Chomp. Crunch. Thhhrrrpppptt.
The undead monster cracks into the dizzy blonde's skull, as expected. The audience erupts into shrieks of laughter, applauding the dodgy FX.
At the back of the auditorium stands the director, arms folded, shaking her head and muttering.
Later at home she scans old notebooks, full of promising ideas - some even have artistic merit.
'Have I sold out,' she wonders, not for the first time.
Chck chck chck.
At the door, a zombie-costumed man. Another fan taking things too far.
Sharply:
"How did you get my address?"
He says nothing, at first.
Then merely:
Chomp. Crunch. Thhhrrrpppptt.
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