“Is it true that there are actual voodoo zombies that are living but nevertheless enslaved?”

The late Mr. Crenshaw adjusted his tie and his lolling jaw. “That’s a reckless exaggeration. The so-called voodoo zombies are simply a combination of cultural belief, hypnosis, and narcotics. We true zombies argue that attaching the term to anyone still living is ignorant and divisive. I can take another question.”

“I’m still not clear on the whole ‘flesh of the living’ thing. Can you clarify?”

A noise that might have been a sigh escaped Crenshaw’s bloated lips and he rolled his bleary eyes. “For the last time: like any other creature, zombies require sustenance. Just like the living, we must eat that which was once alive to survive.”

“But does it stop being alive when you hunt it down and kill it, and is it people?”

“I thought we’d been over this. Look, most anything will satiate our hunger for flesh. There’s no danger if you’re smart about things, and there’s no need to fly off the hook. Come up here and I’ll show you.”

The persistent questioner, after a moment’s hesitation, climbed up onto the dais and approached Crenshaw. He held out a discolored hand for her to shake. She took it, and squealed in terror as Crenshaw’s iron grip brought her into his waiting jaws. A few people in the front rows were splattered with what could only be termed leftovers.

“In sum, there’s no danger if you’re smart about things,” Crenshaw continued between bites of coed. “I think we have time for one more from the audience.”