So I was relaxing in a bar last weekend, drinking a beer, when I overheard two men on the barstools next to me having the following conversation. “Yeah, if the world is ever overrun by zombies, I’ll kill as many as I can for as long as I can. And you know, I’m betting they wouldn’t get me. I’m a survivor. Know what I’d do? I’m thinking Heineken and scotch, a lawn chair, some sun tan lotion, and my 9mm’s. I’d let them come TO ME. And those brain dead fucks wouldn’t know what hit them.” “Yeah,” said the other, much smaller guy, clearly admiring his friend. “I’d be there with you, man. We’d make it. Survivors.” These were not 20-something hard-luck rednecks buying dollar domestic drafts during hole-in-the-wall happy hour. They were exceptionally well-dressed, hundred-dollar-haircut 40-somethings nursing pale ales in an expensive bar. I heard them order shots of Crown Royal, then tell the bartender they were Wal-Mart executives. A moment later, their shots arrived, and they took them. The bigger guy slammed his glass down, then spoke again, to his friend. “The thing is, what do you think the normal people would do in that situation. People without balls. I mean, if I work at McDonald’s, and the world is suddenly overrun by the dead, my reaction is probably gonna be a metaphor for my life. I’m gonna take the easy route, do the cowardly thing, hide out, and end up getting myself eaten by a fucking pack of zombies. But people like us, we’d take the necessary risks and do what we needed to do to get things back to how they were. You see, we’d be willing to take things into our own hands. To be real men. Like storming the beaches as Normandy. And that’s a fact.” At that point, the little guy gave his friend a high-five, then ordered them a second round of shots, which they took. About that time I felt like adding to the conversation, so I turned in their direction and said, “So you guys have this vision of yourselves. And in that vision you’re able to realistically entertain the notion that because your salary gives you financial leverage over a fast food worker, that that somehow lends you the courage, resourcefulness, and know-how to use the pop guns you shoot at paper targets to rise up as drunken white collar heroes and defeat legions of flesh-hungry zombies?” Neither of them said anything, but the little guy looked to the big guy, and shot him an expression that said “Aren’t you gonna say something, man?” And he did. He said, “We don’t want any trouble, man.” “That’s sort of my point,” I said. “I’m not even a zombie. But could you stop me?” Nothing more was said, they paid their tabs, and left. Zombies.