| 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
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| out to a dead horse. | 
| Rotting in the sun, eviscerated by vultures.
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| Kim points to the horse, steaming there in the noonday heat
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| «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
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| flicked grease from his fingers. | 
| One of these gobs of grease is our universe,
 | 
| on its way to the floor |