When faced with life or death, when choosing to kill or be killed, the grit of who we are is revealed.
For some reason I didn’t think people actually shit themselves. ’Cept when they died. I heard it’s one last farewell movement of "your bowels truly"— then caput! What a way to go! What a swan song. But that’s different’n normal, non-dying a-dults. Even scared shitless ones. Always figured that’s where the sayin’ came from in the first place. Well, it’s more’n a sight wrong. You get right scared— and believe you me— you’ll shit yourself. Even if you ain’t got no shit left. And even if you ain’t et real food for weeks...Months? Food. Not sure my tongue’d know the difference if’n it ever found any. Most a those white sucker things died off that first bit a acid. But, it’s not the tastes. It’s that full feeling in all the stomach. Like a cat. Fat, rollin’ and showin’ its belly. On a mat. Set him rollin’ by a big smokin’ fire and that’s how it was. Nah, now down to chewing on our belts and sucking boot buckles. I killed more’n ten men in that first week, stabbed one clear between the eyes...but when I saw ’Em lot comin’, all hollerin’ and shoutin’ with their burnin’ skin and those wet, wet eyes...Ain’t ashamed to say I shit myself clear through my jeans. At least my legs remembered to run when all Hell came a callin.’ I’ll keep my dirty ass over a dead ass any day. Can’t, nah, won’t be much longer now.
