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eilonwyhasemuSomewhere on the East Coast, David Cook and Neal Tiemann are in a car, on the way to another acoustic radio gig, after finishing an acoustic radio gig. Tiemann is driving. Cook is organizing his growing collection of radio station bumper stickers.
Tiemann: What do you want for lunch?
Cook: Brains.
Tiemann: You refused to eat brains at that restaurant in New York City.
Cook: I want brains.
Tiemann: If you can hold out another hour, there's supposed to be great hot wings at this pub--
Cook: Brains.
Tiemann: Brains are stewed in cream sauce. Marco will shit high-fiber bricks if you eat cream sauce.
Cook: Brains.
Tiemann: What is with you and the brains today? [looks at Cook closely] Oh. Shit.
Cook: I feel cerebral on the half-shell.
Tiemann: When you were out running this morning, did you run into anyone... unusual?
Cook: Just a bunch of fans.
Tiemann: And what happened?
Cook: I autographed two legs, an arm, an upper back, a photo of myself, and the back of a receipt from Safeway. One smelled me. One groped my ass. Another nibbled my ear. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Tiemann: Did you feel maybe... odd afterward?
Cook: My ear hurt.
Tiemann: Other than that.
Cook: My ass is used to it.
Tiemann: I'm talking about symptoms that you're turning into a zombie!
Cook: I feel kind of numb. Does that count?
Tiemann: Nah, that's normal touring wear-and-tear. I'm talking about symptoms like shambling, drooling... wait, what the hell am I thinking? We just did a great show.
Cook: Dude. I could do that if I was dead.
Tiemann: Dave, that is not what I want to hear at this moment.
Cook: You know what it was like doing over 150 shows. It's not like when we were starting out in Tulsa and had to think about it and being in the wrong mood screwed it up. You do it a bajillion times, and it gets overlearned, like Aristotle says about habits.
Tiemann: Aristotle wrote about rabbits? In what, De Cuniculus?
Cook: In De Partibus Animalium, actually. But I'm talking habits. Not the nun-wearing kind, but the pick-your-nose kind or the tennis-stroke kind. By now, ninety percent of this shit resides in my hindbrain. Put me in front of an audience, and I'm on and into the moment.
Tiemann: So far, you're better at picking your nose than at hitting the tennis ball.
Cook: Practice makes perfect. [pause] De Cuniculus sounds more like Aristotle writing a treatise on pleasing a woman. Are you certain that's the word for "rabbit"?
Tiemann: You sure sound like your normal self. And it's not like you've been eating people or losing body parts--
Cook: Oh, shit.
They both look at what has fallen onto the arm rest between them.
Cook: I guess that's the last goodbye to the loctopus.
Tiemann: We need to bag and quarantine that.
Cook: No, we need to auction that on eBay for charity.
Tiemann: What kind of charity auction would want a hunk of your rotting flesh?
Cook: Leprosy research? I promise you, there's always somebody who wants a piece of me.
Tiemann: Hang tight. There's a Wawa. I need to piss.
He doesn't. Well, actually, it's none of our business if he does. Tiemann may or may not need a potty break, a couple cans of energy drink, or a large bag of Fiery Buffalo Doritos. The stop is a pretext to use his cell phone out of earshot of Cook.
Tiemann: Andy, I may have to kill Dave.
Skib: Dude. I told you to be more assertive about making sure you got the last chicken wing. You bring this shit on yourself.
Tiemann: We haven't even stopped for lunch yet--
Skib: If he wants one of those whole-grain places, just remind him that most restaurants can do something boring and steamed for him--
Tiemann: He's turned into a zombie!
The resulting silence is surprisingly short.
Skib: Has anyone else noticed?
Tiemann: Not yet.
Skib: Then I don't see the problem.
Tiemann: Our best friend has turned into a brain-eating monster.
Skib: We discussed how American Idol might change him--
Tiemann: Man! Brain-eating zombie!
