Here follows a tale told in the fashion of 1000 typewriting monkeys.
The hot rays of the sun beat down upon the open plain. The pampas grass smelled hot, dusty, dry, all the freshness at the roots baked and seared out of it by the time it grew high enough to be touched by the demonic heat. Yet despite the afternoon's swelter, or perhaps because of it, Paul Reubens continued to crouch, naked from the waist, in the sparse shade cast by a ragged tree, all the while clenching the blood-stained blade of his ruined bowie knife between gnarled teeth.
Paul quietly hummed a warrior's chant that he had learned the previous evening around a bonfire that burned well into the morning.