The zombie cowboy is impervious to your bellowing outrage, and starts wiggling about in order to bring its mouth and your toes in happy biting range.
You draw your pistol â€“ aye, it’s a fine morning for shootings â€“ and fire it into the zombie’s right eye. It makes a satisfying ‘spock!’ sound and splurges eye juice and brain bits on your shins. The zombie pays this fine act of violence exactly zero heed.
It clutches at your foot, not yet decomposed enough to have lost its muscle strength, and turns out to be immune to your kicking too. Stomping has slightly more effect, in that you succeed in breaking its elbow, but it isn’t until you stomp on its fingers â€“ and your own foot â€“ that it lets go. Mostly due to broken fingers. And arrr, you’ve gone and stomped something gross onto your shoe.
The zombie plucks at your socks without effect.
You give the poxy little snot a good boot in the mouth. Your boot comes out with teeth stuck in it.
A stormtrooper, a sticker bearing the logo of a security company stuck crookedly on his arm, stops at your side. Behind him, the blazing form of another zombie finally collapses in a messy, rancid undead-but-finally-dead heap. He looks at you. He looks at the zombie cowboy whining at your ankles. He looks at you. You attempt to smile disarmingly, but this only reveals your missing teeth.
He sighs, and muttering something about not being able to find good trolley boys these days, he blasts the zombie cowboy. It doesnâ€™t jolt the zombie, but sets it on fire. The zombie ignores the whole being on fire thing. The stormtrooper ignores the whole burning undead at his feet thing and sizes you up.
“You mind telling me what happened to our trolley cowboys?”
b. I just be wantin’ some cocoa pops.
c. Shoot- no wait, bludgeon the limey little landlubber.