Skib: You're the one who's supposed to be able to cope with the zombie apocalypse.
Tiemann: I never expected Dave to be one of the first victims.
Skib: You're also the person who's there. So cope.
Tiemann is left glaring at a dial tone.
Tiemann [to himself]: Zombies are cool. I like zombies. Dave is cool. I like Dave. Zombies are cool. Hell, there's got to be a syllogism in here somewhere.
He walks back toward the car. He may or may not be carrying salty snack foods.
Tiemann [still to himself]: But what's cool about zombies is killing them. Killing Dave would not be cool.
He gets in the car.
Tiemann: Man. Want some Fiery Buffalo Doritos?
Cook: Do they have a Creamy Brains-flavored Dorito?
Tiemann: That's slated for launch with the 2012 Superbowl. Now look, we need to take this zombie thing as an opportunity.
Cook: Opportunity. Always.
Tiemann: For instance, you could turn jerks like Perez Hilton into zombies, and then I'd have a good reason to kill them.
Cook: No way am I risking spending eternity with Perez Hilton. I'm only zombifying people I like.
Tiemann: I. Uh. You're zombifying... So how about eating Perez Hilton's brains, then?
Cook: Too small to bother.
Tiemann: Just a second.
He gets out of the car again and pulls out his phone.
Tiemann: Andy, he's talking about zombifying people he likes.
Skib: And this is a surprise how?
Tiemann: Do you know what fans are going to do with this?
Skib: Tweet photos with remarks about how hot Dave looks with blood and drool streaming down his face?
Tiemann: They're going to line up to be turned into zombies. Instead of "he has my soul in a box in his basement," it'll be "David Cook ate my brain."
Skib: You know, I never understood that basement thing--
Tiemann: Well, d'oh. Who has a basement in Southern California?
Skib: No, I mean why people would want their souls to be somewhere else. I mean, if you're walking around without a soul, what's to stop you from doing just anything? There's nothing to hold civilization together in a community where people don't have souls.
Tiemann: Oh shit. I hadn't even gotten to that part.
Skib: It's not like the box is for real--
Tiemann: No, the zombie apocalypse. Zombies don't have souls.
Skib: Well, Dave still has some sort of moral compass if he's only going to zombify people he likes.
Tiemann: Shit. He befriends everyone. If he starts zombifying people at today's radio shows--
Cook: What about today's radio shows?
He has shambled out of the car.
Tiemann: We're a little worried that being a zombie may affect your ability to connect with the songs.
Cook: I keep telling you--these are skills laid straight into my nervous system. Listen.
He pulls his acoustic guitar out of the trunk and performs a very credible acoustic version of Mr. Sensitive until--
Cook: Well, shit.
Tiemann: I told you spanking the guitar was going to injure you one of these days.
Cook: Thanks, mom. I did not spank the guitar this time.
Skib: Didn't he cut himself doing that once?
Tiemann: He just had a fucking finger fall off!
Cook: There must have been four-fingered guitar players before... I mean, nine-fingered... I mean, eight-fingered... well, fuck that.
Tiemann: Well, great, now there won't be a guitar blocking fans' view of Dave's loins. I don't get the fascination. It's not like most women haven't seen plenty of dicks.
Skib: How?
Tiemann: How? By... by... shit, they can't all do it with the lights off and their eyes closed.
Skib: Only rock stars have dicks.
Tiemann: What the fuck? Every dude has a dick. I've had one my whole life.
Skib: You must have been destined to be a rock star. I swear--this was covered in fifth grade health ed class. You know, the day where they take the girls aside to tell 'em that menstruation is fun? They told us boys that if we wanted to grow a dick, we'd need to become rock stars, but that it was real risky to have one of those waving around, so most men don't go that route. Hygiene and all.
Tiemann: What have you been smoking?
