A great feast (with kosher option) follows the overdue duel. The Grave Digger’s meager stock of food is depleted. The revelry goes on until midnight.
A few of the more sensitive duelists notice a subtle difference between that night and all previous nights. After waking undisturbed, they realize that Rhetoric slept quietly, without barking once. Mid-morning, during the assembly of the public tribunal, this point is raised. Unfortunately it’s drowned out by the persistent drone of the Entomologist, whose pitch for a group lecture series (beginning with ‘Bugs of the Dueling Ground: Insects We See and Are Bitten By Every Day’) meets at first with indifference, then annoyance, then - if only to reclaim his silence - acceptance.
The Environmental Scientist calls the tribunal to order. As first point of business, two advocates are chosen, one for and one against the accused, with the Environmental Scientist acting as judge and the remaining duelists as jury (excluding his daughter the Employment Officer).
Arguments are made for and against the Grave Digger. The defense (Ergonomist) asks the jury to take into consideration the fact that there were no stockpiles of ammunition in the cabin, and that the .455 caliber of the Webley may in fact be so rare as to be difficult to purchase. The prosecutor (Environmental Lobbyist) lists the failures of the accused, especially in that he almost certainly manufactured the scarcity of the bullets only to prevent his daughter from going through with the duel.
It takes the jury under a minute to proclaim the guilt of the Grave Digger.
The Environmental Scientist takes off his reading glasses. The next step, he says carefully, is to determine a suitable punishment.
Hang the jerk! shouts the Expressman from the rear of the jury. The rest mutter in general agreement.
One consideration we should make, pipes the Ergonomist, is that as a Grave Digger he may be part of a later duel.
Grumbling.
The Ergonomist continues:
A few days ago, he says, as everybody knows, the Etymologist cracked secret to the particular succession of people that come to the grounds. Namely, they come in order of their occupation, arranged alphabetically. With this rule discovered, we could scientifically determine who had been the very last duelist. (Here he points to the Employment Officer.) Which of course gave rise to our outrage at the hidden insiderism and whatnot. What I’m getting at, in a round-about kind of way, is that the Grave Digger may be a duelist whose duel isn’t yet due.
Shuffling.
In which case the question becomes: is it proper for a group of duelists to kill a future duelist outside of a duel?
Everyone is very quiet.
Just hang him already! cries the Expressman.
All in favor of hanging the Grave Digger? asks the Environmental Scientist.
Most of the jury raises their hands.
And the nays?
Only a few.
Good, the Environmental Scientist sighs, happy to be done with the business if nothing else. Should we form a subcommittee to carry out the lynching?
They do, and a long strand of nylon rope is thrown over one of the lower branches of the great oak, noose at one end, now over the head and around the neck of the Grave Digger, who stands wobbling atop the Shaker table. The Evangelist consoles him with passages from the Bible on eternal life, etc.
Grave Digger, announces the subcommittee appointed executioner (Executioner), prepare yourself for death.
You’re all the ones to blame here! shouts the Grave Digger. Ingrates! I stood side to side with the caretaker when he was overcome by the nativists! It was in my right to take his place! Maybe I didn’t do no good, but I tried my damndest! You’re hands are dirty with the blood of an innocent man!
The Executioner kicks away the table. The Grave Digger drops. Deep gurgling as he struggles for breath, writhing with his hands behind his back.
His daughter faints. Suddenly Rhetoric’s ears perk.
As everyone watches the victim in his last throes – the rope breaks, a crack shoots from afar, and the Grace Digger falls to the ground. There’s a cry. The Entertainer points east to the forest. From the dark woods emerges Stetson, rifle across his shoulder, sack in another, dressed in tattered rags. As he walks others emerge – a whole hoard of shaggy nativists, half-naked, sinewy men with paint and tattoos and piercings covering their pale, mud-caked bodies.
As the duelists stand awe-struck in a circle about the half-hanged man, Stetson strides toward them. Just paces away, he throws the sack at the feet of the Environmental Scientist. It tumbles and its contents spill: from inside roll hundreds of fresh .455 caliber cartridges.
Stetson sweeps his eyes across the numerous. He speaks.
