This morning, 5/1/14, at 2:49 AM, just after those Wednesday night drunks had been carted home by Harm County cabbies, or had stumbled into a ditch all on their own, or had been compassionately aided in their quest for a place to lay their head by a Harm County peace office, Swick, a local cabbie, came through the front door to purchase his day’s groceries. He is a large light-skinned man who stands about six four, sports a chromed dome, and leans wearily on his shopping cart.

I sit by the door at the bench reading a horror story by Richard Matheson. Swick is up front within a page and a half and Bubba, who mans the FFFFF register, asks, “So how has your night been?”

Swick’s face tightens up. Then his cheeks relax as he spies me, a chronologically sympathetic soul, and begins to drawl in a Carolina accent, “Almost got in a fight: a young boy, perhaps twenny-five. I’ve picked him up before, en knew he wasn’t goin’ far, so wanted to cut him a break. I flip off the meter [which calculates over $2 for just getting in]. After all he jus’ goin’ roun’ the way from here, en I need to shop. So I say, ‘How much you lookin’ ta spend?’

“He says, all indignant, ‘What? You messin’ wit me—wit me! Triflin’ wit ma shit!’

“Now, I jus tryin’ to cut him a break on the fare. I’ve had my nut since ten. Then he gets out and slams my cab door en says, ‘I could take this shit if I wanted. This bitch could be mine—I could take it!’

“You might be but twenny-five—but a buck-sixty en talkin’ dat shit about my ride—you need ta back that up! I got out, slammed the door, lean ova the hood, ‘Boy, I will wrap dem stinky-ass dreadlocks around your neck and drag you down the road!’

“He didn’ stop runnin’ his mouth, but he didn’ stop walkin’ eitha. Second time this week a young boy threaten me for no reason, jus’ to lay the threat. I can only take but so much a that. Strangle him with ‘is own nasty-ass hair I say. You have a nice day sir.”

Now, come the Zombie Apocalypse, staking this dreadlocked miscreant out for the zekes will be made easier by the funky carry straps on his head. Also, since he is a proven vocalizer, we want his cries of anguish to draw as many zekes off our trail as possible. So let’s take off his shoes so they can start eating him from the feet up, rather than head first.

That might sound heartless Bro. But when the diseased brains hit the fan every second counts!