“If you’re going to get into a fight, you’ve got to do it in style,” Willis once said during a particularly inebriated evening on the veranda of the riverboat. The Moon was a silver dollar fallen from Heaven’s pocket. The coin purse of the cosmos had spilled all the over the good sheets. It was a mess. A beautiful, beautiful mess. On the shore, swaths and swaths of trees trembled amidst roaring waterfalls of wind. They seemed to be celebrating some ancient and heretofore hidden secret, and the time was nearly upon them to share what they knew. There were no giraffes roaming in the dew, but Willis spoke of them anyways. “Giraffes fight with their necks. Did you know that? They use their heads like rocks in socks. Like wrecking balls. Like yoyos gone mad. They’ve taken the head butt and made it into an art form. If you’re wondering who the Leonardo DaVinci of fighting is, it’s not Mohammed Ali, and it’s not Bruce Lee. It’s giraffes. Sweet, sweet giraffes. Stylish all the way through, and when it’s over, it’s over. There’s no contesting, no recounts, no trifles. Can humans say the same?”
At the completion of his monologue, he looked around to find the others had dozed off. Anna had returned to her quarters to read Tolstoy, or was it Dr. Seuss? And the cook was snoring loudly enough to wake the nonexistent giraffes.
Masculinity is an interesting thing.