The Making of Zombie Wars by Aleksandar Hemon

same circumstances as when he first was pleased by it. He who was never pleased is doomed to an eternal hard-on.
    He biked down Clark, stopping to peek through the windows of various bars, looking for women. Only gay bars were full; the heterosexual joints were empty—the heteros massively committed to watching television with their falsely monogamous spouses. He recalled that a cute, potentially promiscuous bartender worked at Charlie’s Ale House, but when he looked in, there was nobody, not even a bartender. In case of a zombie apocalypse, would people fuck more, or less, or at all? What if the zombie hunger were not visceral but carnal? He should look more into zombie porn. If they’d already come up with a flick called Weapons of Ass Destruction , there had to be a Night of the Fucking Dead .
    To the Westmoreland it was, then. Down Clark Street people moved in units of desire and negotiable friendship, under the neon lights promising pleasure and warmth against the Chicago chill. He left Clark to enter the side-street darkness at the end of which he found the Westmoreland, ever tucked inside a strip mall between a tire shop and a Curves front office. The bar was, naturally, vacant—time seemed to have stopped here, as Paco was in the same position, with the same goiter, watching the same TV, except this time it showed baseball highlights.
    â€œHey, Paco!” Joshua said. He would’ve loved it if Paco could remember him, but he didn’t and it was likely that he never would. He nodded instead, bartenderly.
    â€œDo you have any good Pinot Noir?” Joshua asked.
    â€œNo,” Paco said, not a muscle on his face moving. “But the Jell-O shots are fantastic.”
    Joshua waited for some indication of Paco’s seriousness level, but he was unbending: no indication was provided.
    â€œI’d prefer some red wine,” Joshua said.
    There was a time when he could conceive of a life that would permit him to wake up happy in the morning. Such a life was now beyond the reach of his imagination, nor could he remember what it would’ve exactly looked like. Still, it was fair to say that the minimum requirement for a truly enjoyable existence would be unbridled promiscuity. There is that great moment in Goldfinger when the leader of the fantastically blond crew of female flyers tells James Bond: “I’m Pussy Galore,” and he says: “I must be dreaming!”
    Right now, it didn’t look good, the life. What doesn’t kill you makes you horny. Paco delivered the wine and said, “Three dollars,” at which point Joshua patted his pockets to find out that his wallet was absent.
    â€œI can’t find my wallet,” he told Paco, expecting understanding or forgiveness. But Paco kept staring at him, the goiter throbbing with judgment. Whereupon he took the wine bottle, unscrewed the top, and poured the wine back into the bottle. He then returned to the same position to watch the TV.
    *   *   *
    Joshua retraced his bike ride back to Ana’s place, stopping by the same still-empty bars, scanning the pavement in the hope of spotting the wallet, the coil of his lust unshuffling along the way. There was nothing to be found other than cigarette butts and shreds of coupon sheets and broken bottles and a few used condoms. He stopped at the light and, more out of need to distract himself from worry than out of a sense of responsibility, he checked his phone and discovered he had eight calls and five messages from Kimiko, and there was one from his father. He listened to Kimmy’s first message: she just wanted him to call back and let her know when he’d be coming home. Now it was nearly midnight and she must be sleeping. He called and hung up after one ring. If someone imagines that someone loves him, and does not believe he has given any cause for it, he should love in return.
    Leaning on his bike in front of the Ambassador, he looked up