The Mummy

I am dining on the back terrace of a white mansion in New England. We are chatting about golf and getting ready for a nice meal. We are overlooking a wide lawn. Then a thought comes to me, stirring a nice glass of tomato juice: the mummy is coming. I look out at the lawn, and, in the far distance, a white figure is running towards me. It is a mummy. It's old bindings are unraveling. – What is that, a woman says. – Call the sheriff, a man says. But the sheriff is already there. He tilts his head back and spits, unimpressed. – Holy cow can it run, he says suddenly. I hear the sound of cymbals crashing. The mummy reaches the back parking lot. It smashes the window of a Porsche, and pulls a young woman out the driver’s side window. She is screaming. The sheriff fires. The bullet pierces her heart. A schoolmaster is charging the mummy with a shovel. The sheriff fires again, and he hits the schoolmaster right in the temple. The sheriff is a bad shot. – Do something, the man beside me says. – What can we do, the woman screams. The mummy picks up the dead schoolmaster and flings it away like a dead rat. Now it is running up the terrace steps.