Black's back

An ancient skin tarpaulin stretched out over the skeletal ridges of Frank Noir's face leaving deep ravines in its wake around the shores of his dead-pool eyes.

In retrospect, the Millennium Foundation had correctly anticipated the transition – the point of no-return – as their previously non-anachronistic epitaph had presently confirmed.

The gravelly voice - as if from the grave of cigar-whiskey hell itself - spoke.

My name's Frank Noir; I'm here as a consultant on behalf of the Foundation.

No need to introduction yourself Mr. Noir. We are all familiar with your work here on the force. I particularly liked the work you did on that movie, the one with the alien bursting out of that guy's chest?

John Hurt?

I bet he did. What was it called now? I forget.

That was a long time ago. Another life. What is the present problem?

There has been a string of thong mutilations occurring around the area we call the “Dead-Zone”.

Can I have a look at one?

An intense series of images; shattered fragments of some unspeakable horror, pierced the studied calm of his mind.

The living dead are among us once again. They've found a way to crossover.

Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet.

Frank paused for a moment to adjust the seat of his casual-leisure wear trouser, as if reminded of some intermittent discomfort.

No doubt they will try to infiltrate decent society through the shady front of consultancy agencies.