Julius stands and watches Kansas dissolve in the yawning darkness until there is only that damnable torch leaving a smudge of light. Julius stands under his frilly parasol and smokes his thin cigarillo with dejected aplomb.
Unbeknownst to Julius, a battle has begun in his shadow. In fact, it has long since passed through the ravages of time and exists only as a reverberation of mindless ferocity. The two combatants hew and skew in a time when almost all of Africa was green, and their footwork dances over fragrant blooms and sweet grasses. Julius shivers in the hot desert wind.
Their weapons, are farming utensils but don't let this deceive you; both of them are seasoned warriors, and their bodies are criss-crossed with gruesome scars. They put bright gouges on each other's pileous flesh. "Oi! Dangnabit mosquitos!" Julius flaps his hands around.
When their weapons shatter, thumbs search for eyeholes and their knees soft regions. "Jumping doohickey!" They claw at overgrown manes ("By the goddess!") and gnash their teeth on rancid skin ("Billions of billious barbecued blue blistering barnacles!").
Finally, the battle is over, the two combatants pressed against each other in a parody of an embrace and slump to their knees, still upright. Their heads loll and fall upon the other's shoulders. It is just for they are brothers. Julius is pacing and muttering where their corpses lay through the seasons and became dust, "These frakking mosquitos, the size of robins, where the Hell is Kansas, already?"
He walks up to the first bone white step and shouts into the yawning darkness, "Yoo-hoo?"