The slime ball hit Tricia square in her back.
A handful of rotted zombie flesh landed in her cereal, splattering milk and god-knows-what across the table.
“Hey, quit it! What’s the matter with you?”
“We wanna play,” Slimer said.
“Later. Can’t you see I’m eating breakfast?”
She gave zombie Duane the evil eye. “Well, I was eating. Thanks a lot. I’m out of milk. Now what can I have?”
Duane shrugged his shoulders, dropping more putrid bits onto the kitchen floor. “I like brains.”
Tricia stood on her chair so she could look Duane in the eye—the right one—the left fell out years ago. “Yeah, well, there’s only one brain here and no one’s eating it.”
“We’re bored,” Duane said. “We’re tired of writing. We need a break.”
“Oh, geez,” Tricia said. “You’re the ones who wanted to tell the story. And now you want to quit? Do you know how hard it is to open an interdimensional quantum tunnel into someone’s brain in another universe? Well? Do you?”
“But we wanna go drinking,” Slimer said, collapsing into a puddle of whimpering ooze.
“If I can’t have brains, I want whiskey,” Duane said.
Tricia sighed. “You’re allergic to gremlin brains, remember? And pull yourself together, Slimer. Come on, guys. We’ve got a great story. You wanna let those new alien vampires get the upper hand? They’re trying to move in on our territory, you know.”
“Whiskey, then writing,” Duane demanded.
Tricia jumped to the floor. “All right, whiskey it is. But only for a week,” she said, glaring at her companions. “Then it’s back to writing.”
Stephen sighed as he stared at his computer. What happened to his story about slimers, zombies, and gremlins? His characters hadn’t talked to him in days. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea after all.
He closed the file and opened a new document. Last night’s dream about alien vampires might be a good diversion. Maybe it would get him past the writer’s block.