Friday, May 20, 2011

Blood Brothers

“You know, Murphy,” said Scully,  “If you’n me are to be friends, we prob’ly hafta fight.”
Murphy, sick at heart, could not but acknowledge the wisdom of this.

And so they squared off, beneath the unwinking all-knowing  noon-high sun;  bare-fisted, hide-breeches, with not a spoken word.

Long, long  did the fists fly, whirling, round and round:  patient and graceful as the planets in their appointed rounds.  Till at length and at last, they lay each full-length in the dust, their blood-specks spattered like stars.

“We are brothers forever,” they said.

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