Hilarious. Very cool story. The suburban, overweight, pathetic woman seemed an obvious market for the club. But I want to throw in the mix that this actually reminded me of an ex-boyfriend, who I still refer to as Mr. PDA. He always wanted to sit all squished up together on the same side of the booth when it was just the two of us. Never seemed to figure out that I don't want to be hand-fed french fries in public. He seemed so hurt by that. Sigh. Still wondering what he would fill that pool with. I hope its not zombie-clone-versions of me.
The detail in the zombie processing made me wonder where the story was going. I interpreted that in context of our modern, manufactured, highly processed culture - where although the myth assumes a zombie is devoid of emotional depth, the additional processing ensures it is sufficiently disconnected and emptied out of any remaining messiness of life to produce an entirely detached experience of self-gratification. As in my personal experience with Mr. PDA, rather than a genuine connection, "There's something missing when you're kissing me." (Devotchka)