Skib: Dude, don't you remember? No, wait--
Tiemann: And why were you smoking it while watching Sex and the City reruns? Sometimes you have to tell Jen "no"--
Skib: Monty says I've got it wrong.
Tiemann: No kidding.
Anderson: Balls.
Tiemann: That, too.
Anderson: No, it's balls that you grow when you become a rock star. Seriously. That's why no woman can ever win American Idol again.
Tiemann: What the fuck?
Anderson: There's a point in a person's career at which either you grow a pair or you vanish into obscurity. When a girl on Idol reaches that point, fans start calling her a bitch if she grows 'em. But if she doesn't, she's stuck in a larval form and will lose to a dude who grows his own. So she can't win.
Skib: So what happens if it's not just fingers Dave loses?
Tiemann: This is a not a picture I want in my head. Or in my motel shower.
Cook: Sell 'em on eBay. Everybody wants a piece of me. I'll even autograph it.
Anderson: How would you autograph that?
Cook: Gel pen.
Skib: How do you even know this shit?
Cook: Dude. Google is your friend. Speaking of which, so is Yelp. Somebody around here must serve brains.
Skib: Don't you... you know, eat human brains?
Cook: I'm not going to be that kind of zombie. I'm going to hold myself to a higher standard. Calf brains, lamb brains--
Tiemann: So we're going to go crack open the skull of a sheep, armed only with our wits and our bare hands? Good times.
Cook: I was thinking more along the lines of a roadside café. Biscuits, gravy, brains. I know I've seen brains at the Shoney's breakfast buffet.
Tiemann: Those were grits.
Cook: They looked like brains.
Anderson: Grits.
Cook: They tasted gross, too. At the time. Before I had this craving--
Skib: Grits. I swear it.
Cook: Really? I'm glad I didn't turn into something that'd want to eat those.
Skib: It might be easier--
Tiemann: Pork brains in milk gravy!
Anderson: What the hell?
Tiemann: They come in a can. I ate them on a dare once and didn't puke. Much. Come on, Dave. Let's see if this Wawa has any.
Of course the Wawa has canned pork brains in milk gravy. The Wawa always comes through.
Cook: See, this is great stuff. Low calorie, low fat, low chol--. Holy fuck.
Tiemann: What now?
Cook: These have 1173% of the recommended daily allowance of cholesterol. I can't eat that. Marco will kill me.
Tiemann: You're already dead.
Cook: When has that ever stopped him? There must be some healthier alternative. We need a GNC.
Tiemann: GNC does not sell brains.
Cook: If it can sell protein pudding and liver cleansers, it can sell a low-cholesterol brains substitute.
Tiemann: Isn't that Sarah Palin?
Cook: No, she's a low-brains Constitutional substitute. Come on--
Tiemann: Would you consider the plan of becoming an avenger for justice and eating the human brains of the malefactors? It'd save us a lot of shopping.
Cook: Once I develop a taste for human brains, anything could happen. Better not to start.
Tiemann: Oh, great. My best friend is the Reefer Madness of zombies. Don't even taste that first human brain, or next thing you know, you'll be staggering around, drooling and committing mayhem.
Cook: Well, that is what zombies do.
Tiemann: Look, one can of high-cholesterol pork brains wouldn't kill you even if you weren't already dead. It might make you puke, except you ate those rotted eggs in Manila--
Cook: Only one. And they weren't rotted. They just had baby ducks in them.
Tiemann: That probably had a lot of cholesterol, too.
Cook buys the canned brains and charms the clerk into giving him a plastic bowl to nuke them in.
Cook: Yum! I just wish this bowl was recyclable. I try to be as green as possible.
Tiemann: Comfort yourself that the tin is aluminum.
Cook: But the napkin's paper.
Tiemann: One plastic bowl and one paper napkin are not going to cause environmental armaggedon, any more than one can of high-cholesterol brains will destroy your health. Hell, my theory is that zombies crave brains for the cholesterol because it somehow helps them hold together--
Cook: Oh, shit.
