On the new scent of fresh blood, the hunter pack regroup, regather and relather. Their hair, tussled by the winds of the jungle landscape of the desert plain, features oils and self-cleaning nutrients.
From the back of the open skull, they dip their index and middle fingers, scooping as needed the brain, blood and matter for their lustrous locks.
Vain and self-conscious, they decided that the endeavour of tracking and pinning their prey is no excuse to look less than the best that they can be.
One, the son of a errant father and the brother of a dead sister, captures the prize of the scoops and kneads the whitest of the grey matter into his scalp. Balding along the sides, the pungency gives way to the hopes of virility and stamina.
Endurance tests the mettle and the flavoursome locks taste better with sweat dripping on a crusade.
Written on Wednesday, 3 May 2006