Blessed By the God of Fire

Today's project... was actually the same as yesterday's.  This morning I had a breakthrough on the idea of reworking Deep Fat Fryer.  What if he weren't simply a friar, but a black gospel-style preacher who dressed like a fryer and preached the gospel of setting zombies on fire?

Suddenly the character clicked in my mind, so I spent the day reworking Dig My Grave.  Again.

From here I clearly need to rewrite any other story in which Deep Fat Fryer appears.  To the best of my memory that is World of Hero, which I'm in the process of rewriting anyway, and Fryer Out of Time.  I had the impression that Fryer Out of Time was one of my more pointless stories, but rereading it, it actually works better than Dig My Grave did before I rewrote it.  I can rework it pretty easily, I think.

"Have I told you my origin story -- the reason I hate Doctor Totengräber?"  asked Deep Fat Fryer.  "Brother Anarchy, have I told you how I was saved?"

Deep Fat Fryer was, like Grandpa Anarchy, a member of the League of Two-Fisted Justice.  He was a burly black man in a bright red robe decorated with sequins and golden flames -- the sort of thing Friar Tuck might wear if he were a member of Funkadelic.

Grandpa, dressed in his usual rumpled gray suit and fedora, punched a corpse.  It was like hitting uncooked turkey, and had the same effect.  The zombie, stitched together from parts of different bodies, swung an arm which the old man easily avoided.

"Yes," said Grandpa, swinging at the zombie again.  "I was there.  I don't need to...."

"God has given you a gun, Brother Anarchy!" exclaimed Fryer.  "Use it!"

  With one clawed paw, the third member of their team tore the zombie's head from its shoulders.  She growled softly.  Dog Is My Copilot was a young girl with a dog's head.  She had gray fur and a bushy  tail, and wore a plaid skirt of blue and white and a blue jacket.  She was one of the better sidekicks Grandpa had had in years.

The three were in a brick-walled tunnel.  Mold and slime covered the walls.  Putrid green water pooled in the center of the passage.  Rusting pipes and valve flow wheels jutted from the walls.

"It began when I was employed at  King Totengräber Burger Joint," said Fryer.  He paused.    Ahead in the gloom, more zombies moaned and shuffled about aimlessly.  "Brothers and Sisters, the congregation has gathered, and is ready for the baptism of fire.  Please bow your heads...."   A ball if flame appeared in his hands.  Grandpa pulled his sidekick behind a large pipe.

"May the fires of heaven cleanse you!" Fryer yelled, tossing the fireball.  It exploded.  Flames shot up the passageway.  When the smoke cleared, zombie corpses lay on the ground.

"Like a Thanksgiving turkey deep-frying disaster," said Grandpa admiringly.

"Little did I know," Fryer continued conversationally, "that Herr Totengräber was not just the king of mystery meat hamburgers, but the king of manufactured zombies.  He was working to overtake the city with an army of reanimated corpses!"

"Yes, yes," said Grandpa, "I've heard all of...."

"I should have seen it!" said Fryer.  "The fry cook with the stitches who shuffled and never spoke, only moaned, that should have been a clue!  But I was young and needed work.  I was manning the counter that day when you gentlemen showed up."