Tiemann: Or not.
Cook: My lips are one of my fans' favorite parts of me.
Tiemann: Many of them like your teeth, too.
Cook: Good, 'cause they'll be seeing more of them. Unless you think superglue would work?
Tiemann: It bonds people's eyelids open. It ought to bond a chunk of lip back on. I'll bet they have some here, too.
Of course they do. The Wawa always comes through. Applying the glue is an interesting process.
Tiemann: If this doesn't work, it'll put a crimp in your plan to be the zombie Edward Cullen.
Cook: You read Twilight? I lacked the intestinal fortitude.
Tiemann: Kira made me watch the movies. She said they were funny.
Cook: Were they?
Tiemann: We had this drinking game and nobody made it to the end. Of any of them. All I know is the hero's a vampire who refuses to drink human blood, like you're a zombie who refuses to eat human brains. So when everyone's ranting about how beautiful you are, you have to sparkle.
Cook: Piece of cake. Every CVS carries glittery foundation. Sparkling is totally under control. What else?
Tiemann: You have to act emo and listen to Muse.
Cook: I've been doing that for years. What else?
Tiemann: You'd have to fall for some chick who has the most totally delicious brains ever, so that you're torn between wanting to fuck her and wanting to smash her skull open and gorge on her cerebellum.
Cook: Dude. That is kinky. And so not-me. I really think women should use their own brains.
Tiemann: I think there might be something about a half-undead baby in there, but that part depends on the superglue working everywhere it needs to.
Cook: Fuck. The tabloids are going to be all over me, aren't they?
Tiemann: Zombie Heart-Throb David Cook will blow Bat Boy right out of the supermarket check-out magazine stands.
Cook: This is not just a minor lifestyle disruption. This is potentially a big setback in establishing myself as a serious singer-songwriter.
Tiemann: Look at the bright side. You'll probably be the subject of a musical. You may even get to write the music.
Cook: Unless I can prove that when Justin Vernon was in those woods in Wisconsin...
Tiemann: No way.
Cook: It'd explain why he didn't mind living in an unheated cabin through a Wisconsin winter. And he does kinda shamble.
Tiemann: Next you'll claim Simon Cowell was a zombie during his last season of Idol.
Cook: It hasn't been ruled out as an explanation for his judging. What would Dave Grohl do?
Tiemann: Dave Grohl is not a zombie. Trust me on this.
Cook: No, but he's seen every angle on the business. And there are a lot of questions about that drummer he replaced on the Foos' second album.
He pulls out his phone and makes the call.
Cook: Dave? It's Dave. Yeah, that Dave. Look, I have a little problem here. A fan bit me, and now I have a craving for brains and my body parts are falling off.
Tiemann: He's going to think you're drunk.
Cook: You've seen this before? Excellent! Oh. Not so excellent. Well, then what?
Tiemann: Then we start gluing your fingers back on during sets and limit ourselves to two keys instead of four.
Cook: Well, there must be a way to deal with that. There wasn't? Oh, it sort of worked. Only not. And then what?
Tiemann: Then I face the unwelcome question of whether I have to kill my best friend. Which kinda takes the whole romance out of the zombie-wrestling thing.
Cook: Then we rise and shine!
Tiemann: Huh?
Cook: Rise! Shine!
Tiemann: What the fuck?
He's in bed in a motel. Early morning sunlight is streaming through the window onto last night's pizza boxes, on which song lyrics have been scribbled.
Cook: We've got an acoustic radio gig in half an hour.
Tiemann: I was dreaming?
Cook: You sure look asleep to me. I've just had the most terrific 10-mile run. Even met some fans.
Tiemann: And what happened?
Cook: I autographed two legs, an arm, an upper back, a photo of myself, and the back of a receipt from Safeway. One smelled me. One groped my ass. Another nibbled my ear. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Tiemann: Great. I think.
