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

with what he needed, as well as a handful of coins for myself.
“Here you go.”
The zombie took the items from me and set to work. I tried to hold still. First
came a set of the worker’s robes, stinking of blood and formaldehyde.
“I can’t believe you’re going through with this,” Morte shook his head in
disbelief, “How barmy are you?”
I shrugged, “Pretty barmy, I suppose.”
A mask of bleached leather covered my head, making it look skeletal and
grotesque. A layer of embalming fluid was liberally applied to my body, then
several of patches of my skin were stitched up to grant a bit of a patched-up
look. Working from my feet upwards, the zombie threaded the needle
through my scars, then finished off the disguise by stitching up my lips. I
winced a bit at the needle and thread as they pierced the tender skin, but
the zombie’s fingers were deft and quick. I sucked the blood from the tiny
wounds.
“Hey, can you make the stitches on the lips any tighter?” Morte piped up.
“Stuwh vit, Murte-”
The zombie held up his hand. “Curful! Talk pulls stitches out, ruin diz-gize.
Zumbie no talk. Yoo got to talk? Talk slow, curful.”
I tried again, slow, careful, “Mmph... mmm. I... understand.”
The zombie frowned. “Diz-gize wun’t last long... um-balming fluid dry up,
stitchez fall out.” He examined me again. “Prob-lee not last ousside
Mortuaree. Uhnd no running! Yoo run, yoo ruin whole diz-gize.”
I nodded, “Fanks.”
I feel so pretty.
80