I went through an orgy of Walking Dead viewing on Netflix recently. Last year I was aware of the hardy survivors showing up to sign autographs at HorrorHound Weekend in Cincinnati or Indianapolis, but I never even bothered to check them out. Back then I’d barely heard of the show. I wouldn’t know Norman Reedus if he was my FedEx guy. Not even if he had a bow strapped across his chest.

 But things changed after I watched seasons one through three in the space of a few sleep-deprived weeks.

So maybe I had Rick, Daryl, Maggie, Carol, Michonne and the others on my mind one Saturday while I walked home from a store in Lakewood at dusk. Or maybe…

I cut through the hospital parking lot and coming toward me was a tall, gaunt young man with a shambling gait and a bad complexion. Oh, and he was mumbling to himself. I’m sure he was merely drunk, mental, pissed off at life or hungover–but why take a chance? I crossed to the other side of the road and lived to tell the tale.

I’ll be on the lookout for walkers when I attend HorrorHound Weekend 2014 in Indianapolis in September. Maybe I’ll see you there. I’ve got your back.