And all the men form groups of six and curl fingers around sharp angled stones. They throw them with vengeance and anger at the couched figure they call blame, shouting expletives and accusations at the bowed and faltering enemy built by them, for them, just for this very self indulgent sport.
The scent of bloodlines is heavy in the dusty arid air, the men becoming more frenzied as the one they call apparent heir is in despair. They are protecting their own futures after all. The man they are killing is them and they neither know nor want to know the way to save him from themselves.
Fear knows no boundaries and no generosity. It knows no leniency and no love. Fear knows no one but the cowards’ frantic need to wrap the familiar around itself and it permeates the earth much like the lash of the ocean teasing itself with going ashore. The killing becomes raucous, cacophonous, ribald and filled with sweat. The smell of fear is stronger than all the blood spilled in its name.
When the last breath is breathed by the body that is named difference, the men are relieved and sure again. Sure that nothing will change and that the unknown will not threaten their sameness and their firm hold on what is real. And the ground is wet with blood, sweat and the truth of men.