Cook: I'm totally stoked for today. I only wish my ear would stop throbbing.
THE END.
Tiemann: What do you want for lunch?
Cook: Brains.
Tiemann: You refused to eat brains at that restaurant in New York City.
Cook: I want brains.
Tiemann: If you can hold out another hour, there's supposed to be great hot wings at this pub--
Cook: Brains.
Tiemann: Brains are stewed in cream sauce. Marco will shit high-fiber bricks if you eat cream sauce.
Cook: Brains.
Tiemann: What is with you and the brains today? [looks at Cook closely] Oh. Shit.
Cook: I feel cerebral on the half-shell.
Tiemann: When you were out running this morning, did you run into anyone... unusual?
Cook: Just a bunch of fans.
Tiemann: And what happened?
Cook: I autographed two legs, an arm, an upper back, a photo of myself, and the back of a receipt from Safeway. One smelled me. One groped my ass. Another nibbled my ear. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Tiemann: Did you feel maybe... odd afterward?
Cook: My ear hurt.
Tiemann: Other than that.
Cook: My ass is used to it.
Tiemann: I'm talking about symptoms that you're turning into a zombie!
Cook: I feel kind of numb. Does that count?
Tiemann: Nah, that's normal touring wear-and-tear. I'm talking about symptoms like shambling, drooling... wait, what the hell am I thinking? We just did a great show.
Cook: Dude. I could do that if I was dead.
Tiemann: Dave, that is not what I want to hear at this moment.
Cook: You know what it was like doing over 150 shows. It's not like when we were starting out in Tulsa and had to think about it and being in the wrong mood screwed it up. You do it a bajillion times, and it gets overlearned, like Aristotle says about habits.
Tiemann: Aristotle wrote about rabbits? In what, De Cuniculus?
Cook: In De Partibus Animalium, actually. But I'm talking habits. Not the nun-wearing kind, but the pick-your-nose kind or the tennis-stroke kind. By now, ninety percent of this shit resides in my hindbrain. Put me in front of an audience, and I'm on and into the moment.
Tiemann: So far, you're better at picking your nose than at hitting the tennis ball.
Cook: Practice makes perfect. [pause] De Cuniculus sounds more like Aristotle writing a treatise on pleasing a woman. Are you certain that's the word for "rabbit"?
Tiemann: You sure sound like your normal self. And it's not like you've been eating people or losing body parts--
Cook: Oh, shit.
They both look at what has fallen onto the arm rest between them.
Cook: I guess that's the last goodbye to the loctopus.
Tiemann: We need to bag and quarantine that.
Cook: No, we need to auction that on eBay for charity.
Tiemann: What kind of charity auction would want a hunk of your rotting flesh?
Cook: Leprosy research? I promise you, there's always somebody who wants a piece of me.
Tiemann: Hang tight. There's a Wawa. I need to piss.
He doesn't. Well, actually, it's none of our business if he does. Tiemann may or may not need a potty break, a couple cans of energy drink, or a large bag of Fiery Buffalo Doritos. The stop is a pretext to use his cell phone out of earshot of Cook.
Tiemann: Andy, I may have to kill Dave.
Skib: Dude. I told you to be more assertive about making sure you got the last chicken wing. You bring this shit on yourself.
Tiemann: We haven't even stopped for lunch yet--
Skib: If he wants one of those whole-grain places, just remind him that most restaurants can do something boring and steamed for him--
Tiemann: He's turned into a zombie!
The resulting silence is surprisingly short.
Skib: Has anyone else noticed?
Tiemann: Not yet.
Skib: Then I don't see the problem.
Tiemann: Our best friend has turned into a brain-eating monster.
Skib: We discussed how American Idol might change him--
Tiemann: Man! Brain-eating zombie!
Skib: You're the one who's supposed to be able to cope with the zombie apocalypse.
