Morbidity

A pair of head-banded young men in loin cloths appeared stretched and distorted across the upper half of the wall via his perspective at the rear of the room. 

They were cutting the hide from a buffalo with the vast horizon reaching into the corner of the lecture hall. The mural spanned the entire perimeter, young black haired papoose yoked women, steely eyed men pointing into an imperceptible distance, a circle of blanketed people passing a long feather adorned pipe, tipis, yucca, a Franciscan friar holding a crucifix in one hand, the other palming the bowed head of a native, the eyes of those around him filled with blank fear. He leaned closer to Clark’s ear, Doesn’t this strike you as slightly morbid? Morbid? Clark asked. We’re here to look at a first edition King James Bible, Clark. Clark tilted back from him with a tight quizzical frown, I don’t get it. The mural, Clark. Oh, he said and gave the room a survey. We’re here to see a bible, Clark—“the” fucking bible. Don’t start with this, Derrick. I’m just saying. I know what yer saying. It doesn’t seem disrespectful to you? Just stop it. Fine. When the pear-shaped lecturer announced with toothy humor that he had very little knowledge of the history of the King James Bible before the university requested he give the talk, Derrick patted Clark on the shoulder then quietly slipped out of the room.