"Why, we simply need only apply the current law as it is written."
Another council member asks, "how can you guarantee that innocent civilians will not become the next meal for these hideous creatures?" Dudley's face struggles to keep its composer as he replies, "these 'creatures', so-called, aren't much different from you and I. And what's more
they are quite content with themselves and their life. How many of us can say that. I envy them."
The same councilman presses Dudley, "So no law abiding citizens have been attacked by mistake?"
"No. not to my knowledge. But I can find out for sure. Can your current law enforcement officials guarantee that no bystanders have ever been harmed in a police action?" The room is silent. Dudley nods to confirm his assertion.
A brash young councilman poses an uncomfortable question, "Speaking of law enforcement. The chief of police has reported that they can't kill your so-called 'troops'. What are we to do if or when your minions get out of control?"
"This," says Dudley, "will not happen. I have complete control over them. They can not be killed, but they can be directed. I want to offer them in service to this community."
The Abbess from the nunnery shoots up from her seat and shouts, "This is an outrage! This is not natural! This...this..."
The mayor cuts her off firmly, "You will have your chance to speak in a moment. Please sit and be patient."
The debate rages on into the night, sometimes becoming quite heated. Both sides marshall all the support and every persuasive argument available to them. In the end, by a one vote margin, the city council makes a fateful decision. A decision that could throw the entire city
into chaos or perhaps usher in unadulterated peace for years to come. They vote to allow the zombies to help law enforcement patrol the city.