(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

The zombie nodded. “Yu wunt out, go tuh arch on firzzt fluur, nurthwezzt
ruum... Yuh need fungur-bone, shape of crook...” He held up his index finger
and bent it into a crook. “When yuh have key, guh to arch, jump ta sucret
cryp and ken escape frum here. Secret escape route.” He nodded eagerly.
“Yuh can rest there.”
“Ah, one problem, chief,” Morte said quickly, “There’s a memorial service
going on right now on the first floor. Some high-up berk kicked it. There
might be some guests coming in and we’d get spotted easily.”
“I could always lie my way past them.”
Morte looked me up and down, “Yeah, but you hardly look dressed for the
occasion. I mean, come on. The bone sash? The demonhide kilt? That’s so
last century.”
I paused, turning back to the zombie, “How did you get to look like that?”
He grinned as far as he could, lips parting slightly to reveal just a bit of
yellowed teeth, “Me gud at duh-guise. Me ulso gut scars. Me wuhr lots of
embalming fluid. Me make GUD zumbie.” The Anarchist giggled through
stitched lips, then tapped his head. “Duhstees stuh-pud.”
Morte rolled his eyes, “Yeah, they’re the stupid ones all right.”
The sarcasm was evidently lost on the zombie, who nodded eagerly.
“Stuh-pud Duhstees. Me make GUD zumbie.”
I winced, “Doesn’t that hurt?”
He looked at my scars. “I ask yu same question. Me, it not hurt much.” He
pounded his chest with one fist. “Me TUFF.”
I grinned, a horrible idea forming, “That disguise is pretty good. Can you
disguise me as a zombie?”
He looked me up and down for a few moments, mumbling to himself, then
nodded. “U-huh. Me need jar uf embalming flew-id.” He pointed at the scars
on my chest. “N’ some needle and thread.”
A little more rummaging amongst the shelves and I was able to come back
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