You struggle with the dilemma for a few seconds, and then decide to do the prudent thing. You viciously dismember and murder eight of the victims, and then simply bite the remaining four. Then you stand back and watch them become hideous zombies before your eyes.

The moment touches you more profoundly than you'd expected it to--in almost a paternal way. You and Candace never had kids. Candace always wanted them, and you told her you wanted them, but in fact you've been secretly mixing progesterone into her coffee grounds since the day you married her. You fucking seriously didn't want kids.

But now, watching your zombie spawn rise and lope off into the night, bent on killing and terrorizing, you can't help but feel a swell of pride and contentment. Somehow, you just know things will be fine from now on.

"Wait up for me, you rascals!" you shout, and run off after them, and the lot of you enjoy a carefree and happy existence for the next ninety seconds, until a terrified soccer mom blows all of your fucking heads off with a 12-gauge.


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