Let's resume the duel.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Riot
It’s as if the past twenty days an unseen pressure had been exerted on an unseen trigger. And now, just past the point of egress the latch let slip, a spring set loose, the hammer sped tight – and shot unleashed.
They speed from a place behind the tents at dawn. Some through corn field, some through bean patch, and some along the path directly, they make to the cabin, armed with the two pistols, stones, sticks, croquet mallets, spikes, tent poles, nylon rope. The Enologist, driven by some primal madness by the communal onrush, lets loose a war whoop even as he adjusts his clumsy bifocals in mid-stride behind the Epidemiologist.
Upon their descent a flight of hurled stones, croquet balls, and a kitsune statuette proceeds before them, thundering in a wave against the lain timber walls, the statuette and a two pound stone exploding through the south window. Then, as those that looped around through the cornfield to the east make their way, the east window is smashed. And also the west as those missiles from the bean field are hurled. There’s a great clamor of shouting and calls and cries, a terrible rancor and arms raised above the duelists heads in blind outrage. Until the Environmental Scientist steps forth with a pistol in one hand, a crude torch in the other, out from a small group that led the assault, at which point the crowd quiets.
From inside the cabin they hear the terrified sobbing of the Employment Officer.
Good morning, opens the Environmental Scientist. We were hoping you might have a free minute or two.
They hear shuffling. The Grave Digger’s head peeks out from under the windowsill, looking through the broken pane.
I might, he answers.
Great. We’d like to open a dialogue between our two parties.
What parties?
Well… we’re a mob. This is a riot.
Oh, says the Grave Digger.
Do you mind coming out with your arms behind your head? You and your daughter?
The Grave Digger thinks. I’d prefer not to, he says.
The Environmental Scientist meets in a huddle with several of the other duelists. The Estate Agent and Engineer give whispered counsel, others adding points here and there. Finally the Environmental Scientists nods and turns back to face the cabin.
Hate to say it, but if you don’t vacate the premises we’ll burn down the cabin.
Smoke you out, shouts the Estate Agent.
Nice use of parlance, notes the Environmental Scientist. The Estate Agent nods.
The cabin door opens. The Grave Digger and his daughter the Employment Officer step out with their hands behind their head. Both are in their sleeping clothes, the Employment Officer in a frightful pink nightie that rises mid-way above her ham hock thighs. The two survey the wide ring of duelists – all 19, even the diminutive linen-suited Evangelist, who circle the cabin – with trepidation. The Employment Officer’s cheeks run damp with tears, her thin lower lip sucked back in an obnoxious exaggeration of fear.
With the Environmental Scientist and the Engineer pinning them under the aim of their pistols, the Etymologist runs from behind and ties the writes of each in turn with short strands of nylon rope.
Now whaddya plan on doing with us? says the Grave Digger.
The Environmental Scientist turns to his lieutenants. First, he says, let’s see if we can’t organize a small group to ransack the cabin.
The Estate Agent, Engineer, and Expressman enter the cabin. They begin overturning furniture, throwing any objects that aren’t nailed down – books, radio equipment, cooking utensils – out the door and windows.
We ain’t got nothing, the Grave Digger cries.
The Esthetician hands the Environmental Scientist a few wrinkled sheets of foolscap. He thanks her, shuffles the pages, and puts on a pair of reading glasses that hitherto had been dangling from his broad neck. After quickly examining the paper, he reads a very brief manifesto that ends with a short list of demands, including (but not limited to) the option to quit from the duel altogether and return home.
But I bought you the croquet set, dinn I?
The sorriest croquet set I’ve ever seen, says the Entropologist from his spot in the bean patch. It didn’t even come with hoops.
What about my food? asks the Employment Officer.
We kept telling you that not everyone likes noodle casserole, explains the Entertainer. Especially when you make it three nights a week.
And I’m kosher! cries the Escort.
And she’s kosher, repeats the Entertainer.
So what do you plan on doing then, asks the Grave Digger wildly. Carry on by yourselves? Each to his will?
Actually, says the Environmental Scientist, we’ve voted to give governing authority to a provisional caretaker until the rightful caretaker returns.
Who’s leading?
The Environmental Scientist takes off his glasses. Well, he says, I am.
