I was in my old house in Ottawa. The toilet had a habit of spraying a stream of water, urine or what-have-you right in your face. It was broken, clearly. The time in question, it sprayed a stream of blood right in my face. I was revolted. Not because it was blood, but because I had instantly assumed that my mother had just had her period in there. Fortunately there was more mundane explanation – zombies were crawling up the pipes from the sewer.
They would emerge every few minutes from the washroom. Despite being sewer zombies, they were surprisingly normal seeming people who weren’t dripping with sewage. I mean normal aside from being zombies. They didn’t talk much but you could tell from their body language that they had other things going on besides the zombie thing. I had a butcher knife or blunt instrument ready to kill them, but obviously this was unsustainable. We had to call the plumbers.
The most frustrating moment was when I brandished my knife at this bald middle aged cheerful looking zombie in a suit, and his reaction was basically “Oh you have a knife? I have a knife too? Take a look at this thing!” We basically had the same knife. Like, how embarrassing? But also: What the fuck? I’m the human, you’re the zombie. You come into my house and subvert horror tropes by wielding a weapon at me? And being all friendly and good natured about it? Fuck you man. You better chip in when the plumbers get here.