To wreak an unholy vengeance upon the driver of the car who's standing there, scratching his head, trying to figure out how a zombie baby's head can be beneath his car tires but the rest of the body is nowhere to be seen-- unless he were to turn around and notice the zombie baby body bearing down on him, coming ever closer, ready with grasping, pudgy zombie baby fingers to tear and rend at the flesh of this self-same driver who ran his head over, on the dark and rain-swept road that snakes down from the castle of the madman who's creating an army of zombie babies to do his dark, libidinal bidding.
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That one never gets old.
