“You nuh tink a ram goat can talk like a man unda the fuol moon?”

It was then that I realized that Lion was dead serious. His normally-hazy eyes were clear, searching mine with an unsettling intensity. We sat around the domino table amidst of hundreds of mourners, the solitary fluorescent bulb above us attracting a similar gathering of flying insects. He grunted when his turn came, indicating a pass, the man to his right immediately releasing a howl and slamming the decisive tile into the weathered wood tabletop with meteoric force.

Lion ignored the defeat. He was still awaiting my answer. Of course the combination of sleep-deprivation and white rum made verbal communication impossible for me at this point. I just stared at the glowing double-helix of the light bulb. The cloud of bugs is my last coherent memory of that night until I awoke a couple hours later, still sitting in the exact spot, with the same men crowded around the domino table, seemingly oblivious to the passage of time. The only apparent change being the soft blue glow rising over the eastern hills.

The nine-night or setup is like a neighborhood party to honor the deceased. It was a good time. Lots of people. Lots of rum. I still have no idea what Lion was talking about, but neither did he. We were but tiny pieces of a great work. An old man was laid to rest in style, his spirit lovingly ground into a cacophony of good vibes and pumped into the souls of all present. Nuff respec.