"My only suitcase is removed from my hand by the intact arm of a one-armed porter. It’s ninety-three degrees and I’m regretting not having brought some kind of a handkerchief to mop my brow or at least having worn something other than jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt made of wool. On a trip like this it feels as if one should pack everything or nothing and so I erred on the side of nothing and brought only a few pens and notebooks, my laptop, a bathing suit, a bottle of Ritalin, and several pairs of blue nitrile gloves in case I am required to handle human remains.
Alex, who is my fixer, translator, and guide (but is additionally a bodyguard, husband, and gallerist), is waiting for me in the parking lot next to a silver Mitsubishi Montero. He smiles, offering a hyperhidrotic handshake, and opens his shirt to reveal a Glock 22 wedged tightly into his waistband, explaining, “They would not let me into their airport with this.” Alex is doubtlessly in excess of 300 pounds, with pouty lips, dainty fingers, and the sort of dorsal hand fat that inverts the knuckles into shallow dimples. “You understand I was once head of airport security, but drug traffickers gave me fourteen bullets — two in the eye.” He looks at me with two white, spherical, undamaged eyes. “I see fine, but I cannot drink alcohol as it gives me headaches behind the eye.” His head is so large that a wedge of fabric has been sewn into the back of his hat as an extender."
- Excerpt of an excerpt from Hamilton Morris' I Walked with a Zombie, which correlates with the above doc and was published in Harper's