So there was this guy, and he loved this girl. She was a princess. And she loved him back, at least for a little while. They were happy. But things moved on as things tend to do and she realised that she didn't really like him all that much and there were harsh words exchanged and tears. He ranted and begged. There were long late-night telephone calls. Her mind was made up, though.
That might have been the end of it, had the guy not been a practitioner skilled in the dark arts of necromancy. Initially the zombies were surprisingly disciplined. The first zombie shambled politely up to the palace gates bearing a box of chocolates and a long handwritten letter. The princess burned the letter and ate the chocolates. The next night, a zombie a cappella group moaned Radiohead covers beneath the princess's window until the guards herded them away. A couple of nights after that, talented zombie gardeners broke into the palace grounds and planted a small heart-shaped rose garden in the middle of the palace lawn (though within hours of their leaving the roses began to wither and stink).
But zombies being what zombies are, sooner or later something was bound to go wrong. An attempt by zombie graffiti artists to tag the palace with a forty-foot high portrait of the ex-couple resulted in a brawl which left five guards hospitalised and two turned. The zombies began to drink in pubs and reacted violently when asked to leave. The number of zombies grew. A famous football player with whom the princess had been photographed leaving an exclusive club was found chewed to pieces in his uptown pad. Newspapers editorials expressed mounting concern.
The guy paid the princess a visit, wearing a pentagram t-shirt and new blue jeans.
"Still won't take me back?" he said. "Leave it too long and I'll have brought this whole kingdom under my heel. Then you won't have any choice."
"You're a monster," she said.
"That's love, baby," he said. "That's love."