There is an Irish indie rock band who share their name with this week's shotgun-toting, chainsaw-fisted, deadite-slaying quipmeister. They're not bad, actually. That's all the help I'm giving you this week.
A grimy, hells-a-dripping live music venue. The sort of toilet you play long before you make the big time, or long after the big time is a vague, fever-dream memory. Up on stage, a three piece indie rock band are giving it their all. The crowd is going wild. But they would: both performers and audience are zombie mofo deadite demons.
CAP (Ash): They stole my name. They violated my eardrums. They pissed molten axe-hero necro-wee all over my 7 inch of In The Ghetto.
Lead Singer: …everything was Burn, Baby, Baby!
CROWD: Ash! Ash! Ash! Ash!
Closer on the band as the drummer and bassist’s heads both explode. The lead singer looks worried… or as worried as a zombie mofo deadite loser can.
SFX: K-TOOM! K-TOOM!
CAP (Ash): It’s payback time.
Standing on a huge speaker next to the stage, Ash blasts his shotgun and blows off the head of the lead singer too. He’s wearing an “Elvis Rules!” T-shirt, and a huge, self-satisfied grin.
Ash: Guess what, numbskulls – you’re Number One on my hit parade… with a bullet!
Standing on the stage now, Ash addresses the audience through the lead singer’s brain-splattered microphone. The deadite audience is going mental.
Ash: Sorry, folks – show’s over! Ash have left the building…
Ash stands at the front of the stage, shooing the deadite audience to leave the venue. Behind him, the headless corpses of the band begin to stagger to their feet.
Lead Singer: That’s where you’re wrong, mortal scum. It takes much more than a shotgun to finish us – we survived Britpop!
Lead Singer: Also…
Ash turns to face the headless band as they throw mad kung fu shapes in preparation for Round 2.
Ash: Uh oh...
Lead Singer: We know Kung Fu!
Ash: Yeah? Well, guess what...?
Close on Ash, grinning manically as his chainsaw fist roars into life.
Ash: ...I know chainsaw!
Ash: Bring. It.