The Estate Agent comes out of the cabin with a pouch. She’s followed by her two companions. Inside the pouch she pulls a single gold coin.
No ammunition?
The Estate Agent shakes her head.
I told you they don’t make the caliber no more, the Grave Digger pleads.
Colleagues, why don’t we all gather around for an impromptu chat.
The duelists gather around the tied father and daughter.
Now I remember that a majority wanted to proceed with a kangaroo court to determine the guilt and punishment of our captives here. I know we decided against calling it that, but I can’t remember the other term –
Tribunal! someone shouts from the crowd.
Oh that’s right, brightens the Environmental Scientist, a tribunal. Anyway, before we do that –
Hang ‘em! someone shouts.
The Environmental Scientist raises his hand for peace. Anyway, he continues, before that let’s hold a vote on how we should go about recommencing the duel, this being our top priority. How many think that now with the Employment Officer under arrest, we should hold a duel – regardless of the fact that we only have four bullets.
Most people raise their hands.
And against?
A few vote against.
Yeas have it, then.
My daughter! cries the Grave Digger.
Well then. Let’s retire to the dueling grounds, smiles the Environmental Scientist.
The Employment Officer is untied. She’s given the choice of the two pistols, reluctantly chooses one, and stands on her mark. The other’s given to the Engine Driver, pale with fear. The crowd moves back. Some stand, some sit in the grass.
At your marks, calls the Entrepreneur (committee-appointed dueling official).
The duel be damned! the Grave Digger shouts.
Now march. They march.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
The Engine Driver falls dead. Everyone claps politely.
Better late than never, whispers the Engraver to the Exterminator, who just seconds ago arrived from the road. The Exterminator blinks.
They speed from a place behind the tents at dawn. Some through corn field, some through bean patch, and some along the path directly, they make to the cabin, armed with the two pistols, stones, sticks, croquet mallets, spikes, tent poles, nylon rope. The Enologist, driven by some primal madness by the communal onrush, lets loose a war whoop even as he adjusts his clumsy bifocals in mid-stride behind the Epidemiologist.
Upon their descent a flight of hurled stones, croquet balls, and a kitsune statuette proceeds before them, thundering in a wave against the lain timber walls, the statuette and a two pound stone exploding through the south window. Then, as those that looped around through the cornfield to the east make their way, the east window is smashed. And also the west as those missiles from the bean field are hurled. There’s a great clamor of shouting and calls and cries, a terrible rancor and arms raised above the duelists heads in blind outrage. Until the Environmental Scientist steps forth with a pistol in one hand, a crude torch in the other, out from a small group that led the assault, at which point the crowd quiets.
From inside the cabin they hear the terrified sobbing of the Employment Officer.
Good morning, opens the Environmental Scientist. We were hoping you might have a free minute or two.
They hear shuffling. The Grave Digger’s head peeks out from under the windowsill, looking through the broken pane.
I might, he answers.
Great. We’d like to open a dialogue between our two parties.
What parties?
Well… we’re a mob. This is a riot.
Oh, says the Grave Digger.
Do you mind coming out with your arms behind your head? You and your daughter?
The Grave Digger thinks. I’d prefer not to, he says.
The Environmental Scientist meets in a huddle with several of the other duelists. The Estate Agent and Engineer give whispered counsel, others adding points here and there. Finally the Environmental Scientists nods and turns back to face the cabin.
Hate to say it, but if you don’t vacate the premises we’ll burn down the cabin.
Smoke you out, shouts the Estate Agent.
Nice use of parlance, notes the Environmental Scientist. The Estate Agent nods.
The cabin door opens. The Grave Digger and his daughter the Employment Officer step out with their hands behind their head. Both are in their sleeping clothes, the Employment Officer in a frightful pink nightie that rises mid-way above her ham hock thighs. The two survey the wide ring of duelists – all 19, even the diminutive linen-suited Evangelist, who circle the cabin – with trepidation. The Employment Officer’s cheeks run damp with tears, her thin lower lip sucked back in an obnoxious exaggeration of fear.
With the Environmental Scientist and the Engineer pinning them under the aim of their pistols, the Etymologist runs from behind and ties the writes of each in turn with short strands of nylon rope.
