Take your first adversary by the throat and plant a fist in the middle of his face. Do not much worry about breaking bones, yours or his – and do not tarry in planting the next. You just carry forth steadfastly. Do not be much concerned with civilities. This is a fight, and consider that your life may end shortly. So just slug this mutherfucker in the mouth and hold back only to leverage the impact. Do this until you yourself no long feel any of the incoming blows, until your face is a ruddy mess of tooth and blood. Now you may crawl out from under the scrimmage and take yourself thence, if you can.
Your body will have endured such a dreadful trauma you may be unconscious, in which case, you do not need to read further. In all events, you have here for the first time, been as thoroughly awake as you have ever been. Now go forth onto the streets. People will shun you for the disaster you are. There will be distress right and left – pedestrians calling 911, cars slowing to witness the zombie in their midst – you will be missing a front tooth, you shirt ripped at the collar, a pluck of hair torn from your scalp. Around you a chorus of hushed voices will signal onward your arrival. You’ll never have been so popular. Throngs will gather to see the violence you display. Now stand still a moment and address the crowds. Fellow citizens, you will lisp through your tooth, I look in bad shape, but appearances are deceiving. I am perhaps no worse off than any of you.
They will take you for a raving lunatic, and you will be discussed over dinner. I saw a man beaten to a pulp, she will say. He looked me straight in the eye and said he was perhaps no worse off than any of us. What do you think of that? But the man to whom she addresses this will not answer; he will not look up from his food. Later on he will speak, but only ask for the salt.
