"Starkness on the Edge of Town"

There are a lot of ways to be lonely in West Texas. Roy Orbison once said that.
Well lawdy-fucking-dah.
I'm assuming, that despite being surrounded by pump-jacks and tumbling tumbleweeds, he never had to fight off packs of blood-thirsty savages. He never had to deal with a goddamn apocalypse.
For as long as they've been roaming around earth, people have thought they were the last generation who were going to make it. They all had it in their minds that they were the ones living in the end of days. The fucking "chosen ones."
Well, isn't just my goddamn luck the crazy sons of bitches finally got it right?
The fucking yahoos.

We’ve always been a pack hunting society. Always trying to protect ourselves with the numbers game. Let's all be compadres. "You watch my back, I'll watch yours," they'd say.
Let's grab a guitar and all hold hands.
Well if that didn’t go to hell and a hand basket rather quickly when the dead started raising. When they started get the desire to sink their teeth into human flesh. The fucking cannibal bastards.
Thousands of years of evolution gone down the shitter in a split-fucking-second.
And only the hard-nosed fucks like myself knew the rules all changed while the hippies and city-slickers started running scared getting eaten alive. The quick thinkers take advantage; the mouth-breathers, they parish.
Those first few days after the outbreak, I thought I was one of the fortunate survivors in this living nightmare.
Lucky my ass.
You know just as well as I do, it isn’t a goddamn basket of sunshine and lollipops.
Give it a few weeks and even the happiest bastard will turn into a killing machine--regardless if he's dead or alive.
And make no mistake, you've got to act like a real animal to survive in this hellhole. A goddamn grizzly bear armed with a shotgun in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. A real “take no prisoner” type.
There ain’t no time for passion, sympathy, remorse, tears. None of it. That’d be for the birds. 
The swarm of killer bees armed with fangs sure as hell aren't going to give you any--you're just another walking meal ticket to them.
You're lunch.
But, it isn't that you have to act like the toughest motherfucker on the block; it's that you better be the toughest motherfucker.
Acting, now that'll get you killed. This isn't no Hollywood blockbuster.
You only have one shot to give the slimeballs your "war face."
You have to be genuine. If not, they'll see right through it...just like I saw right through your Rambo act. 
You had better be twice as tough as that Mexican in that "No Country for Old Men" flick. Better have the balls to piss in his Cheerios, and make him eat them too.
And, it just so happens, that your staring back at a ruthless survivor.
It's all the clichés of any western film ever made. Kill or be killed. Dog eat dog. Cold as ice. Mano y mano.
Bottom line: you better know it's never too early to put a bullet in the head any bastard out there. You can't trust one son of a bitch. Trust is just another damned weakness these days.
Compassion for the life of anyone other than your own, it’s just a goddamn liability. And--it’s probably what got you into this mess.
There isn't any other way to put it. 
Like I said, shit happens and you’d better react. Better Darwin your shit real quick.
I've always been a pretty simple being. My beer cold. My bed soft. My boots out of leather. My coffee black. My music country--and none of that shit they tried to pass as country on the damned radio.
Anyways you get the point...
You can't make this too complex. Complication is just giving the other guy more time to get that crosshair of his square on your forehead.
And as for the one trying to rip your flesh off, hell, he don't think to begin with. Precious seconds wasted while you're wondering how you feel about the entire damn situation. 
And that's why I pretty much simplified the entire thing. Learned that goddamn rule of survival in the first few seconds of some bastard trying to sink his canines into my chest.
Course, that's the easy part of the whole ordeal. Anybody can shoot one of those things. I don't even know if I'd consider that even taking a life.
No, it's your fellow "living" man who is the one who's really out there to fuck you. Just waiting until you get comfortable.
Because, unlike those zombies running around out there, us "survivors," we've got patience--and a pretty nice disguise due to the fact we aren't dead yet. It's letting the wolf right in to sleep with me and my sheep.
So, although I don't hold too many cards in this zombie-ridden world, I do hold a pretty nice rifle and a steady trigger finger--and, I don't give two shits for how you, or any other dip-shit for that matter,  feels about getting your ticket punched early.   
I shoot to kill--regardless of if the asshole coming towards you is alive or part of the walking dead bunch.
You see, I ain’t prejudice.

