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FOREPLAY

I'm debating on whether or not to let you in on a secret.

There was a time when the place where I hang my hat was called the Big Easy.  Home to everything from Mardi Gras to the Saints to the butchering of both French and English that we call a language, Louisiana was seen by the rest of the country as a sinful little slice o' heaven.  Most of this perception hovered over New Orleans, of course, but I'm quite convinced that the majority of the United States population didn't know that there were cities other than New Orleans in the state.

It's been a while since the term “the Big Easy” has been tossed around, though.  Life isn't easy anywhere these days, I imagine, but I can only guarantee you that it isn't here.  For as long as there's been a Louisiana, its inhabitants have had to deal with questions about voodoo and zombies and all those unsavory subjects.  It's a part of our culture, sure, but folks, not all Louisiana natives dance around in circles while decapitating chickens and chanting.  If you ask me, voodoo is just a bunch of crap swirled around with a stick of bullshit.

'Course, now the problem is there actually are zombies wandering around all over the place.  That kind of kills off the credibility when you try to tell someone that voodoo isn't real.  You try to tell these people that the undead are everywhere, not just in Louisiana.  You calmly point out that the dead are roaming around eating people in parts of the world that have never even heard of that particular religion.  They just look at you and shake their heads before saying, “But there are zombies out there!”

You hate to admit it to yourself, but after a few of these encounters you start hoping that the next victim of the zombies' gnashing teeth and insatiable bellies just so happens to be the person standing before you.

Now don't go thinking that confession was the secret.  I assure you that it is not.  I'm still considering whether or not to bring you into my confidence.  You seem like a nice enough person, but I've been burned by other readers before.

Oh, I'm sorry, did you believe that you were the first person to read this work?  I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but plenty of people got to it before you did.  My writing is like a cheap whore, anyone with an urge and a buck can come aboard and enjoy the ride.  Because you and I are hitting it off so famously, however, I'll try to make your experience even more enjoyable.

I apologize if I'm going against some of your beliefs about New Orleans, but I was a resident here before this zombie shit went down and I was not a voodoo priest, a musician, or a bead maker, and I did not live on the bayou.  This may come as a shock, but I was an investment banker.  Sure, the job was usually quite dull, but it paid the bills and it was a stable career in a not-so-stable economy.

Now I find myself employed in the only fields that actually matter these days: scavenging, personal security, and home improvement.  Scavenging provides me with food to eat, clothes to wear, and weapons to defend myself.  Personal security allows me to not get, you know, eaten by zombies.  The third one, home improvement, is a bit of a stretch, but I wasn't sure what else to call boarding up windows and doors.  Carpentry, maybe?  Woodworking?  Lumberjack?

It's the scavenger role that has given me the most headaches.  I don't mind nailing wood across entry points into a house.  If I minded defending myself I'd be dead by now.  But when it comes to finding items that I need to stay alive and have some semblance of comfort, I tend to fail miserably.

I'm running low on food?  The first ten places I check end up being stripped clean.  I need toothpaste?  Not a single tube to be found.  The chain on my bicycle breaks?  Looks like I'm walking from that point on.

On the one hand it gives me hope.  If these things aren't where they were a few weeks earlier, it means that there are other survivors out there.  It is rare that I actually see these people, but the evidence of their activities is somehow comforting.  On the other hand, though, what the fuck, people?  I called fucking dibs on the stuff in this neck of the woods.  Fucking dibs.

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