Now whaddya plan on doing with us? says the Grave Digger.
The Environmental Scientist turns to his lieutenants. First, he says, let’s see if we can’t organize a small group to ransack the cabin.
The Estate Agent, Engineer, and Expressman enter the cabin. They begin overturning furniture, throwing any objects that aren’t nailed down – books, radio equipment, cooking utensils – out the door and windows.
We ain’t got nothing, the Grave Digger cries.
The Esthetician hands the Environmental Scientist a few wrinkled sheets of foolscap. He thanks her, shuffles the pages, and puts on a pair of reading glasses that hitherto had been dangling from his broad neck. After quickly examining the paper, he reads a very brief manifesto that ends with a short list of demands, including (but not limited to) the option to quit from the duel altogether and return home.
But I bought you the croquet set, dinn I?
The sorriest croquet set I’ve ever seen, says the Entropologist from his spot in the bean patch. It didn’t even come with hoops.
What about my food? asks the Employment Officer.
We kept telling you that not everyone likes noodle casserole, explains the Entertainer. Especially when you make it three nights a week.
And I’m kosher! cries the Escort.
And she’s kosher, repeats the Entertainer.
So what do you plan on doing then, asks the Grave Digger wildly. Carry on by yourselves? Each to his will?
Actually, says the Environmental Scientist, we’ve voted to give governing authority to a provisional caretaker until the rightful caretaker returns.
Who’s leading?
The Environmental Scientist takes off his glasses. Well, he says, I am.
The Estate Agent comes out of the cabin with a pouch. She’s followed by her two companions. Inside the pouch she pulls a single gold coin.
No ammunition?
The Estate Agent shakes her head.
I told you they don’t make the caliber no more, the Grave Digger pleads.
Colleagues, why don’t we all gather around for an impromptu chat.
The duelists gather around the tied father and daughter.
Now I remember that a majority wanted to proceed with a kangaroo court to determine the guilt and punishment of our captives here. I know we decided against calling it that, but I can’t remember the other term –
Tribunal! someone shouts from the crowd.
Oh that’s right, brightens the Environmental Scientist, a tribunal. Anyway, before we do that –
Hang ‘em! someone shouts.
The Environmental Scientist raises his hand for peace. Anyway, he continues, before that let’s hold a vote on how we should go about recommencing the duel, this being our top priority. How many think that now with the Employment Officer under arrest, we should hold a duel – regardless of the fact that we only have four bullets.
Most people raise their hands.
And against?
A few vote against.
Yeas have it, then.
My daughter! cries the Grave Digger.
Well then. Let’s retire to the dueling grounds, smiles the Environmental Scientist.
The Employment Officer is untied. She’s given the choice of the two pistols, reluctantly chooses one, and stands on her mark. The other’s given to the Engine Driver, pale with fear. The crowd moves back. Some stand, some sit in the grass.
At your marks, calls the Entrepreneur (committee-appointed dueling official).
The duel be damned! the Grave Digger shouts.
Now march. They march.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
The Engine Driver falls dead. Everyone claps politely.
Better late than never, whispers the Engraver to the Exterminator, who just seconds ago arrived from the road. The Exterminator blinks.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
First Duelist Assembly (Day 2)
Speeches Regarding to the first order of business, or
Arguments For and Against the End to Rhetoric
"Rhetoric Is All-Pervasive and Relentless In Its Drive to Keep Us from Having A Good Night's Sleep, and Should Therefore Die," by the Enologist
Friends, I don't pretend to know much. I'm just a simple Enologist. But even I know that men and women need sleep. It's one of the few true necessities in life. Unfortunately, all of us currently have an obstacle to this prime need. That obstacle is Rhetoric. It barks every night, almost all night, regardless of our efforts to quiet it.
"Rhetoric Protects Us from Unspeakable Evil, and Should Therefore Live," by the Estate Agent
I'll make this a quickie. After talking with the daughter of the man living in the cabin, it's come to be well known - even if it's not appreciated by some - that Rhetoric is just doing its job: protecting us from an evil that we can't imagine. I see some of you rolling your eyes. Well I believe her and I know a bunch of other do too, because I've talked to you in private. A lot of you. What happens if it's a band of rapists? I don't know, and I don't really want to find out. You know what'll help you with sleep? Taking naps during the day instead of playing chess all the time. Thanks.
