The white man was skinny and tall and wearing a Dead shirt with clothespins attached to the hem. He raised a soft pack of Kools to his mouth and withdrew one with his lips, then rolled the pack up in his left sleeve. There were new soles on his old boots.
He paced off the lawn in front of the temple, length and width. Then, after retrieving a notebook and pencil stub from his satchel, he paced everything off again and wrote down the results.
The bathrooms, he thought, could flank the crowd along the east and west. There was a clearing containing much shittier ruins a half-mile away; it was flat and grassy and there was a wide path connecting the two locations. That’s the campsite, the man figured.
No one for miles. All ours, he thought.
And then the man thought, I’m gonna wire that temple up and turn it into a sound system, or my name ain’t–
“¡Pardon! No era mi intención asustarte.”
“¿Qué estás haciendo aquí?”
“Uhhh…Me, Me, Me llamo Precarious Lee.”
“Eso no es un nombre real . Suena como algo idiota compone .”
“And, uh, we, uh…dammit…Muerte! Muerte!”
“¿Por qué estás gritando “Muerte’ a mí ?”
“MUERTE! YO SOY MUERTE!”
“¿Qué carajo te pasa?”
“EL MUERTE! EL MUERTE IS COMING!”