That's what people want, they want a savage, some tomahawk toting maniac hooting and hollering and lathering themselves in your offal and guts, bathing in it, your intestines around my neck like a necklace, a canvas of torn skin, a herd of horses, barbaric tongues severed, mouth open, a grim smile, white eyes, bedraggled feathers in the hair, black and bloody war-paint, butt naked and watching the broken crawl as if they wished they were dead, wicked, biting into the cold heart of a buffalo, drunk and wild, intoxicated and at peace, the sky and the moon, the rocks and dirt, the earth, all yours, part of the land and the very air in which we breathe.