Steal a slice a bread
steal a bit a butter,
add a little piece of
something or another.
Slap it all together,
eat it on the sly,
just be sure to finish it off
with another swig of rye!
There was nothing in the song that spoke to Gravor; it was just the old, inane song that Blueberry sang every day as he slouched up and down the road looking for something to steal or a patsy to con. Now it came to him as clearly as if Berry himself were singing it into his ear, and Gravor thought of all the time he had spent working, saving, going to town hall meetings, suppressing his desires so he could one day live a life just slightly better than the one he had. Now all he wished was that he'd had more sex, drank more and swam naked in the creek every day. Blueberry had always seemed so repulsive exactly because he embodied those activities, and he would somehow perpetuate his louse-bitten life of poverty after Gravor was dead. Still, if Gravor hadn't attempted the fatal climb that day, all his investment toward his future self would seem perfectly rational, even though the potential for death lurked between every breath he took. If some benevolent god picked him up off that cliff and returned him to safety, would he live any differently? When Blueberry died, presumably of exposure or liver failure, would he hear Gravor's song just as Gravor heard Blueberry's now, growing ever louder as his grip grew weaker and his time drew toward a close?
Gravor laughed, or rather his tightened chest rattled sharply. He had no song. He never sang, except softly when the music was so loud not even he could hear himself. What's more, a dying Blueberry would never pick Gravor out from the crowd. Gravor was one of hundreds in town that lived, dressed, talked, and thought the same -- at least in comparison to Blueberry. Gravor tried to think of what his song might sound like. All he could imagine was a field-mouse beating a massive bass drum with a dandelion puff. So he decided to do what little could be done in his situation and put the last of his energy into a final, cracking and atonal chorus of Blueberry's song:
Well jail ain't nothing but a roof,
and rain ain't nothing but the sky,
i can swallow most anything,
with another swig of rye.
And with that, he closed his eyes and let the rock slip away under his hands.
Just above him, looking over the edge of the trail, a heavily-bearded face screamed out, "What the hell are you doing?"
