“I find the kidneys to be the tastiest, actually,” said the foppish, undead dandy to his companion with one arm. “Just take a little taste, and see if you don't agree.”
The one-armed corpse grabbed for the kidney that the dandy was offering and squeezed a little too hard. The kidney went shooting out of his grasp like a greased mango.
“Son of a bitch,” said the corpse with one arm as the kidney bounced and slid across the floor and under a stainless-steel counter. “Sorry. I think I lost that one.”
“Not a problem, my amputated amigo,” said the dandy, “that's why God gives you two kidneys, Pedro – in case your lunch guest loses one of them.” He reached into the side of the body that he was ravaging and pulled out another slippery, reddish kidney. “Now just be careful with this one, ' he said, handing it over.
Pedro manged to get the kidney to his mouth, and he sank the broken, yellow stumps of his teeth into the firm, bloody flesh. “Mmmm. You're not kidding,” he said through a mouthful of kidney, “ this is some damned fine organ meat.”
The two corpses sat in silence for a little while, chewing and contemplating the fine, delicate flavor of kidney. Finally Pedro spoke again.
“Y'know, I think we could probably open up some kind of a bistro or deli or something here that just serves organs. Kidneys could be our signature dish, in fact. We could have some kind of a daily special, too. Or maybe ethnic specialties on different days of the week, Mondays could be Moldavian Kidney-Meringue Mondays...then Tibetan Kidney-Tart Tuesdays...you get the idea.”
“Sure, and Wallachian Kidney-Whip Wednesdays...but what on earth could we possibly do on Thursdays?” asked the dandy.
“Hmmm.” Pedro scratched at his skull.
The two corpses sat very still and quiet for a long time. The only sound was the drip of thoracic fluid falling from their lunch onto the floor. “Maybe we could just open a tapas bar,” said the dandy.
The crash of the door being kicked off its hinges would have scared a whole host of things out of the corpses, had they harbored any to lose. As it was, they just turned around in time to see a tactical squad in haz-mat suits bursting into the room. Four of the operators immediately levelled their rifles and put quick three-round bursts through the dandy's and Pedro's foreheads. The two of them dropped to the floor. For the second time that lunch, Pedro lost his grip on a kidney and watched it go bouncing and sliding beneath a stainless-steel counter. As he felt the electrical impulse draining from his nervous system, he turned to the dandy and just managed to get out his last, burning question.
“Hey,” he asked, with his last ounce of undead energy, “where the hell is Wallachia, anyway?”