Saturday, March 9, 2013

Reality Check

There has been lately a lot of blogging regarding "lone wolves" as survivors, and pointing out the tough row to hoe that individuals will face as opposed to those who group up.

It's all true.

It will be tough.

But for a variety of reasons, I'm currently in the solo category. I'm not married, and what relatives I have are scattered geographically, and not likely to be very preparedness-minded. That last not due to any failure on my part to drop some rather clear hints.

Consequently, should some variety of Zombiepocalypse befall us collectively, or myself regionally, I will almost certainly be one of those one-man bands.

And lately, along with historically every other week, a constant theme from the gun-rich and brain- and supply-poor variety of prepper/survivalist, is the expressed plan to be "comin' to  your house when times get tough", presuming on either my good nature or your overwhelming force to share or take what's mine.

So let's cut the crap, and get right down to the hog-killing.

If you - and that means anyone to whom it applies - come knocking on my door, or sniffing around Camp Snoopy, after the balloon goes up, you can look forward to a quick death, and a decent burial. I may even say a few words over you after the ground's tamped down.

If you're really, really lucky, surrender immediately, and I take pity, you can look forward to leaving in your socks and underpants, minus anything you had in your hand or on your person, and walking away with your lives and your skins, and just about nothing else. As Ving Rhames said to Bruce Willis at the end of Pulp Fiction, "Your privileges here are revoked."

But the odds are that if you're desperate enough to come try to take my stuff, you won't be leaving, and neither will anyone with you. Better OPSEC, and no lost sleep wondering who else you'd tell. So I'd rather dig your grave than mine.

I don't tell anyone what I do or don't have, or where it is, and at this point, nobody but me knows where Camp Snoopy is. Thus anyone there uninvited is presumed guilty from the get-go.

Now multiply me by the number of people out there who haven't formed their own SF A-team, and who'll treat you the same way.

That's the gauntlet the yahoos and jacktards will be facing. Come the day, you and your method will be indistinguishable from that of the "golden horde" of refugees, and any number of Mutant Biker Zombies who think ordinary folks can be run like cattle. You'll find your intended prey has invested long on ammunition and short on pity and mercy, to your own hazard.

I'm here to tell you, it ain't going to work out like you planned, and your stuff will be available to pass out to those both brighter and more self-reliant, after you're dead and gone.

And it may come to pass that eventually, someone, or some group of someones will have more badassery on hand than I do, and the same fate will befall me. But by then, rest assured that you'll be history,which dictates that the first thing that happens after that is you won't give a damn.

Hence I would earnestly advise, for anyone mulling over the prospects of becoming a land pirate, that you consider soberly the option to make a better plan now, or else get really comfortable with the sooner-rather-than-later likelihood of going to be with your deceased relatives should you elect to go rogue.

I will have no compunction whatsoever at thinning the herd and culling humanity of someone so reprobate and morally vacuous, come the day.

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