(Author’s note: I’ve been taking some melatonin to help me sleep the last few days. I have found that they have worked too well, and I have been exhausted and braindead all day. I usually don’t like to put caveats on my writing, but right now I don’t think I have the capacity to criticize my own work. I have barely an idea of what I’ve written here.)
There’re not too many people who enjoy the apocalypse. I’d almost say there are four, four types, that is, but really, there are only three. The fourth, he doesn’t enjoy it, per se, but he certainly doesn’t suffer. Stoical.
There are people like me, people who’d always daydreamed of being a hero. I suppose, I’m still daydreaming. People asked me all the time what I was training for, going to the gym, taking MMA classes and stuff. I honestly didn’t know, but it was for this.
Then there’s people like Larry. He was a friend before the you-know-what hit the fan; he was what they call a functioning alcoholic. Whatever had driven him to the bottle in the first place, I don’t know, but now he’s found a new thing that can numb his pain and drown out the voices in his head—ceaseless violence. We go out every night to kill those things and I’ve never seen him happier in my life.
Then there’s the third type, the psychos. In any functioning society, were the pits of Hell were still closed, people like Paul would be under lock and key. He’d kill people as well as those things, I think; probably has. But now he has an outlet as well. I don’t know what we’ll do with him if things ever go back to normal. He was never normal himself.
Well, that’s the lot of us, the four of us. I don’t know the fourth guy’s name, to be honest, the stoic. He almost never talks, but he’s good at his work.
Tale Told 