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Three chords and the zombie apocalypse.

8 May

So, when the satellite from Mars crashes, or the petri dish falls, or God just says, right, fuck the lot of you, and the undead come shuffling back to life and the rest of us lock ourselves away with lots of guns and scream things like, behind you and in the head man, you gotta pop ’em in the head!…

who do you want by your side?

Sure, there are FB quizzes to decide how you’d tool up in the face of the shuffling hordes (and let’s get this straight. ZA will be a slow dance. None of this Usain Bolt nonsense. They’re dead; motor function is exponentially reduced and well, the sense of being overwhelmed by sheer lumbering, unthinking numbers is just plain more frightening. Plenty of stuff in the now-times is quick. We can be scared of that everyday. When the world ends, let’s have a bit of fun eh?)

So, FB. Now, whilst I was well pleased with my five piece tool kit of a machete, random hot smart chick, apache gun-ship, shot-gun and box of donuts, the real measure of survival would be the company we keep. Sure, there’s a giggle to be had knocking nails into doors and hunkering down to wait out the night…but once you’re hunkered down, what then? Twister? Battleships? Charades godamnit?!

So picture it. You’re alone in  a basement someplace. Up above, you hear the thuds of the hungry dead moving about. Then comes a sound. A confident sound. Boot heels striding in straight lines. No gun shots. No screams. The sounds descend the stairs. The door opens. You’re saved. It’s..

Johnny Cash.

That’s right. The man in black is No 1. in the Zombie Apocalypse Draft. Why he’d stride into your basement, extend a gnarled hand, say something like, “It’s time to move on son,” and then Johnny and you would stroll through the shufflers like they were presidential security, not the hungry dead. Sure, maybe one faithless reanimate would claw, glaze over and lean in for a bite, but the m.i.b would  pull the greengrey hand gently aside, push away with a cane to sternum manoeuvre  and slide a bible in to the thing’s wavering mits. If it still kept coming, I suppose there could be some kapowyinthehead action here, in fact let’s just have J.Cs cane double as a shot-gun, but you can’t say he didn’t give the thing a chance. “Go in peace son. Go in peace.”

See, once the giddy chapter of madly tooling up is done, you’re gonna need not just company, but context. This is the end of the world after all. J.C brings  both in spades. Come the night, he’d orate you parables of sad cowboys and yearnful convicts and somehow, the fact that the entire world was now full of undead things that wanted to eat you, would make sense. Your narrative would be shifted, but unbroken. You’d be able to look up at that night sky and say, yep, one of them’s for me.

And come the days, when you walk the highways, cleaning the countryside, well, you just know J.C is going to have mad cross-bow skills.

Warrior. Poet. A fistful of hope. Someone to share a box of donuts with while you wait for that hotsmartchick to turn up.