They say it has to be mystical but it doesn’t have to be mystical, right…right? Because I don’t feel so mystical right now, not with droves of the living dead trying to eat my ass and everything else. And I’m off my game. Achy joints. Gun jammmed. Out of ammo. I feel like a hot dog cart with four flat tires and no spare. Here comes another round of the zombie bastards, lurching down baby doll head hallways in haunted school yards and psych wards.
Heavy black ink, I didn’t even know they made black that black; even darker in the day light. Can get lost in these woods easily if you weren’t raised by wolves. What you need is a good toothy wolf in wolves’ clothing.
I’ll tell you the way to go. I found this legend in a back booth at the Pirate’s Bar and the legend makes it plain: through the fog of Santa Cruz, the cave of Catalina, swim out past the breakers, watch the world die. I thought there were a million different ways to fall off the earth, but now I know there are a million and one ways. It doesn’t take the hand of the animator or the mouth of Aeolus to push this mother off.
Wait. I’ve just got an update from Scout. Jonny bit the dust in a strange way so I stand corrected: there are a million and two ways.