Something wrong with the bananas

Two guys alone, sitting at a table in some kind of a crappy cantina, somewhere on an isolated exotic island. 

—There’s something wrong with the bananas, says one of them. 

The other guy doesn’t react directly, but then he slowly nods his head, says : 

— Yup. Their skin, looks like they’re sick or somethin’. Like already dead inside. 

— I don’t like it, Dan. 

The other one again doesn’t answer right away. He seems to think slowly about the situation, then he nods again, slowly, and says : 

— I don’t like it either, Rick. It’s black bird to me. 

— Black bird to me too.

And they remained silent, frowning inward, a gloomy look on their faces. 

Chacun assis à la table, ils se renfrognèrent en eux-mêmes, tenant fermement leur tasse de café dans une main et leur carabine dans l’autre. Ils se préparaient peut-être à une calamité que leur enverrait l’époque, une de celles qu’il en plaît périodiquement au bon Dieu de nous envoyer. 

And they would keep this stance, smoking at the table, for a good part of the remaining afternoon. And after that, I don’t know. 

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