10 Best Of Texas Bbq Sauce

Best Of Texas Bbq Sauce in 2023

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Red Tape and Barbecue Sauce

In honor of Zombie Awareness Month, a short story about America's favorite formerly deceased.

Bob held his head in his hands, pulling at his hair and directing his comments to the mostly empty room at large. The mostly empty room listened.

"We're having some PR problems. It's patently offensive, when you see the way we're depicted in the public consciousness. Popular media's almost obscene in their portrayal of the formerly deceased. We aren't stupid, mindless brain eaters."

Bob looked over at the man behind the desk opposite him. The shorter, slightly square-shaped middle-aged man sat chewing on a rib bone. Thick sauce smelling faintly of honey was smeared all over his left cheek.

"It's disgusting," he continued. "Next thing, they'll be saying we can't use public transportation for fear we'll eat everyone on board."

Bob looked at the office door, which was partly open. Snatches of nervous conversation and mildly stifled giggles drifted into the room. He returned his gaze to the man who sat eating the remains of his takeout lunch.

Bob's OCD tugged at his somewhat offended brain, and without thinking he reached over to a container of antibacterial wet wipes he kept in his bottom drawer.

"Frank, here -- take this. You've got a little bit of something -- just -- yeah." He tossed the container to his co-worker, who ignored him and continued slurping down his lunch.

A faint knock on the door was followed by the soft clearing of someone's throat. The 'someone' happened to be a maintenance worker from the building, armed with an electric drill and a metal plate.

"Here to fix your door. Well, the door's ok. I'm, um, just going to attach this nameplate and I'll be leaving. I mean, it'll only be a minute..." The nervous man trailed off as Bob gave him a sympathetic look.

"Thanks," offered Bob, affecting his biggest smile. "I really appreciate it. We're still expecting some supplies, a few more chairs. Not quite ready to roll out live, as they say." Bob barked out a laugh that made the maintenance worker jump and drop his drill. "Roll out live! Ha! No pun intended, of course."

The man retrieved his drill and went to work measuring the door. Bob turned to Frank, wincing slightly as he caught sight of Frank's shirt, which now sported what appeared to be a rust-colored handprint.

"So, anyway -- like I was saying, it's discriminatory. We should be covered under the Americans With Disabilities Act. Everything about our condition should be treated with understanding, rather than fear. It's ignorance that fuels it," finished Bob. He stole a look at the maintenance worker, who very pointedly avoided eye contact.

Bob suddenly lost his composure, pushing his chair away from the desk in a jerky spasm and tossing a folded newspaper on it.

"Just read this crap! They'd never get away with this if it was aimed at anyone else!" Bob looked at Frank, who kept eating and made no move towards the newspaper. Bob rolled his eyes and pulled back the paper, reading aloud.

"''Zombies hate coffee! It reminds them of all that is good and right in the world.' Honestly! Only a matter of time before the court dockets start filling up with cases," he continued. "We're supposed to be in an enlightened age, but I don't see it. It's hateful. My sister's husband pretty much just talks in monosyllabic grunts, but no one calls him 'limited'. People chalk it up to surliness and let it go. If one of us grunts, though, here come the zombie jokes."

Bob looked over at Frank.

"Ungh," muttered Frank, between bites.

The worker finished up and began collecting his tools. He stuck his head inside the door and asked, "You want me to close this?"

Bob forced a smile that didn't quite reach his slightly glassy eyes. The effect might have been disturbing to anyone who wasn't expecting it. "Thank you very much, yes. By the way, I'm Bo-"

He never finished. The door closed soundly before he finished introducing himself.

"We're not ghouls, for heaven's sake! We do not eat people! We don't eat, period!" He shot a look at Frank, his living, breathing co-worker. Frank had no trouble eating. In fact, just about every time Bob had ever seen him, he was chewing on something. Usually, it was something that had once been alive and was now cooked and covered in his condiment of choice.

Bob shivered involuntarily. "It doesn't matter anyway. I don't miss it. I used to be a vegetarian and everything these days is smothered in pesticides anyhow. That stuff will kill you faster than nuclear waste could."

Frank nodded and belched loudly.

Bob stood and walked over to the door. It was a heavy, fire safety industrial metal door, painted white, typical of government buildings. He opened it and looked at the new name plate on the front.

DEPARTMENT OF UNDEAD AFFAIRS
Public Information Office

He smiled, and this time, it reached his eyes. "It's a start."

* Dedicated to Whitney Shaffer on her college graduation: May you shake things up and change the world with your vision, Zombie Girl *