They sure had it all wrong--the movies that is. I couldn’t stand the goddamn malls when I was alive. Now why the fuck am I going to hole up in one with a mob of shit-for-brains jackasses while droves of those blood-sucking bastards are clawing for their way in?
There just ain’t no goddamn way. You’d have to be a fucking idiot to end up in dead end like that. It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel for the living dead. A damn buffet.
And, as you can tell with your own specs, the good-looking hero, he don’t exist out here.
This “survivor shit,” it’s dominated by the ugly.
You may look like Jayne Mansfield, but you better be able to wield an axe like Paul-fucking-Bunyan and hold your own.
Take the recoil of a .44 Auto Mag pistol and not bitch and moan.
If not, you're nothing but a good looking corpse.
The one who shows no remorse--the ones who are just as barbaric as those soulless flesh-eaters--those, they continue to "survive."
I may not rip into your damn guts and eat your fucking kidney, but rest assured, I don’t think about it twice. It’s all natural instinct. A reaction. I may as well have been born with a this here gun attached to my fucking right hand. 
And another thing, the "hope of humanity" hoopla-bullshit still being out there. No it fucking ain’t--least if it rests in my goddamn hands it don’t.
Right when the shit hit the fan, humanity was destroyed. There wasn’t any going back to the way things used to be. You can add us to that endangered species list. It’s just a matter of time until all we’re dead and gone. Extinct. We ain’t no better than the dinosaurs. All have that same fate and judgment.
What happens though? The universe just keeps on going. Never misses a beat. We’re just a blip. Time keeps ticking.
I really never was a Bible-thumper before--and still ain’t for that matter--but, maybe all this is just God’s way of telling us he’s through messing with us. We've done fuck up one too many times. He's gone ahead and flushed us down the pot. I don’t know--it does make you think. 
Regardless, we sure as hell are in a mess we can’t get ourselves out of, no matter how smart we all think we are. And no matter how many times we pray.
You see--this zombie uprising makes us all into philosophers.

There wasn't anything that chapped my ass more than our obesity problem before the life-suckers took over.
A goddamn fast food joint on every block.
McDonald's here.
Burger King there.
But hell, it’s probably one of the damn reasons I made it out of that initial surge--being able to outrun the fat-asses. They may be tireless fucks looking to have my liver with a side of fucking fava beans and some nice Chianti, but that's the fucking whole thing about it.
Way I see it, I don't have to out run them. I just have to out run your fatass.
Now that don’t take no goddamn rocket scientist to figure out. Don’t need no formula.
I know, that sounds like some goddamn hippie bullshit right there, but it’s the truth. Just because I didn’t eat Big Macs everyday doesn’t make me into a liberal chicken-shit who munched on celery sticks.
You better goddamn believe I was born and raised in Texas. I’m sure I’d be deader than fucking Dillinger if I had been in one of those blue states when the switchover had happened. I’m mighty proud I at least had a fighting chance when this cluster-fuck broke out.
Mighty nice knowing I just had to reach under my seat and had a means to send the bastards back to hell. Matter of fact, it was sure nice that I could reach under any seat and had a means to blow a flesh-muncher away.
I’m assuming those pencil-pushing pricks didn’t have as easy a time fighting off the mobs with their Facebooks and Twitters.
You can't fight off zombies with cell phones and pepper spray.
I mean that shit didn’t help you before the fucking apocalypse--how the hell was it going to help you when the crazy fucks were trying to rip your throat out?

I know, you're probably sitting there, thinking to yourself, "what the hell is old man river jabbering on for so long? Why is he telling me all this? What's up this bastard's sleeve?"
Well, I'll tell you, I may be a mean son of a bitch and a bitter cruel killing machine, but hell, I ain't no a chicken-shit.
I'm going to tell you the point, but really, if you've been paying attention and if you've got more than five goddamn brain cells floating around in that noggin of yours, you should had been able to connect the damn dots already.
But, if you are as dumb as you look, I'll go ahead and give you a hint: I'm not raising my pistol and taking aim because a damn flesh-eater is racing towards us. You go ahead and let that sink in.
And while I typically don't go into explaining myself during these kind of things, it sure does get lonely out here in the middle of nowhere during the apocalypse. 
But I know you won't take it personal since I explained my fucking rules. 
I'll make it quick kid.