So last night I crept through a rundown seaport in Florida. I marched through swampy mangroves and evaded a swarm of infected marauders. Hot wiring a car, I drove all the way to Georgia and met up with one of the last bands of survivors. We shared horror stories over a campfire, while eating beans from a can I found buried in the forest.
This morning I cleaned blood off of my hands with muddy sand at the river bank. I contemplated discarding the murder weapon, but I'm a sucker for shiny knives with sentimental engravings. Laughing, I dragged a body into the water and weighted it down with bricks. I smiled as the raging current took it away to never be seen again. Good riddance.
Later today I'll probably take flight or prepare my weapons stash for the second wave of an alien invasion. There's a good chance I won't live through the night, since I'm pretty sure there's a traitor in our ranks. Then, as I slowly fade into my own persona, I'll prepare to give a riveting speech to a middle school full of enthusiastic writers.
As I sit here pounding away at a keyboard the looming question confounds me. Can this really be work? I'm certainly having too much fun.