Tiemann: I never expected Dave to be one of the first victims.
Skib: You're also the person who's there. So cope.
Tiemann is left glaring at a dial tone.
Tiemann [to himself]: Zombies are cool. I like zombies. Dave is cool. I like Dave. Zombies are cool. Hell, there's got to be a syllogism in here somewhere.
He walks back toward the car. He may or may not be carrying salty snack foods.
Tiemann [still to himself]: But what's cool about zombies is killing them. Killing Dave would not be cool.
He gets in the car.
Tiemann: Man. Want some Fiery Buffalo Doritos?
Cook: Do they have a Creamy Brains-flavored Dorito?
Tiemann: That's slated for launch with the 2012 Superbowl. Now look, we need to take this zombie thing as an opportunity.
Cook: Opportunity. Always.
Tiemann: For instance, you could turn jerks like Perez Hilton into zombies, and then I'd have a good reason to kill them.
Cook: No way am I risking spending eternity with Perez Hilton. I'm only zombifying people I like.
Tiemann: I. Uh. You're zombifying... So how about eating Perez Hilton's brains, then?
Cook: Too small to bother.
Tiemann: Just a second.
He gets out of the car again and pulls out his phone.
Tiemann: Andy, he's talking about zombifying people he likes.
Skib: And this is a surprise how?
Tiemann: Do you know what fans are going to do with this?
Skib: Tweet photos with remarks about how hot Dave looks with blood and drool streaming down his face?
Tiemann: They're going to line up to be turned into zombies. Instead of "he has my soul in a box in his basement," it'll be "David Cook ate my brain."
Skib: You know, I never understood that basement thing--
Tiemann: Well, d'oh. Who has a basement in Southern California?
Skib: No, I mean why people would want their souls to be somewhere else. I mean, if you're walking around without a soul, what's to stop you from doing just anything? There's nothing to hold civilization together in a community where people don't have souls.
Tiemann: Oh shit. I hadn't even gotten to that part.
Skib: It's not like the box is for real--
Tiemann: No, the zombie apocalypse. Zombies don't have souls.
Skib: Well, Dave still has some sort of moral compass if he's only going to zombify people he likes.
Tiemann: Shit. He befriends everyone. If he starts zombifying people at today's radio shows--
Cook: What about today's radio shows?
He has shambled out of the car.
Tiemann: We're a little worried that being a zombie may affect your ability to connect with the songs.
Cook: I keep telling you--these are skills laid straight into my nervous system. Listen.
He pulls his acoustic guitar out of the trunk and performs a very credible acoustic version of Mr. Sensitive until--
Cook: Well, shit.
Tiemann: I told you spanking the guitar was going to injure you one of these days.
Cook: Thanks, mom. I did not spank the guitar this time.
Skib: Didn't he cut himself doing that once?
Tiemann: He just had a fucking finger fall off!
Cook: There must have been four-fingered guitar players before... I mean, nine-fingered... I mean, eight-fingered... well, fuck that.
Tiemann: Well, great, now there won't be a guitar blocking fans' view of Dave's loins. I don't get the fascination. It's not like most women haven't seen plenty of dicks.
Skib: How?
Tiemann: How? By... by... shit, they can't all do it with the lights off and their eyes closed.
Skib: Only rock stars have dicks.
Tiemann: What the fuck? Every dude has a dick. I've had one my whole life.
Skib: You must have been destined to be a rock star. I swear--this was covered in fifth grade health ed class. You know, the day where they take the girls aside to tell 'em that menstruation is fun? They told us boys that if we wanted to grow a dick, we'd need to become rock stars, but that it was real risky to have one of those waving around, so most men don't go that route. Hygiene and all.
Tiemann: What have you been smoking?
Skib: Dude, don't you remember? No, wait--
Tiemann: And why were you smoking it while watching Sex and the City reruns? Sometimes you have to tell Jen "no"--
Skib: Monty says I've got it wrong.
