Free How to Rescue a Dead Princess by Jeff Strand Page B

bloodstained blade and flower designs on the handle.
    “No!” said Randall. “I mean, it's very hard for me to stay romantic after multiple murder. Last time that happened—poof!—my lips wouldn't pucker for hours.”
    Then, proving that mercy can be granted, there was a knock at the door. “Hate to interrupt,” Demon Baby said through the wood, “but we have a serious problem out here.”
    “How serious?” Grysh asked, thoroughly annoyed.
    “Well, on a scale of one to ten, one being peace and quiet, ten being the world coming to an end, eight being the zombies outside getting ready to make a violent raid upon our mausoleum, I'd have to rank it an eight.”
    Grysh got up, motioned for Randall to follow her, then left the bedroom. Joining Demon Baby, they walked back to the main part of the mausoleum.
    At that moment, three very bad things happened.
    First, and most noteworthy, four stained-glass windows shattered from having zombies crash through them. These zombies did not look happy. Part of this was due to the shards of glass now sticking in them, but one can safely assume that their anger had been present before the actual vandalism. In a related incident, the door to the mausoleum burst open, revealing another helping of irate living dead.
    Second, in a coincidence rivaled only by the time the King of Lockhart made the comment that “it would sure be amusing if those little things that dangle in the back of people's throats suddenly fell from the sky” mere seconds before the legendary Uvula Rainfall, Grysh lost her magic powers. This was something that happened once a century to all witches, and it only lasted eight minutes. In a further coincidence rivaled only by the time the King of Adams said “I wish I had a trout in my pants,” seconds before his advisors dropped a fish down his pants (though they replaced the trout with a piranha), the situation would be resolved in seven minutes and fifty-two seconds.
    Third, Randall remembered he hadn't brushed his teeth that morning. It was a minor problem, comparatively, but still noteworthy considering that gum disease takes no prisoners.
    The zombies were still pathetically slow-moving, but they had all the escape routes covered. Grysh snapped her fingers, trying to conjure her mystic powers. When nothing happened, she snapped them again. And again.
    One of the zombies took this as his cue to begin a musical number, but thankfully was interrupted before he could sing.
    “I wish to read from a prepared statement,” said a zombie at the front door, as the zombies began shuffling forward. “This has been signed by all of us. ‘To whom it may concern. We are sick and tired of the oppression brought upon us by the dictatorial policies of the management. If our grievances are not heard and acted upon, we shall be forced to take severe measures.'”
    The zombie cleared his throat, being one of the few zombies whose throat was in clearable condition. “Okay, here are our grievances,” he said. “First, we are fed up with the lack of decent food around here. I guess ‘fed up’ isn't the best way to phrase that, but you know what I mean. We're not saying you have to breed humans for us, just quit killing so many of them in the Realm of Mystery! Ditch the ‘legs’ question.”
    “I'm listening,” said Grysh. “What else?”
    “Second, we'd like some sort of beautification project implemented in the cemetery. It's embarrassing to have what few victims come around see the place in such deplorable condition. If we could get some cleaning products for the tombstones, we'd be very appreciative. And flowers go a long way.”
    “Tulips or daffodils?” Grysh asked.
    “What do you guys think?” the zombie foreman asked his comrades. They discussed it amongst themselves for a few moments. “Could we get back to you on that?” the foreman asked.
    “Of course. Anything else?”
    “Yes. A change of clothes would be nice. Most of us were buried in our finest