Grenades launch green at the screens as the patrons sit down neatly in rows. Concessions flow free from the sides as the night sky provides ample cover for the machetes to run a side up from the hip to the lip. Dripping is wet and the colours from the black and white read red all over. Without subtitles mind you. Enemy of the visual outside the comprehension, and two tasks in reading at odds when the cotton swabs swab no faster than the flush.
Cattle slaughter is the feed and the corn what sifts through the hands pick up fine grains of sand and dirt to roughen up stomachs weak from rich foods. Gourmet on platters of stretched skin with bones jutting out of the mouths of the diners. Clearly service here is beyond that of any other in the region.
Then again, when there is nothing but the flats of the plains to run on and on, samples are cheap, range is thin and there only enough people to fill the arena more then thirteen times over. Plenty is the stock, partially weak be the pickings.
Written on Wednesday, 6 June 2007