Ravi's thoughts were exactly right in terms of Little Richie -- he'd still been gangly, and his glasses were the same in terms of frames even now, thick black things that were a tip of the hat to fashion icons like Buddy Holly now but had been pretty nerdy back then. The lenses had been thicker back then, too. Coke bottle glasses. He was useless without them, like Velma Dinkley in a haunted house.
Oh god. Was he Velma?
"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me," he enthused, and it wasn't true but it was the nicest thing he'd heard today at least and maybe it was obvious he didn't get out as much as he ought to, considering his level of energy.
Being psychic was apparently not all that impressive to a zombie and that seemed pretty fair. Reading brains < eating brains, maybe? Richie sipped at his drink, forcibly swallowed when it was obvious he'd rather be talking. "So it's like, not a rawr, bust down your door and do a murder sort of time? Just a craving? That's not ... I mean, no, it's pretty bad but-- how long has this been going on? You seem chill about it."