Fracto-stratus clouds streamed past the full moon,
catching night rainbows, while the brothers scrapped
on a mountain top. Steve, a swarthy, Belgian fellow,
grasped Max's side-whiskers and whispered:
'You doctrinaire bastard. I hope your children
piss themselves,' before tugging with continental abandon.
Barry produced a shucking knife from his trousers
and drove it through Steven's peacoat
with a triumphant caw. Max's skull segmented
like a Prussian music box, revealing a pirouetting ballerina
who shot poisoned flechettes from a hollow in her leg.
'Scoff at my macaroons, will you?' he said,
woozy from blood loss, dancer spinning in the breeze.
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