The Key to Zombie Rule

The Dreadful Obazy lounges about his office. Like most zombies he dreams about his next pound of flesh, unfortunately the nagging health care agenda has taken longer than expected and he must shift his focus from his succulent pound of flesh to that of taking over an industry and ultimately the American people.

"Obazy. Stop your daydreaming." The command came from the hidden recess of his office, by one of the few people who truly struck fear into his soulless being.

"I'm sorry Mr. Hand." The obsequious nature of Obazy would have astounded all who had ever seen the arrogant fool patter on television or stand before a crowd of thousands with his chin jutting out like a pumped up Mussolini.

"The health care reform must be passed, and it must be made law. It will be the end to a human dominated world and usher in the age of zombies."

"I understand Mr. Hand, but I am hampered by the law."

"Then change the law. Once this is passed we will control the humans, they will be our cattle, our slaves. The zombies will rule this world as was foretold in the book of Ghosts. Nold and the Inquisitors have planted the seeds of death throughout the world, zombies on the precipice of domination. You are the key that will open the gates and let the walking dead reign for all eternity."

Tea Time

The Dreadful Obazy looks out his office window to see a group of citizens holding signs, and throwing things. At the distance he has little worries that what they are throwing will come any where near him. All he has is the curiosity of the zombie blood that flows through his body. He wonders if the little things taste good. After all a dutiful good zombie is always on the out look for food, and he being the leader of the zombies is no different.

?What are they throwing??

?Tea bags,? says Dead Fish the most obedient of all the zombie followers.

?Tea bags, why are they throwing tea bags?

Dead Fish looks out the window with a sneer, the flesh on the side of his face hanging limply.

?They are acting out a protest against taxes, like the founding fathers at the Boston tea party.?

The heavy clock hits Dead fish on the side of his head and knocks him to the floor. He lurches to his feet, and then crumbles back to his knees, black blood oozing out the gash in the side of his head like used motor oil from a spigot.

Obazy stands over him, fists clenched and legs slightly apart, looking like a boxer waiting for an opponent to rise so he can beat him back down.

?Founding fathers, whose founding fathers,? splutters Obazy, in his blind wide eyed rage, ?not my fathers. My founding fathers are Marx, Owen, Fourier, and Castro. Don?t ever allude to any other founding fathers in my presence. This country was built on a sham; I will destroy it and rebuild it as it should be. No zombie will be responsible for his will and his own actions, all religions will be destroyed they only make man a weak.

?ZOMBIES, I WILL HAVE MY NATION OF ZOMBIES.?

Dead fish lies on the floor below the pontificating Obazy, covering his eyes with his hands and crying, moved by the sheer enchantment of the one.

Obazy Mouch

The Dreadful Obazy, Obazy Mouch, saunters down the hallway wearing a smug smile and his chin cocked high, so as to look down on all others. The house staff and advisors have taken to holding there eyes down on the floor and not looking the man in the face, lest the feel the wrath of the Obazy backhand.

The Dreadful one recently returned from a trip overseas, where he meet world leaders, some of those leaders lead while others were dictators, some of the countries had free people, and other had people who were little more than slaves.

Upon meeting the King of Sand, his eminence King Kool Haid, the Dreadful one fell to the ground and cried with tears streaming down his face at being in his presence.

The flight home was incredible hard on the Dreadful ones staff, since he ordered everyone to lay on the floor of the plane for the entire fourteen hour flight. He enjoyed watching them lose control of their bowels during the flight, and watching them squirm. Due to his zombie blood, the thick air in the cabin of human waste didn?t bother him. He just smiled and dreamt of the day everyone would be laying at his feet.