| Kim recruits a band of flamboyant and picturesque outlaws called The Wild Fruits
|
| There’s the crying one, who breaks into tears at the sight of his opponent.
|
| «What d' the matter, somebody take your lollipop? |
| Oh señor I’m sorry for you…
|
| «And the priest, who goes into a gunfight giving his adversary the last rites.
|
| And the blind gun, who zeroes in with bat squeaks
|
| Kim trains his men to identify themselves with death. |
| He takes some rookie guns
|
| out to a dead horse. |
| Rotting in the sun, eviscerated by vultures.
|
| Kim points to the horse, steaming there in the noonday heat
|
| «Alright — roll in it.»
|
| «What?!»
|
| «Roll in it. |
| Get the stink of death into your chaps and your boots and your
|
| guns and your hair…»
|
| Well, most of us puked at first. |
| But we got used to it — and vultures followed
|
| us around hopefully. |
| We always ride into town with the wind behind us.
|
| The townspeople gag and wretch
|
| «My God! |
| What’s that stink?»
|
| «It's the stink of death, citizens…»
|
| And I think, personally, the whole planet stinks of death. |
| What are we going to
|
| do about it? |
| Well, all this may have happened many times before in this whole
|
| universe. |
| Here we are trillions of years ago in Galaxy X. Rally has been
|
| organised to protest the use of black holes as an energy source.
|
| A bit late as it turned out. |
| «Closing time, Gentlemen.»
|
| Brion Gysin has a bedtime story: It seems that trillions of years ago a giant
|
| flicked grease from his fingers. |
| One of these gobs of grease is our universe,
|
| on its way to the floor |