Pub crawl into technicolor carcass. We’re gonna use up this carcass, most of it at least. We’ll leave a thimbleful for the mole. Dial up the red.
Road lessons.
Both lanes open. Milk bathe the carcass, give it a teat, like the one you’d give the mako shark. Carcass doesn’t cry, so why do you? The blues gets a red bend; mythology gets a gut knife from the hot dog button man, then rolled up with Kolachian flair. After the carcass is divvied up, there’ll be some drinkin’ smokin’ with junior, before a final retreat to the shack.
Sounds from the shack all night: reeds; light appliances; conservative radio; general rummaging. A light switch. The champion goes uncontested, his mythology goes undisputed - for is it easier to step forward as a challenger and dispute the claim, or to simply agree?
It is far more pleasurable, for certain, to let giants and legends walk, talk, and sing however they damn well please. Snuff your smug defense, your gallery smile, push up your glasses, put on a belt, and shut your damn mouth for once, junior. Listen… heart and prowess. Might learn a thing or two about how to hunt, how to gut.
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