Tiemann: No kidding.
Anderson: Balls.
Tiemann: That, too.
Anderson: No, it's balls that you grow when you become a rock star. Seriously. That's why no woman can ever win American Idol again.
Tiemann: What the fuck?
Anderson: There's a point in a person's career at which either you grow a pair or you vanish into obscurity. When a girl on Idol reaches that point, fans start calling her a bitch if she grows 'em. But if she doesn't, she's stuck in a larval form and will lose to a dude who grows his own. So she can't win.
Skib: So what happens if it's not just fingers Dave loses?
Tiemann: This is a not a picture I want in my head. Or in my motel shower.
Cook: Sell 'em on eBay. Everybody wants a piece of me. I'll even autograph it.
Anderson: How would you autograph that?
Cook: Gel pen.
Skib: How do you even know this shit?
Cook: Dude. Google is your friend. Speaking of which, so is Yelp. Somebody around here must serve brains.
Skib: Don't you... you know, eat human brains?
Cook: I'm not going to be that kind of zombie. I'm going to hold myself to a higher standard. Calf brains, lamb brains--
Tiemann: So we're going to go crack open the skull of a sheep, armed only with our wits and our bare hands? Good times.
Cook: I was thinking more along the lines of a roadside café. Biscuits, gravy, brains. I know I've seen brains at the Shoney's breakfast buffet.
Tiemann: Those were grits.
Cook: They looked like brains.
Anderson: Grits.
Cook: They tasted gross, too. At the time. Before I had this craving--
Skib: Grits. I swear it.
Cook: Really? I'm glad I didn't turn into something that'd want to eat those.
Skib: It might be easier--
Tiemann: Pork brains in milk gravy!
Anderson: What the hell?
Tiemann: They come in a can. I ate them on a dare once and didn't puke. Much. Come on, Dave. Let's see if this Wawa has any.
Of course the Wawa has canned pork brains in milk gravy. The Wawa always comes through.
Cook: See, this is great stuff. Low calorie, low fat, low chol--. Holy fuck.
Tiemann: What now?
Cook: These have 1173% of the recommended daily allowance of cholesterol. I can't eat that. Marco will kill me.
Tiemann: You're already dead.
Cook: When has that ever stopped him? There must be some healthier alternative. We need a GNC.
Tiemann: GNC does not sell brains.
Cook: If it can sell protein pudding and liver cleansers, it can sell a low-cholesterol brains substitute.
Tiemann: Isn't that Sarah Palin?
Cook: No, she's a low-brains Constitutional substitute. Come on--
Tiemann: Would you consider the plan of becoming an avenger for justice and eating the human brains of the malefactors? It'd save us a lot of shopping.
Cook: Once I develop a taste for human brains, anything could happen. Better not to start.
Tiemann: Oh, great. My best friend is the Reefer Madness of zombies. Don't even taste that first human brain, or next thing you know, you'll be staggering around, drooling and committing mayhem.
Cook: Well, that is what zombies do.
Tiemann: Look, one can of high-cholesterol pork brains wouldn't kill you even if you weren't already dead. It might make you puke, except you ate those rotted eggs in Manila--
Cook: Only one. And they weren't rotted. They just had baby ducks in them.
Tiemann: That probably had a lot of cholesterol, too.
Cook buys the canned brains and charms the clerk into giving him a plastic bowl to nuke them in.
Cook: Yum! I just wish this bowl was recyclable. I try to be as green as possible.
Tiemann: Comfort yourself that the tin is aluminum.
Cook: But the napkin's paper.
Tiemann: One plastic bowl and one paper napkin are not going to cause environmental armaggedon, any more than one can of high-cholesterol brains will destroy your health. Hell, my theory is that zombies crave brains for the cholesterol because it somehow helps them hold together--
Cook: Oh, shit.
Tiemann: Or not.
Cook: My lips are one of my fans' favorite parts of me.
