I see dead people.
Which is perfectly normal, and practically essential. I am a mortician, after all. Be bloody annoying if the corpses became invisible, wouldn't it?
Well, I'm something other than a mortician. Give you a hint: it starts with "necro."
No, not that.
NecroMANCER.
I make zombies. If I want to.
I'm rather good at it, really. You might say, one of the best.
Why aren't I out there fighting crime or being crime while wearing a brightly-coloured leotard?
I'm already dead. Don't want to aggravate my condition.
Oh, I am here talking to you, and I am drinking this pint of beer, but really, I am dead. As they come, actually.
You see, one of the main qualifications for a truly powerful necromancer is death.
I've coped fairly well; I died a clean death.
Poison. Self-inflicted.
I look completely normal, as long as I remember my makeup.
Then again, I look like an ubergoth without it. Nice way to spend time, I suppose.
I watch heroes on television. I see them die. I watch the funerals.
And I could bring those heros back, stronger, faster, undying.
And I won't.
Why? Would the Avengers accept a former compatriot of theirs if he or she was a zombie?
I'm not sure, but I wouldn't bring what happened to me upon any other.
I'm old.
Elves normally are, but I have outlived all of them.
I am, after all, several thousand years old.
I found out how fast a truly well-made zombie can recover from what would be a fatal wound on a living person.
Enough to tear the spear out of your chest and throw it back at the person who jammed it in there.
My father, in this case.
It's a wonderful life, isn't it?
Or unlife. Whatever.
And if you excuse me, I have work to get to.
See you tomorrow, perhaps?
Excellent.
Goodbye.
The End
Notes after the fact: This was my first tcp and posted story that I was not going to be ashamed of afterwards.
This story was actually written in about five minutes while in a state of fever. I am still pleased with it.
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