LITMIR.BIZ

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Big Kuka-Lu-Lu began to sing:

      “Dancing to the beat, eatin’ lots of meat—bikini beach bacon tastes so sweet. But looky out to sea, whatever can it be—something on a surfboard, golly gee!”

      The Beachtones sang the chorus: “He’s a … beach blanket zombieeeee! Beach blanket zombieeeee!”

      Big Kuka-Lu-Lu sang on. “Genes got messed in a government test—one piggy acts different from the rest! He’s an undead male with a corkscrew tail—if they throw him in a cell I ain’t raisin’ bail!”

      “He’s a … beach blanket zombieeeee! Beach blanket zombieeeee!”

      “Zombie lost his cool, stole a powertool—evil psycho-killer screamin’ PORKERS RULE. He’s got a crazy plan, gonna find the man—who cooked up his mama in a fryin’ pan.”

      “He’s a … beach blanket zombieeeee! Beach blanket zombieeeee!”

      At this point, Slim performed a brief but stirring conch shell solo. Then Big Kuka-Lu-Lu continued: “Ravenous and rude, flatulent and crude—zombie’s steamin’ mad and I’m totally screwed. Gonna eat my nuts, tear out all my guts—no more sex with bikini sluts!”

      “He’s a … beach blanket zombieeeee! Beach blanket zombieeeee!”

      Big K and the band then dropped to their knees and sang together: “Oh, yeaaaahhhh!”

      Yvetta put the back of her hand to her forehead. “I am—how you say?—terrified. Where is that awful zombie now?”

      Big Kuka-Lu-Lu shrugged. “We don’t know. That crazy zombie has been killing scientists all last night and today, too. He even scared a sea gull. That was when I decided to swim over here. I figured, since that zombie was psychic, it might have read my mind enough to know about the beach party here tonight!”

      Suddenly an attractive blonde businesswoman in a pinstriped blazer, mini-skirt, and high-heels rushed up to Big Kuka-Lu-Lu. She put down the briefcase she was carrying and shook his hand. “How do you do? I just heard your song while I was buying a hot dog and frankly—it’s terrific! I’m Marigold DeLaVanQuester, the big record producer, and I’m gonna make you a star! You’ll be rich!”

      “Marigold DeLaVanQuester? Wow!” cried Lornetta, who was still eavesdropping. “She’s the lady who turns unknowns into stars! I read about her in all the Hollywood magazines!”

      Big Kuka-Lu-Lu turned to Yvetta and hugged her to his manly chest. “Did you hear that? Now we can move away from this unholy, zombie-infested beach. We can bring the gang, too, since I’ll be needing backup singers and roadies!”

      The gang cheered, “Hurray! Hurray for Big Kuka-Lu-Lu!” The band began to play and they all danced. Lornetta and Turnpike slipped away to have their own private skinny-dipping party … which actually worked out in their favor. Two minutes after they left the scene, Yvetta put a dainty finger to her temple.

      “I just—how you say?—realized something,” cried the enticing foreign exchange student. She looked at Marigold DeLaVanQuester. “There isn’t a hot dog stand on this beach.”

      The producer smiled as she opened her briefcase. “A gold star for Lady Einstein here. No hot dog stand yet! But it’ll be open for business in about ten minutes.”

      Marigold pulled off her—or rather, his rubber mask just before revving up the mini-chainsaw in the briefcase. A corkscrew tail, wagging briskly with happiness, popped up from under the mini-skirt. “Human hot dogs, and they’re all for me! Because after all—” Foamy spittle flew from his leathery lips as he sang, “I’m a …. beach blanket zombieeeee! Beach blanket zombieeeee! Oh, yeaaaahhhh!”

      Vulture Soup for the Soulless

      Driving home, Inga began crying again. Then she glanced in the rearview mirror and wailed—she’d completely ruined the make-up she’d applied after her earlier crying jag.

      She tried to wipe the tears out of her eyes, but that only rubbed in her eyeliner, turning her eye-sockets into blue-black pits around her sky-blue irises.

      “Too skinny?” she had sobbed to her boss, Mrs. Blair, earlier that afternoon. “But I’m supposed to be skinny. I teach aerobics. I’m providing a good example! There isn’t an ounce of fat on me.”

      Mrs. Blair, a fiftyish woman with mouse-brown hair, winced at her words. “I’m afraid that’s the problem. There really isn’t an ounce of fat on you. Frankly, you don’t look healthy. You look ... emaciated. Anorexic.”

      “I eat plenty. I really do!” Inga folded her bony arms over her petite bosom. ‘You can’t discriminate against someone because of their weight.”

      “Oh please. That argument only works if you’re too fat.” Mrs. Blair brushed a mousy lock out of her face. “Besides, your class only has eight people in it. All the other instructors have at least twenty in their sessions.”

      That was when Inga had started to cry. She’d rushed into the women’s locker room to fix her make-up—she’d also needed to touch-up her beige foundation, which helped to conceal her pallor.

      Now her face was ruined again. Fortunately, she didn’t have any stops to make on the way home.

      She peeked at her reflection again. God, but she looked like a skull. But she couldn’t help it. She’d always been bony and pale. She simply couldn’t gain weight. Fatty or sugary foods just gave her diarrhea. As for a tan: any amount of sun only burned her. And when the lobster-red eventually peeled away, she’d be back to her usual chalk-white.

      She felt like Hell—but at least the drive home was pretty, down a country road lined with trees. It was late October, and all the leaves had turned yellow, orange, brown and red. She rented the upper half of a married couple’s house, outside of town. Trent Graves, a high school teacher, and his wife Claire needed the extra money because they had a lot of medical bills: he had diabetes and she had some sort of odd sleep disorder. The top floor didn’t have a kitchen, so the Graves let her use theirs.

      She liked the couple, but she knew she couldn’t live with them forever. Claire watched TV and generally puttered around downstairs at odd hours, and sometimes the noise woke Inga. She didn’t want to make Claire feel self-conscious by complaining about it.

      What was she going to do for money now...? Well, she could always go back to the perfume counter at Hedley’s department store. All the socialites who bought those prissy, pricey fragrances were just as trim as her. But still, it wouldn’t be as much fun as aerobics. She simply loved making folks happy and being on the go.

      Inga rolled down her window—the brisk autumn air felt good on her skin, and it dried her tears, too. A bright-red leaf blew into the car and landed right in her lap. It matched her hair exactly. When she was little, the other kids used to make fun of her hair, but she loved the color anyway. She picked up the leaf and tucked it over her ear. She took one more quick glance in the mirror. Now she looked like some kind of savage tree spirit, with her shadowed eyes and that bold leaf nestled in her flaming locks.

      Suddenly she realized—she couldn’t show up at the Graves house with her make-up all smeared. It would be obvious she’d been crying, and she didn’t want to upset or worry Trent and Claire. Plus, the raccoon eyes would only remind Claire of how bad her eyes looked... She always had dark circles around her eyes from lack of sleep.

      Inga couldn’t fix her make-up in the car—she’d need to wash off the old stuff first. Where could she go...? She didn’t want to drive all the way back to town. The Graves’ only neighbors were a bestselling author and her husband—but nobody ever saw them. The writer, Rose Tremble, had churned out some fancy self-help book called What Color Is Your Karma’s Air-Bag? Inga had looked at it in a bookstore once—pretty drippy stuff. It compared life to a car trip, and people had to decide if their life’s car had a white air-bag or a black one. Apparently it all depended on how they reacted to stress.

      Inga saw the lane to the Tremble house coming up on

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