Wayefayre Bitches part duh.

Harrold awoke on a satin pillow, wrapped in a linen sheet, and wearing a monkey fez. The smell of goat was strong, as was the ticking of a watch. The watch was attached to a wrist. The wrist was wresting on his forehead, pressing the watch into Harrold’s meaty brow. It was Marni’s watch, and Marni’s wrist. Marni was asleep.

Harrold could not move, and somehow, he did not care. He lay there in a leaden state, swaddled in the linen cloth. The ceiling was foam core. Harrold had never been so fascinated by the tiny little dots in a yellowing foam core panel ceiling before. The dots seemed so random. It was a pleasing order. He hoped that Marni & Tila were be pleased by them too. This perplexed him for a moment, and then he became perplexed by the perplexion. Was he in love? Where was his bedroom, and how did he get here? He had cloudy remembrances of the strange date, and something about a pipe. But oddly enough, he believed that he might just be mildly satisfied for the first time in his chubby little life. The sheets russled.

Up stood Posi, an animal best described as a bur oak in dog form, only with fur instead of bark, only four limbs, no leaves, and not a tree. She did seem to be housing squirrels, but that is another tale. She had been a sleeping wedge between Harrold and Marni, and now that she was awake, Marni and Tila stirred as well. “Goood morning Posi,” Tila piped.

“Oh, Posi! Sweet Posi, my sweet little Posi,” Marni crackled.

“Does Posi gotta pee pee?” Continued Tila, who was now sitting up. The wine flutes were now absent; leaving two noodle like breasts that flopped sleepily. She hugged the monstrous dog’s head and cooed sweet mufflings into the dogs black fluff, which sounded something like, “Mar-ruffums, dooogeeee, duh, luffums, pooosheee, dooooshee.”

Then Marni sat up. Here baggies of flesh lumps adjusted themselves according to gravity’s grand plan. “Up Harrold,” she said. Harrold sat up. It was an elegant movement for such an inelegant man. He smiled. He’d never done a sit up before, much less while swaddled in linen cloth. “Good boy,” perced Marni, poking a cheese goldfish cracker between Harrold’s puffy lips and then ruffled what little hair he had.

Tila jumped up clappingly and sang, “Weeeee have a zombieeeee! Weeeee have a zombieeeeeeee!”

“Hush! He may not be fully ripe yet. Tila, get the pipe.” Marni sat cross leggingly in her eternal muumuu she wore as if tie die patchwork were the robe of majesty. “We gotta make sure he’s ours forever.”

‘Forever? How much forever?’ Harrold almost thought. A smoky veil seemed to have descended over Harrold’s thinkings. ‘Could I be drugged?’ he thunk. ‘Of course not. Who would try and harm me? I am protected by my mistresses,’ he quickly swept aside. He was happy. Right? He was where he always wanted to be. He needed Marni and Tila. And they needed him. This made him smile.

“Harrold, happy? Harrold want a cracker? Harrold up! Harrold stand up!” Marni squawked. And Harrold responded. His legs miraculously found their way under him and he stood like a rising monolith of pudge. Another cracker was quickly shoved lipward. He munched happily.

Now he was standing with Marni, Tila, and Posi around him like a family examining a newly purchased used car. “Aw, our zombie’s fat,” whined Tila as she plugged a knot of hair into an oily old pipe that looked like it was carved out of an old man’s knee cap.

“Don’t you worry about our Harrold, he’s gonna be a good boy, and get nice and fit, aren’t ya, Harrold?” Marni creaked to her feet. Harrold nodded, and smiled meekly. He wanted to, and even though he wasn’t sure why, it was his only desire. To please these two elegant maidens, Marni and Tila, was his only need. They were the most lovely ladies who ever were.

“Which pipe you usin’?” Marni dramatized to Tila, “Oh, not that one! Tiiiiiilllaaaa! Why don’t we use the goat blood pipe?”

“That one is dirty, Harrold will clean it later, don’t worry, Mommy, this’ll be just fine, won’t it Harrold?” Harrold nodded as the pipe was pushed into his blubbery lips. Tila lit a lighter, and then ordered, “Suck.” Harrold sucked. The naptha flame was drawn into the bowl. A crimson cherry grew, and the blue-black smoke curled into the stem and dove down Harrold’s throat filling his cherry pink lungs. Tentacles of smoke gripped the delicate branches of bronchia, and Harrold lungs spasmed. He coughed while the pipe was still at his lips, and the burning knot of hair in the pipe bowl was launched, sending flying sparks of burning nastiness into the air and onto Tila, the mattress they were standing on, Posi, and Marni too. “Ah! Filth!” the Wayefayre Bitches cried in unison. Harrold couldn’t stop retching. His body was in trauma, and so he did what any drugged up fat man swaddled in linen cloth and coughing like an emphysemoidal basset hound might do. He bounced around the room breaking things and causing an absolute state of higgledy piggledy. So began Harrold’s first day as a Zombie.