Meet Dikeledi. He is the chief of the Bukan Tribal Council.
This is his stunningly emaciated daughter, Abidemi.
And his wife, Carol.
They inhabit a harsh world where man relates to beast on a primal level. But the arrival of the imperialistic Lindens has driven them to the barren bushlands. And when they are desperate, the Buka tribe does what man has done for thousands of years:
Dejectedly swing from the communal tire swing. But such pastoral pursuits can only sustain them for so long. Then they must hunt the greatest game of all:
Furries. The livestock of the Lindens, who fleece them for their fur and cash. While hunting them is strictly forbidden, desperate times call for desperate measures.
Luckily, Dikeledi allowed us to follow his tribe on their hunt. The Buka are a great warrior people, but stalking and killing furries is no easy business. Many great warriors have died in this pursuit. The mission ahead is dangerous, and not for the fainthearted. But in the tradition of our dearly departed Steve Irwin, we must carry on with a spring in our step, a gleam in our eye, a "Crikey!" on our lips, and a firm expectation of our own demise in our heart of hearts.
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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