A stocky, horrid-smelling zombie hobbled into the Medical Bay, a stained burlap sack in his rotting arms.
The peppy young woman sitting at the desk- twirling her bright blue hair- looked up from her paperwork and smiled.
"Hello Gerald!" Clarabelle squeeled excitedly. He was about to reply when an angry voice piped up from in his arms, slightly muffled by the sack.
"Don't call him that ridiculous name!" it barked. "His name is Thrasher!"
Thrasher sighed and dumped the bag's contents onto the desk. Vaurian Scapegrace- Self proclaimed Killer Supreme, Zombie King, and now severed rotting head- rolled into a mug of boiling tea and sloshed it onto his face.
"OUCH!"
Clarabelle cocked her head in a puzzled manor, then prodded him with the end of her pen.
"Ooooh...." she said in fascination.
Thrasher shook his head sadly. "He's a bit poorly....do you think you could help him?"
"I suppose so...it may take a while to find a suitable body donour that could suppourt his big nose."
"My nose isn't THAT big..." muttered the head.
"Are you sure you could do it on such short notice? You seem awfully busy with your paperwork..."
"Do I? I suppose I do. Actually, I was just drawing a picture of a giraffe in a hula skirt. But you never know when you might need something like that."
"Oh."
Scapegrace managed to wiggle his way to the end of the desk.
"You're positive you can fix me?"
"Ahem..."
"Sorry. I mean us."
She shrugged. "Probubly not, but you never know until you try."
She picked up the head and began walking to the operating room.
"I don't suppose you'd consider going out to to dinner with me at the moment?"
"Nope."
"I thought not."
