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In the end though, it is, as the crazy, old woman living in the whale carcass said, "all well and good to toss a zombie chicken into a cauldron of burning oil, but unless you cut out its heart with some enchanted nail-clippers and run it through at midnight under a new moon in late January with a toothpick made of sycamore, then pretty soon that chicken will be back to feast on your brain (or at least peck rather annoyingly at your temple while smelling maddingly southern-fried but which you know you can't eat because the doctor says your cholesterol is way too high as it is from all those vampire-duck-fat-and-mango smoothies you've been chugging)".
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