He was like an undead boomerang. A zomberang.
Maybe in the morning, sunlight would to turn him back into a statue; then I could take Stone out to the forest where he could frolic among the ferns, gurgle at streams, and make friends with the other interesting rocks.
Rock, meet stubborn place.
I resisted the urge to pour mouthwash in my brain.
Don't know about my knives, but my gun's made of pain.
For a brief, weird minute I felt like Dorothy in Oz, walking down the street with Terric the doubtful, Shame the brainless, and heartless Zay.