A cat did not get my tongue, it was a baboon. I was only three months old when the hellish, hungry ape sneaked into my room that fateful afternoon and found me alone in my crib. I know it sounds crazy, a miracle of a coincidence that a beast that had escaped from the city zoo found its way to my room thirty miles from where it escaped. My  parents had foolishly left the sliders open on the balcony and the ape apparently was attracted to the colorful mobile spinning like a top in the breeze next to my crib.

In any case, now at last, I am at home among zombies since they never speak. Not one of the walking dead know or care I have no tongue like the cruel humans did.

I can’t explain it, but when I fall upon a delicious human, the first thing I do is rip out his or her tongue(notice I’m politically correct) and eat it, before going on to their other succulent delights. Does that make me a bad person, I mean zombie? I blame my parents for the monster I’ve become. They left the slider open.

Have a great Halloween by cuddling up with one of Billy Wells’ books of horror stories before turning in this October. But don’t leave any sliders open. You never know what may creep in.

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