A signature is a personal expression. It is not merely the letters that make up someone's name. Whether they are scribbles or beautiful works of art (like Steranko's) they are the visible manifestation of they way in which that person identifies who they are. They are as unique as snowflakes, and beautiful or ugly, they are awesome.
Try telling that to your HS English teacher, and see how that would have played out.
The circle is now complete. When I left you, I was but the learner. Now I am the master. (scribble line + swoosh + hash tag to the face!)
Loc: The Dirty South
One of the guys on Roamers and Lurkers brought up an interesting point from the Rise of the Governor novel. If you read the book, it has a lot of allusions to events in the series - is it possible the Saviors were in RotG? Here's a longer chapter section the original poster referred to:
“What happened in Druid Hills?” he asks after a moment of silence. April lets out a sigh. “Folks told us there was a refugee center up there. There wasn’t.” Philip looks at her. “And?” April shrugs. “We got there and found a whole bunch of people hiding out behind the gates of this big scrap-metal place. People just like us. Scared, confused. We tried to talk some of them into leaving with us. Strength in numbers, all that gung-ho *spoon*.” “So, what happened?” “I guess they were too scared to leave and too scared to stay.” April looks down, her face reflecting the candlelight. “Tara and Dad and I found a car that would run, and we gathered up some supplies and took off. But we heard the motorcycles coming when we were pulling away.” “Motorcycles?” She nods, rubs her eyes. “We got about a quarter of a mile down the road—maybe not even that far—and we round this hill and all of a sudden we hear, way in the distance behind us, these screams. And we look back across the valley, where this dusty old salvage yard is, and it’s like … I don’t know. *spoon* Road Warrior or something.” “It’s what?” “This motorcycle gang is tearing the place apart, running people down, entire families, God knows what else. It was pretty damn ugly. And the weird thing is, it wasn’t the near-miss that got to us. It wasn’t the bullet we dodged. I think it was the guilt. We all wanted to go back and help, and be good upstanding citizens and all that, but we didn’t.” She looks at him. “Because we ain’t good upstanding citizens; there ain’t any of those left.”
It might be a stretch - Druid Hills is just outside of Atlanta, but they could have made the trek north.