It takes exactly six days to make a zombie, I should know.
Day one: a random stranger approaches you and bites you on the arm, and looking at it later it doesn't look bad at all.
Day two: your arm begins to throb, and you pour peroxide on the wound, believing it will work. (Who needs a doctor, not me).
Day three: your wound is beginning to fester and you wrap extra gauze on it before work. You hold it all day and a coworker notices while you're in the restroom.
"Hey dude, what's wrong with you arm?"
"I was bitten in the park yesterday."
"Our park? You can't be serious, you went, there?"
You show you festering, pungent wound, and he begins backing away from you. "Dude you been ZOmbified."
"What in the hell??" You begin panting like some kind of lost puppy that ran for hours.
"Is there anything I can do? I mean come on dude, help me out here - I don't want to be a zombie. I have nearly twenty thousand in my 401 for Christ's sake, and Betty told me she's ready."
"I heard someone found a cure, but. . . I don't think you want to do that."
"Tell me what it is, I'm desperate here." You begin shaking you co-worker for emphasis.
"Dude you need to cut your arm off."
Walking away in disgust, you take the rest of the day off.
Day four: you search around your house for a knife, deciding instead to buy a hatchet. You'd use an ax, but how in the hell can you swing it hard enough, and (your doctor refused to do the deed).
Day five: You can barely stand the pain, and it can't hurt more than it does now! Slapping your palm down on your picnic table, you brace and swing the hatchet downward - totally missing you arm altogether. You swing two more times before you finally hit you arm, and although painful, you continue to whack at your arm until it lies on the table in a bloody mass. You begin to smile wrapping up your stump, and go inside and watch television.
Day six: you stumble into work, even though you have a barely concealed stump where you arm once was. Looking into the mirror, you notice just who is looking back. You have black circles surrounding your eyes, and your lips have pulled back from you face. F*ck, you'll never score with Betty now, although you may eat her later. One thought comes to you, and you go back into the office and eat you coworker that ever suggested you cut your arm off in the first place!
WARNING: IF BITTEN BY A ZOMBIE, YOU CAN'T BE CURED, AND CHOPPING THE LIMB OFF WILL NOT CURE YOU. "CONSIDER YOURSELF ZOMBIFIED."