The universe is a pressure cooker. People have lost a lot of relatives, have had to deal with a great deal of shit. You throw alcohol into the mix, and violent incidents will happen. It is part of working here, like changing the barrels, or sweeping the floor.
I knew there were tourists by the size of their engine. Their ship streak across the horizon, with a buzz somewhere between a motorbike and an old lawnmower. A patron at the bar rolled her eyes. They arrived wearing sunglasses and holding hands, and ordered drinks with umbrellas and pineapple in hurricane glasses.
There are plants in the universe which grow so fast you can hear the creaking of their cells expanding. We get a few on Buber. The farmers often massacre yards of a purple vine with leaves the size of dinner plates. Someone must have brought it from who knows where a decade ago, and we cannot kill the damn things off.