When I Become a Gravekeeper

When a zombie danced subject three to the square dance music, and I, the gravekeeper, was standing on the edge of the mass grave, holding half a broken bone in my hand, preparing to negotiate with a fire-breathing dragon - a secret about "rules" was quietly unfolding in the world after my death. When rules are no longer a protective umbrella, but a prison, how should humans choose? Should you surrender to order, or break it, even at the cost of your soul?