“With utmost sincerity, Mr. Taft, I am not above possessing you in order to obtain your silence.”
“Man, look, I’m sorry, but, this… this is disgusting,” said William H. Taft XLII.
“Disgusting?” asked the ghost of Daniel Boone. “How exactly did you think steakhouse meats were obtained?”
“I honestly did not give it much thought. But I was fairly confident that it didn’t involve covering my kitchen in blood and chunks of cow.”
“I put forth the request that you throw down a tarp. I also suggested you actually kill or otherwise restrain the cow. Many times.”
“I tried, dude, I tried! But it’s a fucking zombie! It doesn’t die!”
“Yes, yes. I am well aware. And while I do agree that the cow’s continued existence certainly makes our task more difficult, it does not make it an impossibility. The meat is still on the cow, the knife is still in your hand. The process is entirely the same.”
“It keeps moving!”
“Mooooooorrr,” said the bovine.
“And that. It keeps doing that. My dinner should not be talking to me.”
William H. Taft XLII began hyperventilating. He dropped into his chair with tremendous force.
“Oh man oh man oh man this is so weird.”
“Mr. Taft,” said the ghost of Daniel Boone, “I have numerous other appointments today, and your continued whinging and general girlishness is becoming increasingly trying. If you are, as I suspect, of the belief that I am going to complete this task for you, I am going to need the use of your appendages…”
“Please! Yes! Go ahead!”
“Right then.”
And with that, the ghost of Daniel Boone—summoned at an hourly rate via an online grilling site—possessed the last remaining clone of William H. Taft, with the sole purpose of converting an undead cow into a pile of flank, chuck, and other assorted cuts of steak.