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Very well! Colonially speaking, I've served my country well. (he takes a swig of rum) I've been given a thousand nicknames, which proved the Queen's esteem and the savage's fear. So I'm going to die, but in an apotheosis, borne aloft by ten thousand lads leaner than Plague and Leprosy, exalted by anger and fury.
[...]
END: No, I'm not trembling more and more violently, I'm sending alarm signals to my troops . . All the same, you're not going to kill me for good? . . . You are? . . . You're not? . .. Well, all right, take aim at this indomitable heart. I die childless . . . but I'm counting on your sense of honor to donate by bloodstained uniform to the Army Museum. Ready, aim, fire!
Jean Genet, The Blacks: A Clown Show, trans. Bernard Frechtman. Grove Press (electronic version), 1966, p.96.
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