Zombie went to the bank to put some worms on his account. He says:
— Fish does not let me fishing. Maybe, jealous.
The little worms are put on a scale and than into a safe. There are paper bank notes. Little worms started consuming those and growing like with yeast. There is inflation in the country, but zombie’s worms like mud. He bought a wheel coffin to give chaps a lift for fishing.
— Your soul is gold. And your fish is gold. You must be a manager in our cemetary.
They did it.
Now if something’s wrong — they come to him to hide. Zombie gives each one full pockets of little worms to start.