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  Whenever zombies come up in conversation, there's always someone who professes their undying love for the undead.  I'm skeptical.
  Not that flesh-eating zombies (or bacteria, for that matter) aren't as deserving of love as anyone else - I'm just wondering how that love holds up when it's really important, when it comes down to brass tacks.
  Running up a flight of creaky old stairs in a run down abandoned cabin or warehouse lost in the middle of the gray Georgia woods, I want to know that love will wash over you and you'll stop mid-step and say to yourself, "What are you REALLY running from mister (or ma'am)?  How come I love zombies until the chips are down and my family's dead?  What?  Then I'm afraid?"  Then I want you to march back down those steps into the arms of the zombie you used to love.  That's my contract with America.
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