REF: All right, all right. Let’s get this show on the road. Now look, I want it clearly understood here—I myself, personally, have no particular ax to grind. I’m from Lincoln, Nebraska, and proud of it. Born, bred, and corn raised. At the age of eighteen I could break both you assholes in half with my bare hands. That’s not a boast, that’s a plain fact. Neither one of you’s got the brains God gave a chicken, as far as I’m concerned. But I’m not in charge of the flow of time and if some distant motley mob out there figures the outcome of this little polka is worth a fart in the wind, then so be it. I’m just payin the rent. Now, I’m gonna score it like I see it and if there’s any whining, bitching, or complaining of any kind, I’m walking back to Nebraska and you can kiss my white Midwestern ass. Are we clear on this? Have at it.

(REF backs off. Music in. HOSS and CROW circle for the fight.)

CROW: (lurking menace) At the get-go white face. Pale. Moon. Quiver. Blank sheet. Quiver. Shake from a wet wind. Shakin like a cold dog. Outside. Exile. Bone bare. Shun to the shiver. Barren. Shun to the moon moth. Poor dog. Quiver. Crackin from the outside. Crackin from the hide in. Hidden, hidden. Craving for belonging. Yearning for the fireside. Yearning for the warm touch. Yearning be your doomsday. Yearning for the front lawn. Barren, barren. Burned to the liver.

HOSS: Mock up, Crow Bait. Mock up. Circle. Wing it now. Show your oily purple feathers. Show me some wind jive now. Do your little doo-dah dance. Yer hoofin baby. You be hoofin now.

CROW: Kid’s on his belly. Tits down on the tarmac. Belly to the blacktop. Slide through the parkin lot. Shame kid. Runt kid. Dumb with the losers. Side slash to the kid with the hitch walk. Slide. Shift. Slide kid. Whiplash. Dumb kid. Runt. The loser. The runt. American Hucklebuck. Muck it now. Muck it.

HOSS: Fishin, Crow. Fishin. No muscle to it.

CROW: No muscle needed. Hollow reed blow a tune right thru it.

HOSS: No sinew. No blood.

CROW: Human debris.

HOSS: You and me both hatched from the same dark mud.

CROW: But you never jumped it. Eyes still mired. Tongue bogged. Mushin with the weight. Dragged heavy. Down knee-deep in yer own shit.

HOSS: Better than borrowed.

CROW: Borrowed boogie. “Better” had its long sad day. Now it’s done. “Better” bites it to the core. You still chaw on moral dick. “I like Ike and tricky Nixon” all that corpse chalk. Mired. Fucked in its own stew. Fucked in its sticky white peppermint pussy. Fucked in open empty Cold War puke dog. You take it up the ass and call yourself original. Dogs beat you to it. Monkeys. The double-backed huckin beast.