"Our rents are too high!" said Wriggles, the president of the Zombie Tenant Association. "Most of us have been forced to pass our fortunes on to our survivors because of the necrophobes that have ruined society!"
"Look," said Pickenplotz Poriander, who owned the cemetary, "I'm as low as I can go. This is valuable real estate and thanks to your lobbying I'm already barely scraping by. I already can't dig anymore graves!"
"Barely scraping the money off of our decaying bones, you mean!" replied Wriggles.
Pickenplotz gestured out across the rolling hills of the cemetary.
"This is a graveyard, I'm supposed to be concerned with attracting new clientele, not supporting the old ones. I could stabilize rents, at least for the coming year, if you could convince some zombies to move into the vaults, or convince the older members to join the Ossuarians in the very fine Ossuary."
"Trying to shirk your responsibilities in supporting our agreement, eh? That is the basest form of commerce. Back in my day, two hundred years ago, you stood behind your product through thick and thin!" Wriggles said.
"I don't have an agreement with you! Point to the agreement!" Pickenplotz yelled.
"A man's word, a verbal contract was as good as gold back in my day!" Wriggles said. "If that's the way it's going to be, fine!" Wriggles said. He stood up and walked away from the table, returning for just a moment to retrieve the arm that he left hanging on the chair.
"My arm and I will take this back to the Tenant Board!"
The next day, a commotion by the front gate of the Poriander Cemetary for Dead People caught Pickenplotz' attention. He rushed outside to see a commotion as the zombies stood in front of the horses of a hearse. The zombies were chanting - at least, the ones with mouths were. The others waved hand-written signs in solidarity.
"NO MORE DECAY...OF ZOMBIE RIGHTS," read one of the signs.
"YOU CAN PRY MY GRAVE FROM MY COLD, DEAD HANDS," read another.
"What do you think you're doing?" Pickenplotz asked, finding Wriggles in the crowd.
"We've come together in this horde to perform a peaceful demonstration of your policies as the owner of this cemetary, Mr. Poriander," Wriggles said. "Raising rents, forcing the tenants into less desirable plots next to the road where horse apples are kicked onto our graves, trying to break out spirit!"
A cluster of zombies was pamphleteering among the carriages that had lined up behind the hearse.
"And when your uncle is buried, he will only have a few short years before he is marginalized and his concerns ignored," one of them said to an occupant, who was studying the pamphlet.
"That's enough!" Pickenplotz yelled. "I am calling in the army!"
"Many of us have been shot before!" said Wriggles proudly.
"Not to shoot you! To tear up this entire cemetary!" Pickenplotz shouted.
A listener could've heard the jaws drop and hit the ground, as indeed they did. Eyes bugged out and fell to join their facial comrades. Several zombies rushed to support another whose heart had begun to beat in shock.
The silence was broken by the sound of the hearse door opening and the guest of honor alighting from the carriage.
"Great-great-grandfather," the recently deceased said, "I don't mean to be disrespectful, but you could always just give him a right good chomp on his fleshy bits. It's the only way it looks like this will be resolved." He gestured at Pickenplotz.
Pickenplotz' eyes grew enormous and looked like they were about to fall out. Wriggles shook his head and put a hand on his great-great-grandson's shoulder.
"That's not how we do things. Besides, the great thing about our cause is that everyone joins it sooner or later."
The Moral: tread softly on graves or else risk the eternal wrath of the patient, organized dead