So there I was at some institution of higher learning or other, wandering around the grounds and going to classes and helping the security staff set up for events by applying the decals to be signs by doors with disclaimers about stuff. And all was going well. And I saw Savil and we caught up on stuff. And I was having trouble with the tilt on some of the paths, and I asked for help (and saw Figment) and the person I'd been walking with who I thought was going to help me said to wait and he'd get the expert, and ran and got Figment, who explained that I had to do some technique, which I thought I'd had to do, but he was telling me as if I didn't know, even though I'd figured it out already. And the place I was going was class, and there was some interesting role-playing stuff going on, where we were pretending to be cowboys to get into character for how much studying we were doing. And one of the guys was talking, and he had something pressed on his knife in some weird material, and the hinged blade wouldn't bend (it was like a pocket knife with an extra joint sort of like a bird's wing, and you could see a vague outline of bird's muscles on it). Whatever the role-playing was, we were doing some exercise where we went around and stepped through gaps in the shelves of a long library bookshelf in the classroom.
At some point in this, class was about to be dismissed or something, but we were still working with this powdered-small-chunks material obtained from some portion of the knife? and there were papers that were dipped in it, rolled-up papers, and the substance looked sort of like slightly crushed sea salt. It turned out that the guy with the knife was a zombie of some sort, and that was his zombie salt (there may have been a better word for it) and it was a way of controlling things. And things were actually getting weird, and the professor was not looking too stable, so I grabbed up the small container of zombie salt (it was in a mortar for being-crushed-easily purposes) and babbled something that sounded sensible but that observer-me knew made no sense, about a zombie suffering from depression, and how if a zombie's zombie salt is used to treat papers regularly so that the zombie feels useful, this may be effective in treating Seasonal Zombie Depression. And with that babble firmly going on, I swept the professor and the zombie with me (I was more worried about the professor than the zombie, as the zombie seemed to be more in control of himself) in the direction of someone who was presumably better-educated in the ways of controlling a rogue professor who has access to six-shooters that shoot Florida Presidential Coins and zombies and doesn't know he's a rogue.
I wasn't me, but the zombie sure was SKULLBUTT THE TORMENTOR.