Sometimes, when I’m outside having a smoke, I dream about a zombie apocalypse.

My night-owl sleep schedule dictates that the hours I unusually spend outside fall during the latest points of the evening. The silence of the night is deafening. The stillness of the world around me is inescapable.

Right around the time the stillness of the night starts to register in my brain, I imagine a cadre of the undead rounding the corner to my cul-de-sac.

Their entrance is signaled by the foul stench of the dead wafting over the Spanish tiled rooftops of my pseudo-suburban neighborhood. I can hear the grinding scrape of exposed leg bones as they are dragged across the pavement, leaving a gory trail of bone fragments and tattered skin.

I picture freezing in place, hoping that they somehow have developed the visual acuity of a Tyrannosaurus. But my body can only remain still for so long as the lit cigarette smoke drifts up into my nostrils and eyes.

One zombie notices the smell of tobacco and fear emanating from my frozen figure. Its change of direction is followed blindly by the others in the horde. By now, I’m exuding fear and sweat the way an atom bomb exudes warmth.

Then I fart.

They begin a frenzied run¹ at me, mouths agape like sharks at a fat seal daycare. I panic and bolt into the garage-side door which serves as the entrance to my attic apartment. Continue reading »