Thanks for turning out, everyone.

I know most of you have something else you can be doing, and I also realize it's almost midnight on a Wednesday, so I appreciate you dragging yourselves all the way out here to listen to me. I wouldn't have called an emergency Neighborhood Watch meeting if it wasn't absolutely vital.

So, since you've all been so accomodating, maybe someone can help clear something up for me. I was hoping maybe someone can help me to comprehend just what the fuck is going on here, because last time I checked we're sitting on our asses instead of preparing for the onslaught that could be heading this way as we speak.

Shut your mouth, Frank. I've got the floor. I'm serious this time.

I've received information that the skeleton revolution may be more of an imminent threat than I originally anticipated. Trust me. There's a a lot of blogosphere buzz about this right now. I have sources. Important sources. Secret sources. The kind I can't tell you about. Just trust me, or we might be knee-deep in the dead as early as Sunday.

In my mind's eye, I'm looking at this mass of carcasses in varying levels of decay, and you know what I see? I don't just see an undead army to rival the legions of history's greatest empires, nor do I see the glory of an eternity's worth of skeleton empowerment. I see a bunch of skeletons. Sun-bleached white bone, cracked in the heat of Hellfire and seething with the anger of a thousand Suns. Do you think we're going to last a week if we're just standing around with our dicks in our hands? Metaphorically speaking? Not fucking likely. All we've done for the last five years is vote to have stop signs installed at the intersections around the elementary school.

Just wait one fucking second and let me finish, Judy. Yes, I am getting worked up over this, but it's only because nobody is taking this seriously, and I don't want my kids to suffer as a result of our lack of planning.

How the hell did this happen? Are we just underestimating them? They were the vanguard of undead warfare an aeon ago, answerable in times of war only to Haagenti, High Judge of Agonies. Now they're what? A popular Halloween costume? Un-fucking-believable, that's what that is. Pathetic. This is not a kid's game.

I know, I know. Last time they rose up they were sent writhing back into the pit from whence they came by a philosopher-king who gained knowledge of the magic utterance that banishes them into Hell. There, Caacrinolaas, the dog-demon earl of a thousand demonic cities, gnawed their bones lazily between mid-afternoon naps. You think I haven't done my research? Do you honestly think I don't remember? Grow the fuck up. My memories run as deep as the river Styx, which they may be fording on their victorious march to our world at this very moment. Does that not scare the shit out of you?

So, let me tell you what we're going to. First, we're going to take a moment to cowboy the fuck up, because if we try to defend the living world in this shape we're going to blow it. Secondly, we're going to get guns. I said it. Guns. A lot of them. We can't expect them to come with swords and spears again. Isn't that what they had in that one Brendan Fraser movie? The one with the mummies? Judy, can you check up on that for me after the meeting? Either way, write this one down for future posterity: Guns don't kill people. Skeletons do. It's time to get with the program. Can anyone drive a tank? No? Well, okay, we'll just have to do without.

Why don't you take a moment to try and guess what we're not going to do?

That's right, we're not going to fuck around. If we do this, we go all the way. I don't know about you, but I'm not in the mood to be enslaved by the reanimated dead.

You with me? Yeah, you're with me.

Lastly, we're going to take this to Washington. Judy, take a letter. Address it, "Dear Mr. President." Here we go:

Sir, the skeletons are coming. They have rested quietly in our museums, our Indian burial grounds, and our high-school biology labs. No more! They know our faces and they have seen the places we sleep, the places in which we lay our soft, fragile heads. Ripe for the crushing! They know our secrets, and they have laid claim to the hidden darkness in our pasts. Make no mistake, Mr. President: we've kept skeletons in our closets long enough. Please ready our nation's troops for the forthcoming opening of a thousand portals from the underworld and deploy troops as soon as they can be outfitted with suitable Amulets of Protection.

If we don't do something, the last sounds we shall hear will be the clanking of bone against bone and the hollow shrieks of their undead legions.

What's more, intelligence suggests that they may have infiltrated our gene pool. I'm sorry to say that several physicians have confirmed this possibility for me. Any one of us may be part skeleton. Good luck, Mr. President.

Got that, Judy? Okay, good.

Alright then, people. This is going to get intense. Hide your children, find a weapon, and meet me back here at midnight tomorrow night. If you have access to holy water, bring it. Oh, and one more thing: bring your ass-kicking boots, because you're going to need them if we want to have a shot at making it through the week.

God help us. God help us all.

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