There is my brain: pink, pulpy, and splattered across the living room wall. That paranoid neighbor of ours no doubt heard the blast. He’s probably dialing 911 this very moment. Before long the police will arrive, but they won’t know what to make of things. Nor will anyone else. After all, everything traces back to my childhood. To those lonely summer nights when mom was peddling her worn-out flesh to the highest bar room bidder. Stuck in our cramped basement apartment, I found solace in television. Starsky and Hutch, Charlie’s Angels, The Dukes of Hazard – you name it. All of them soothed me to sleep. But everything changed when, late one Saturday night, I happened onto something entirely unexpected. One second I was wiping away the marinara sauce dribbling down my chin. The next, there they were: black and white and larger than life. Zombies. Horrible, stinking, ravenous zombies. It was Night of the Living Dead, and I was terrified. The flavorless, half-chewed Swanson’s meatball dropped from my mouth as I watched them devour a helpless victim with the cold indifference of the dead. By the time the credits rolled, I was in a trance. I needed – was begging – for more, though I wasn’t exactly sure why. By summer’s end I’d seen everything I could get my hands on. Zombie posters adorned my walls. My mother didn’t notice. Was too drunk to notice. The obsession deepened. In retrospect, I envied their lack of emotions. They had but one setting: eat. “How easy it must be,” I remember thinking, “to be a zombie.” But what fascinated me most was their utter lack of humanity, despite the fact that they desperately needed to consume it in order stay alive. Alive?…First I killed my beloved cat, George, with a meat cleaver, then wolfed down his steaming insides while kneeling, naked, in our bathtub. His blood on my tongue tasted like warm copper. I did not vomit. But I did detect a hint of a beginning of a change. That indifference I longed for – there it was. So I ate more. Much more. Stray cats, mostly. Then dogs. With each kill, the indifference grew. I grew as well. Fast-forward thirty-two years and there I am, headless, on the floor. This morning, after church, I finally ate my wife and children. Not entirely, of course, but you’d be surprised. No one would recognize them. And how did they taste? Wonderful. Exquisite. More than I had ever hoped for. But, as they say, all good things must come to an end. When it comes to zombies, you have to shoot them in the brain.