To the left is a rack of spears—harpoons, tridents, javelins, some fitted with heads of
stone, others no more than fire hardened poles. To the right is an enormous dart board
suspended by chains. Both the rack of spears and the hanging target catch a blazing light
and the intervening darkness suggests a chasm. Crossing the darkness toward the spears,
the saloon-keeper retains a dusting of light like those fungus that glow in caves. He
selects a spear, hefts and hurls it at the target.
Saloonkeeper: Meat wrought with the throwing spear is the scribe of humanity. The
spear came with us from Africa and no people on Earth has ever been without it. It is a
limbo stick and with what to bar a door. It plumbs water and darkness and can hollow the
air. The spear is utterly in-telligible. Whom does the spear baffle? How should you carry
your spear? What if you are the quarry? Who will rush to your aid? You who tread here
have no champion. No border holds back The Land of Wickedness.