It wasn’t easy being undead. And for a gnome, it was especially awkward. Gerald, formerly known as “Gerald the Garden Defender,” now just went by “The Enigmatic Zombie Gnome.” 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 sorcerer—probably fresh off his third Dungeons & Dragons campaign—decided 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 weren’t trimming hedges or scaring squirrels. No, they were dragging their sorry, rotting butts around, contemplating life’s bigger questions. Like, “Why the hell was Gerald holding a brain?”
“This can’t be mine,” Gerald muttered, staring at the dripping, mushy mass in his hand. He squeezed it lightly. A satisfying squelch. “Feels a little too fresh to be mine, honestly. Or maybe I’ve just been dead too long to remember.” He scratched his cobweb-covered hat, which, let’s 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. Steve—who still had a daisy growing out of his eye socket—was 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.
“Right,” Gerald mumbled, tossing the brain up like a football. He caught it with an impressive splat. “Guess I should find the idiot this belongs to.” Gerald was no hero. He didn’t give two dead rat turds about whose brain it was. But he also didn’t 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 setting—thankfully, because zombie gnomes in broad daylight? Not exactly “incognito.” The first stop was Mr. and Mrs. Johnson’s place next door. They were old, weird, and smelled like prune juice, but if anyone’s 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. “Perfect,” 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.
“Oh dear, what have you got there?” she asked, squinting through thick bifocals. Gerald groaned. If she had a brain at all, it was clearly on its last neurons.
“Is this yours?” Gerald asked, thrusting the brain toward her like a broken UPS package. “Found it in the garden. Thought you might’ve dropped it. Though honestly, if it was yours, you probably wouldn’t even notice. No offense.”
Mrs. Johnson tilted her head. “I don’t think so, dear. I’m quite sure mine’s still in here somewhere.” She tapped her temple with a bony finger.
“Right. Yeah, sure,” Gerald muttered under his breath. “Well, if you happen to lose it, you know where to find me.” He waved the brain for emphasis, letting a chunk of it plop onto her doorstep. “Whoops. My bad.” And with that, he shuffled off down the street.
The Bar Crawl
Next stop, the local dive bar. Maybe someone there had misplaced their brain—Gerald certainly wouldn’t 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 bartender—a grizzled man who looked like he’d seen one too many zombie flicks—just stared. “We don’t serve gnomes,” he grunted, polishing a glass with all the enthusiasm of someone hoping for an early death.
“Not here for a drink,” Gerald replied, propping the brain on the counter. “Unless you’ve got something that’ll make this less squishy. Got any formaldehyde on tap?”
The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Buddy, if that’s your brain, I think you’ve had enough drinks already.”
“Ha. Ha. Hilarious,” Gerald said with a roll of his milky, undead eyes. “But seriously. Anyone lose this? Saw some of your regulars out back, and let’s be honest, this brain probably has more function than half of them combined.”
The bartender snorted, wiping down the counter. “Try the morgue, pal. Maybe someone there’s missing a few marbles.”
Some Questions Are Best Left Unanswered
By the end of the night, Gerald still hadn’t 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.
“You know what? Screw it,” Gerald decided, tossing the brain into a nearby hedge. “Someone’ll find it. Or not. Either way, I’m done being the neighborhood lost-and-found.” He stretched, groaning as his bones popped. “Back to the garden for me. Maybe tomorrow I’ll lose a limb and someone will return it. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll find out whose dog keeps crapping on my lawn.”
As Gerald shuffled back to his post, he couldn’t help but smile. Being undead was a pain in the ass, but hey—at least he wasn’t completely brainless. Unlike Steve.
