God only knows the nature of the men or beasts who will soon descend upon us like spiders falling from the jungle trees, but I am ready for them.
My three pitbulls, Blood, Sweat and Tears, roam the yard. I keep them lean, hungry and they eat nothing but "long pig" the only thing they'll have after the sky falls. The fridge, in the meantime, is full of food and Coca-Cola. I have a shotgun and a pocket full of shells.
To be honest, I'm living in a hut near the Dunes of Bilbao, just outside the municipality of Viesca, Coahuila, a dusty place unreachable by zombies.
Which is another lie. In truth, I've changed my appearance and am in Central America hiding from the law. My new friend McAfee makes me take strange powders in the strangest of ways and in some sense, I am thankful for the new wisdom he has imparted unto me. He is a nervous man. He has many friends, and apparently, more than a few enemies.
Before the eighth of December, I will dust off my boots and make my way toward the bright lights of Torreon to offer a photo workshop. In the meantime, I remain, a man without a place.