Tiemann: Many of them like your teeth, too.
Cook: Good, 'cause they'll be seeing more of them. Unless you think superglue would work?
Tiemann: It bonds people's eyelids open. It ought to bond a chunk of lip back on. I'll bet they have some here, too.
Of course they do. The Wawa always comes through. Applying the glue is an interesting process.
Tiemann: If this doesn't work, it'll put a crimp in your plan to be the zombie Edward Cullen.
Cook: You read Twilight? I lacked the intestinal fortitude.
Tiemann: Kira made me watch the movies. She said they were funny.
Cook: Were they?
Tiemann: We had this drinking game and nobody made it to the end. Of any of them. All I know is the hero's a vampire who refuses to drink human blood, like you're a zombie who refuses to eat human brains. So when everyone's ranting about how beautiful you are, you have to sparkle.
Cook: Piece of cake. Every CVS carries glittery foundation. Sparkling is totally under control. What else?
Tiemann: You have to act emo and listen to Muse.
Cook: I've been doing that for years. What else?
Tiemann: You'd have to fall for some chick who has the most totally delicious brains ever, so that you're torn between wanting to fuck her and wanting to smash her skull open and gorge on her cerebellum.
Cook: Dude. That is kinky. And so not-me. I really think women should use their own brains.
Tiemann: I think there might be something about a half-undead baby in there, but that part depends on the superglue working everywhere it needs to.
Cook: Fuck. The tabloids are going to be all over me, aren't they?
Tiemann: Zombie Heart-Throb David Cook will blow Bat Boy right out of the supermarket check-out magazine stands.
Cook: This is not just a minor lifestyle disruption. This is potentially a big setback in establishing myself as a serious singer-songwriter.
Tiemann: Look at the bright side. You'll probably be the subject of a musical. You may even get to write the music.
Cook: Unless I can prove that when Justin Vernon was in those woods in Wisconsin...
Tiemann: No way.
Cook: It'd explain why he didn't mind living in an unheated cabin through a Wisconsin winter. And he does kinda shamble.
Tiemann: Next you'll claim Simon Cowell was a zombie during his last season of Idol.
Cook: It hasn't been ruled out as an explanation for his judging. What would Dave Grohl do?
Tiemann: Dave Grohl is not a zombie. Trust me on this.
Cook: No, but he's seen every angle on the business. And there are a lot of questions about that drummer he replaced on the Foos' second album.
He pulls out his phone and makes the call.
Cook: Dave? It's Dave. Yeah, that Dave. Look, I have a little problem here. A fan bit me, and now I have a craving for brains and my body parts are falling off.
Tiemann: He's going to think you're drunk.
Cook: You've seen this before? Excellent! Oh. Not so excellent. Well, then what?
Tiemann: Then we start gluing your fingers back on during sets and limit ourselves to two keys instead of four.
Cook: Well, there must be a way to deal with that. There wasn't? Oh, it sort of worked. Only not. And then what?
Tiemann: Then I face the unwelcome question of whether I have to kill my best friend. Which kinda takes the whole romance out of the zombie-wrestling thing.
Cook: Then we rise and shine!
Tiemann: Huh?
Cook: Rise! Shine!
Tiemann: What the fuck?
He's in bed in a motel. Early morning sunlight is streaming through the window onto last night's pizza boxes, on which song lyrics have been scribbled.
Cook: We've got an acoustic radio gig in half an hour.
Tiemann: I was dreaming?
Cook: You sure look asleep to me. I've just had the most terrific 10-mile run. Even met some fans.
Tiemann: And what happened?
Cook: I autographed two legs, an arm, an upper back, a photo of myself, and the back of a receipt from Safeway. One smelled me. One groped my ass. Another nibbled my ear. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Tiemann: Great. I think.
Cook: I'm totally stoked for today. I only wish my ear would stop throbbing.
THE END.
