by Bill Tiepelman
The Enigmatic Zombie Gnome: Brain on the Rocks
It wasnโt easy being undead. And for a gnome, it was especially awkward. Gerald, formerly known as โGerald the Garden Defender,โ now just went by โThe Enigmatic Zombie Gnome.โ Partly because it sounded mysterious, but mostly because no one in their right mind would mess with a brain-holding zombie gnome. Gerald, once a proud protector of suburban lawns, had been through some stuff. It all started when some dipshit sorcererโprobably fresh off his third Dungeons & Dragons campaignโdecided he needed a few gnome corpses for "experiments." A couple of chants, a blood moon, and one botched spell later, Gerald and his fellow garden buddies were up and walking. Except now, they werenโt trimming hedges or scaring squirrels. No, they were dragging their sorry, rotting butts around, contemplating lifeโs bigger questions. Like, โWhy the hell was Gerald holding a brain?โ โThis canโt be mine,โ Gerald muttered, staring at the dripping, mushy mass in his hand. He squeezed it lightly. A satisfying squelch. โFeels a little too fresh to be mine, honestly. Or maybe Iโve just been dead too long to remember.โ He scratched his cobweb-covered hat, which, letโs be real, was holding on to its last shred of dignity by a thread. Literally. Wandering around the garden, Gerald glanced at the other zombie gnomes. Steveโwho still had a daisy growing out of his eye socketโwas gnawing on a stick. Classic Steve. And Larry? Larry just stared into the distance with a vacant look, drool pooling on his chin. Probably thinking deep thoughts about existentialism or some crap. Or maybe he was just wondering where his pants went. It was a toss-up. โRight,โ Gerald mumbled, tossing the brain up like a football. He caught it with an impressive splat. โGuess I should find the idiot this belongs to.โ Gerald was no hero. He didnโt give two dead rat turds about whose brain it was. But he also didnโt want to be mistaken for some gory IKEA mascot lugging a squishy accessory everywhere. He had standards. Off to the Neighbors Gerald shuffled past the rusty garden gate and out onto the sidewalk. The sun was settingโthankfully, because zombie gnomes in broad daylight? Not exactly โincognito.โ The first stop was Mr. and Mrs. Johnsonโs place next door. They were old, weird, and smelled like prune juice, but if anyoneโs brain had spontaneously vacated their skull, it was probably one of them. Gerald gave the doorbell a try, but his green, decomposing finger went straight through it. โPerfect,โ he groaned. He was about to kick the door in when Mrs. Johnson opened it, staring wide-eyed at the gnome standing on her welcome mat, brain in hand. โOh dear, what have you got there?โ she asked, squinting through thick bifocals. Gerald groaned. If she had a brain at all, it was clearly on its last neurons. โIs this yours?โ Gerald asked, thrusting the brain toward her like a broken UPS package. โFound it in the garden. Thought you mightโve dropped it. Though honestly, if it was yours, you probably wouldnโt even notice. No offense.โ Mrs. Johnson tilted her head. โI donโt think so, dear. Iโm quite sure mineโs still in here somewhere.โ She tapped her temple with a bony finger. โRight. Yeah, sure,โ Gerald muttered under his breath. โWell, if you happen to lose it, you know where to find me.โ He waved the brain for emphasis, letting a chunk of it plop onto her doorstep. โWhoops. My bad.โ And with that, he shuffled off down the street. The Bar Crawl Next stop, the local dive bar. Maybe someone there had misplaced their brainโGerald certainly wouldnโt be surprised, judging by the clientele. The bar was dimly lit, reeked of stale beer, and was populated by the same two guys who had probably been glued to their stools since the Reagan administration. Gerald dragged himself in, brain still in tow, and plopped onto a stool. The bartenderโa grizzled man who looked like heโd seen one too many zombie flicksโjust stared. โWe donโt serve gnomes,โ he grunted, polishing a glass with all the enthusiasm of someone hoping for an early death. โNot here for a drink,โ Gerald replied, propping the brain on the counter. โUnless youโve got something thatโll make this less squishy. Got any formaldehyde on tap?โ The bartender raised an eyebrow. โBuddy, if thatโs your brain, I think youโve had enough drinks already.โ โHa. Ha. Hilarious,โ Gerald said with a roll of his milky, undead eyes. โBut seriously. Anyone lose this? Saw some of your regulars out back, and letโs be honest, this brain probably has more function than half of them combined.โ The bartender snorted, wiping down the counter. โTry the morgue, pal. Maybe someone thereโs missing a few marbles.โ Some Questions Are Best Left Unanswered By the end of the night, Gerald still hadnโt found the owner of the brain. And after running into a couple of particularly brainless joggers, he was starting to wonder if it was worth keeping around at all. He gave it a last squish, smirking at the satisfying sound. โYou know what? Screw it,โ Gerald decided, tossing the brain into a nearby hedge. โSomeoneโll find it. Or not. Either way, Iโm done being the neighborhood lost-and-found.โ He stretched, groaning as his bones popped. โBack to the garden for me. Maybe tomorrow Iโll lose a limb and someone will return it. Or maybe, just maybe, Iโll find out whose dog keeps crapping on my lawn.โ As Gerald shuffled back to his post, he couldnโt help but smile. Being undead was a pain in the ass, but heyโat least he wasnโt completely brainless. Unlike Steve.
