"Funny story," said the pale, smelly little man on the stage. "I was on my way over to the club, and I stopped to look at this hooker..."

The necrophilia joke again. Rod Fallan had heard him tell this joke every night for two weeks. Alive, he'd been Peter Grant, a mediocre stand-up comic with delusions of greatness. He died of some mysterious illness, and with a voodoo curse or something, Peter Grant rose from the grave three nights later. His agent screamed for a while, and then when they both started acting more rationally. Now they were here in Las Vegas, where Peter kept his room, literally, at near-freezing conditions. If he stepped outside too long, he'd start to rot.

Rod’s thoughts were occasionally punctuated by the laughter of the audience.

"But the problem with being dead is that rigor mortis is only fun for the other person!" said Grant.

It was so... strange. It looked, talked, and acted like Peter Grant... but the eyes were always wrong. So empty, soulless, and yet he was funnier now than when he was ever alive. Maybe it was just the gimmick of being dead.

Something was always unsettling about the way his gray flesh moved. He wore tons of bug spray to keep the flies off of him, and it only added the stench. They sprayed him with cologne before he went on stage, and bathing never seemed to work.

“And the dogs! Let me tell you, folks, they go after me so much I get thank-you cards from mailmen! The reason I limp… a schnauzer took off with my Achilles tendon.” Rod finished his drink, and after a few minutes, Peter finished his set.

“How’d I do?” asked Peter.

“You did all right.”

“You’re still weirded out by this, aren’t you?”

“Of course! You freakin died!”

“Only that first night. Ever since then, I killed!”

The ride back to the hotel in the Vegas heat brought up the usual nauseating smell. Rod had been carrying a face mask for a while, and since the cars AC was broken, he had to drive very fast. He hoped they wouldn’t get pulled over, it would be hard enough to explain that the rotting corpse really was the new hit comedian Zombie Pete. Fate was cruel to them, and the flashing lights appeared in the rearview. Rod swore, and told Pete to do the talking. Peter Grant was unresponsive.

The cop strode up to the side of the car in the controlling, businesslike manner that all cops do, and as soon as he laid eyes on the corpse, the gun was out.

“C’mon, Pete! This is no time for jokes!”

Pete didn’t move. Pete was completely motionless.

“Pete!”

“Get out of the car, now!”

Rod was taken away, handcuffed. What a time for the curse to suddenly stop! As the officer was calling for a coroners car, Peter Grant got up, slipped out of the car, and started shuffling down the strip. He was suddenly very hungry.