Ash is standing in a ripped shirt, covered in blood, holding a shotgun with his left hand; a chainsaw now replaces his right one. He has just finished his long-awaited zombie-killing spree, drenching the entire stage in blood. Now bathed in the dancing light of a disco ball, he sings while the zombie are doing the Thriller dance behind him. My stomach hurts from the laughter. The audience, the first few rows of which are also covered in blood, is going wild.