The wyllop peers at you, attempting to make an observation. He raises an eyebrow. "Who thuh 'ell are you an' wot are yeh doin' 'ere?" He repeats, as he stood up straight. You look around. It's a public alleyway. You point this out to the odd smelling fellow. "...Roight." He gave a snap. "Shouddah thought of that fact. But, still. Yew look like yew could round up a few 'appy meals anytime of the day. Speaking of 'appy meals, you got any food?" The strange man asks. You give a confused stare. "I mean, I know I am a zombeh an' all...but I still get 'ungry. I could taste yer brain flesh if yew would prefer." He grins, and wags his tail. You roll your eyes, and begin to walk away. The dead man continues to follow you. "Yew at least got some change? I don't mean metaphorically eitha'. I mean actual cold 'ard cash to spend." "On what?" "Oh...food. Liquids. Maybe a pop of Oxycotin or two." Great, a druggie. You then notice a sandwich in your bag. Why do you have a sandwich? You don't remember...anyway, you figure the guy will run off after you hand him the product. You give him the sandwich. He gives a loud cheer, and grabs the sandwich. He took a hunking bite out of it. Still chewing, he makes a comment. "Tastes like burgundy." What? "Yep, definitely burgundy. I was thinking maroon for a while..." You ask the fellow what he meant by this. "Well, in me good 'onest perspective, all colors 'ave a flavor. Whoever disagrees is either ah bloody fool, or they never 'ad a lick of some good ol' LSD. Or at least some MDMA. This is definitely burgundy." "You died from an overdose, didn't you?" "No!' Pieces of lettuce fly out of his mouth. "I was 'it by a lorry. I did have a pop of E, but I was 'it." "Right. I'm going now." You leave the wyllop to his sammich eating. That was interesting.
---Samuel Smith was born on June 18, 1942. He grew up, but never really matured intellectually. Due to his teenage angst and loose morals, he became a Mod. His parents, of course, disagreed with it. He got in all sorts of trouble, and was of course, arrested a few times. Eventually it became his end when he crashed into a semi, quickly ending his life at the age of 24 years. Obviously, though his parents and only friend were thrown into despair, he never really changed in heart. As if he was completely unaware that styles and people have changed, he still swears against Elvis and motorcycles, and feels the need to indulge in expensive Italian clothing. Even if he is a homeless zombie with an old scooter for a friend.
Graveyard Wyllop
