'The economy is popular this year.'
'Really?'
The two men wore tall, ornate wigs and heavy, red satin dresses that bulged in strange places, massively so at the waist, cascading down in ostentatious folds and billows and ribbons and sequins. They were seated at a table just outside a café. One was pretending to read a broadsheet newspaper. The other was seeing how soggy he could get his biscuit before it fell into his tea. It did so with a miserable plop.
'Indeed,' continued the first. 'More popular than cake, even.'
'Wow. I like cake.'
Kennilesque attempted to fold up the newspaper. It didn't work out. He threw the crumpled pile on the floor, where it got carried in the breeze and attacked the occupant of a nearby table. He scratched his stubble thoughtfully. 'Cake is less complicated, I think.'
'Did you hear about the zombies?' asked Rinsamien, selecting Biscuit Three, a member of the shortbread family.
'Zombies?'
'Yeah. At that big art place. Just eating people for no reason.'
'
For no reason?' exclaimed Kennilesque. 'Barbarians!'
'Yeah. I mean, ripping out their intestines and having just a little taste of someone if they're, like, trying to attack you when you've done nothing wrong is one thing. That's allowed.'
'Yeah.'
'As long as they're fresh.'
'Yeah.'
'So, like, zombies wouldn't be all that nice.'
'No.'
'But the gratuitous eating of perfectly innocent people is another thing entirely!'
'And very bad for the economy,' agreed Kennilesque, nodding sagely. 'I think we should do something about it, Rinsamien.'
'I agree, Kennilesque. It is most probably our destiny.'
'Indeed!' said Kennilesque. 'Drink up, my friend! We have work to do!'
Rinsamien tipped back his cup. Biscuity sludge poured forth to meet his face.
* * *