about it?"
I shrug. "Nothing wrong with waiting for Mister Right."
"Supposing…"
he begins thoughtfully. "Supposing your Mister Right, as you
call him… had a certain condition, that could be cured, by
your own – condition?"
Oh, no. This sounds
familiar. It's been addressed in our Anthropology lectures, for a
start.
"Have you been
taking sexual health advice from West African witch-doctors?" I
ask, disapprovingly.
He looks surprised, then
down at himself resignedly, with a broad sweeping gesture of both
arms.
"You think?" he
says, and it's the first time I've detected sarcasm in his tone.
"You're talking to a damned zombie, may I remind you?"
"You can't cure
diseases by sleeping with virgins!" I shout at him. "That's
the kind of stupid dumb-ass Medieval thinking that starts pandemics!
Do you see people in the third world bouncing around on TV, the
picture of health? Do you see academics heading over there to find
out why they live so long, instead of going to do their research in
Okinawa? No! It's because it's not the cure! For anything!"
"I don't have a
disease, Sarah," he says, quietly. "I'm dead."
"In which case, how
about I call up my retard housemate's boyfriend Mister Slaughter, and
ask if he'll give YOU the Taser treatment as well?" I snap. A
mental image of Carvery Slaughter with his shirt off arrives
uninvited into my mind, which makes me wonder immediately where I
could get a hole dug, six feet deep, at short notice. "Because I
can assure you, a massive electric shock is more likely to affect
your current situation, than my considerably debatable cherry is!"
"You don't
understand," he moans. "Where do you think all those
rumours started? Because it IS the cure for a zombie…"
God, I've heard some bad
pick-up lines in my time, but this one takes the biscuit. It takes
the whole barrel…
"No, it's not a cure
for zombies. It's a cure for princes, who have been turned into frogs
and hideous beasts, by the Brothers Grimm and Hans
Christian Anderson ," I correct him. "And those were all
fantasy too. Probably to persuade pretty girls to date ugly dudes in
the first place."
"So think of me, as
such a cursed prince," Crispin murmurs. His hand brushes my
cheek lightly, rather like the tickle of a falling autumnal leaf.
"I was thinking more
along the lines of 'depraved' than cursed," I scoff.
"As a zombie, I
assure you that depravity is something I can only aspire to, in my
current situation." He echoes my own words again, in typical NLP
brainwashing-style.
"You're going about
this entirely the wrong way, I hope you realise," I tell him. I
move to one side, aiming to get a clear run to the doorway. "What
self-respecting woman wants an emasculated hero with a sob-story?
Most women would just see the sob-story, and worry that if he was
stupid enough to get himself into such a mess in the first place, he
isn't likely to be able to help out if she's ever in a crisis
herself. It's like guys on dating sites, who don't drive. They might
as well put on their profiles 'Kicked out by Mother aged
forty-seven, needs regular clean laundry and taxi service' ."
Crispin heaves a sigh,
and looks at the floor. He knows he's losing the argument.
What an idiot.
If he'd only kept the
drinks coming, and said a few choice things like " You're very
pretty" and " You smell nice" – this
could all be going so differently right now…
I catch myself before I
start to feel any sorrow for the poor dead guy, and sidle a little
more towards the door.
I remind myself that Ace
Bumgang is probably still at the Summer Ball, getting himself drunk.
He and Carvery Slaughter
probably have an entertaining wager on, regarding the outcome of
their night. Which I could be making interesting use of, instead of
hanging around this place.
"You are right,
Sarah Bellummm ," Crispin agrees, at last. "I see I
will have to prove myself in many ways, before becoming worthy of
your… charms. I will lend you a coat."
I nod, dignity regained.
Before I
I shrug. "Nothing wrong with waiting for Mister Right."
"Supposing…"
he begins thoughtfully. "Supposing your Mister Right, as you
call him… had a certain condition, that could be cured, by
your own – condition?"
Oh, no. This sounds
familiar. It's been addressed in our Anthropology lectures, for a
start.
"Have you been
taking sexual health advice from West African witch-doctors?" I
ask, disapprovingly.
He looks surprised, then
down at himself resignedly, with a broad sweeping gesture of both
arms.
"You think?" he
says, and it's the first time I've detected sarcasm in his tone.
"You're talking to a damned zombie, may I remind you?"
"You can't cure
diseases by sleeping with virgins!" I shout at him. "That's
the kind of stupid dumb-ass Medieval thinking that starts pandemics!
Do you see people in the third world bouncing around on TV, the
picture of health? Do you see academics heading over there to find
out why they live so long, instead of going to do their research in
Okinawa? No! It's because it's not the cure! For anything!"
"I don't have a
disease, Sarah," he says, quietly. "I'm dead."
"In which case, how
about I call up my retard housemate's boyfriend Mister Slaughter, and
ask if he'll give YOU the Taser treatment as well?" I snap. A
mental image of Carvery Slaughter with his shirt off arrives
uninvited into my mind, which makes me wonder immediately where I
could get a hole dug, six feet deep, at short notice. "Because I
can assure you, a massive electric shock is more likely to affect
your current situation, than my considerably debatable cherry is!"
"You don't
understand," he moans. "Where do you think all those
rumours started? Because it IS the cure for a zombie…"
God, I've heard some bad
pick-up lines in my time, but this one takes the biscuit. It takes
the whole barrel…
"No, it's not a cure
for zombies. It's a cure for princes, who have been turned into frogs
and hideous beasts, by the Brothers Grimm and Hans
Christian Anderson ," I correct him. "And those were all
fantasy too. Probably to persuade pretty girls to date ugly dudes in
the first place."
"So think of me, as
such a cursed prince," Crispin murmurs. His hand brushes my
cheek lightly, rather like the tickle of a falling autumnal leaf.
"I was thinking more
along the lines of 'depraved' than cursed," I scoff.
"As a zombie, I
assure you that depravity is something I can only aspire to, in my
current situation." He echoes my own words again, in typical NLP
brainwashing-style.
"You're going about
this entirely the wrong way, I hope you realise," I tell him. I
move to one side, aiming to get a clear run to the doorway. "What
self-respecting woman wants an emasculated hero with a sob-story?
Most women would just see the sob-story, and worry that if he was
stupid enough to get himself into such a mess in the first place, he
isn't likely to be able to help out if she's ever in a crisis
herself. It's like guys on dating sites, who don't drive. They might
as well put on their profiles 'Kicked out by Mother aged
forty-seven, needs regular clean laundry and taxi service' ."
Crispin heaves a sigh,
and looks at the floor. He knows he's losing the argument.
What an idiot.
If he'd only kept the
drinks coming, and said a few choice things like " You're very
pretty" and " You smell nice" – this
could all be going so differently right now…
I catch myself before I
start to feel any sorrow for the poor dead guy, and sidle a little
more towards the door.
I remind myself that Ace
Bumgang is probably still at the Summer Ball, getting himself drunk.
He and Carvery Slaughter
probably have an entertaining wager on, regarding the outcome of
their night. Which I could be making interesting use of, instead of
hanging around this place.
"You are right,
Sarah Bellummm ," Crispin agrees, at last. "I see I
will have to prove myself in many ways, before becoming worthy of
your… charms. I will lend you a coat."
I nod, dignity regained.
Before I
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