DEAD HIGHWAYS
Dorothy refused to accept Albert was dead.
She knew he was still out there and always would be.
He loved her. Even in death, which was just a state of being because their love was eternal and they had loved in lives long forgotten and would always love each other no matter what.
She would walk the highways of the dead in search of her Albert, even if it took another lifetime to find him again.
Really, it didn't matter because she knew the true meaning of love:
To never criticize and cause pain;
To understand and accept each others' faults;
But, ultimately, like wolves, you would defend your mate until death do part you—well, fuck that: real love, the love which is eternal, never dies.
TRUE LOVE IS.
—bulletproof.
—something which could never, ever be taken away from you.
—and the Living Dead couldn't stop you, either. (Well, some people just don't know when to shut up. Permanently).
Dorothy had a bag of stakes, a big mallet, a .357 Magnum with a box of Black Talon hollow point shells she was ready to use on the first rotting fucker who crossed her path.
She was on the rag and her period had turned her into a rabid bitch: don't fuck with me . . . .
(Oh, she was so embarrassed: she so was so ashamed when she started to swear, even if it was just in her head—Heaven forbid she ever said certain words in public.)
But fuck it, she was a woman on a mission from a God she didn't believe in and there were living dead fucks who needed to be wiped out—and do NOT ever mess with a bleeding woman . . . .
It was a time to live, a time to die.
—Philip Nutman
