Jackson knew that if he quit smoking he’d shrivel into the look and feel of a wrinkled sock, so he never stopped, he just kept puffing away until his gums bled and his heart eventually gave out, and so he died, but even then he kept on smoking. He refused to be buried and simply slipped out of his own casket and walked out of the funeral parlor puffing on a Marlboro. Folks around town called him the smoking zombie as he stumbled around the beat-up warehouse side of town after dark, his clothing rotting, his eyeballs rolled into his sockets. He smelled like a dead moose. He didn’t feed on human flesh. He just wanted tobacco, and folks gave it to him, thinking that by doing so he’d leave them alone. He didn’t leave them alone, though. He grew dependent on their cigarettes and pounded on their doors and windows when he ran out, silently screaming for more. Things didn’t improve until Bradley Wordsworth became mayor and persuaded the city council to pass an ordinance forbidding the provision of cigarettes to zombies. Jackson was angry at first and began eating puppies, then department store mannequins. That’s when the city council voted to kill him with Marlboros laced with rat poison. It did the trick all right, and quickly. He exploded, in fact.