Lots are cast. Result: Rhetoric lives.
Second order of business, or
Should we petition for the purchase of croquet equipment?
A speech is given by Entropologist. Fittingly, it's at first organized and compact, fraying as time goes by, until tapering off mid-sentence at some point forty minutes later, when the last person left (Engineer) stands up and walks to the creek for a bath.
All in favor? asks the Entropologist. Aye, he replies sadly.
Result: Petition for croquet equipment is a go.
The Ethologist arrives. He takes a small spot in a tent that's already filled to capacity.
The Grave Digger frets, looking to the grounds from his cabin window.
Arguments For and Against the End to Rhetoric
"Rhetoric Is All-Pervasive and Relentless In Its Drive to Keep Us from Having A Good Night's Sleep, and Should Therefore Die," by the Enologist
Friends, I don't pretend to know much. I'm just a simple Enologist. But even I know that men and women need sleep. It's one of the few true necessities in life. Unfortunately, all of us currently have an obstacle to this prime need. That obstacle is Rhetoric. It barks every night, almost all night, regardless of our efforts to quiet it.
"Rhetoric Protects Us from Unspeakable Evil, and Should Therefore Live," by the Estate Agent
I'll make this a quickie. After talking with the daughter of the man living in the cabin, it's come to be well known - even if it's not appreciated by some - that Rhetoric is just doing its job: protecting us from an evil that we can't imagine. I see some of you rolling your eyes. Well I believe her and I know a bunch of other do too, because I've talked to you in private. A lot of you. What happens if it's a band of rapists? I don't know, and I don't really want to find out. You know what'll help you with sleep? Taking naps during the day instead of playing chess all the time. Thanks.
Lots are cast. Result: Rhetoric lives.
Second order of business, or
Should we petition for the purchase of croquet equipment?
A speech is given by Entropologist. Fittingly, it's at first organized and compact, fraying as time goes by, until tapering off mid-sentence at some point forty minutes later, when the last person left (Engineer) stands up and walks to the creek for a bath.
All in favor? asks the Entropologist. Aye, he replies sadly.
Result: Petition for croquet equipment is a go.
The Ethologist arrives. He takes a small spot in a tent that's already filled to capacity.
The Grave Digger frets, looking to the grounds from his cabin window.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
First Duelist Assembly
A new duelist arrived each day over the past fourteen days. Yet none dueled, and none died. All remain. They include, by order of appearance, the following:
Engineer
Engraver
Enologist
Entertainer
Entomologist
Entrepreneur
Entropologist
Environmental Lobbyist
Environmental Scientist
Epidemiologist
Ergonomist
Escort
Estate Agent
Esthetician
Today they live in a settlement described by its occupants as everything from a hilltop township (Entrepreneur) to an internment camp (Ergonomist). The muddy paths and beige canvas tents are reminiscent to some (Engineer, Entomologist, Environmental Scientist) of civil war campsites.
During the two weeks minor discoveries are made. The Engraver, for example, identifies the patterns worked into the brass pistol shells as hand-crafted, from several different people - not one man chosen exclusively for the task.
But this is the exception. Most of the interaction between the duelists is unimportant and easily overlooked; their conversations are predictable.
They have two main points of concern, namely:
1. The lack of dueling.
2. The quality of care provided by the Grave Digger and his obese daughter, the Employment Officer.
With regard to point of concern, the second:
Though the father and daughter, through exchange of the Krugerrands recovered, provided camping equipment, accouterments of all variety, and fair rations of fresh and canned food - the latter prepared thrice daily by the daughter - it in no way lives up to the combined standard of living expected from the growing number of professionals contained within the dueling grounds. The very fact that they are contained - not by force, but by a grudging sense of duty to the unspoken rules and an innate feeling of mutual competitiveness - also hinders efforts, in that they lack the liberty to purchase or seek the purchase of unnecessary items. The Entropologist, for example, would not let go of his desire to set up and organize a croquet tournament; this being impossible due to the lack of croquet equipment.
Thus resentment built. Blame was aimed squarely at the Grave Digger, whose promise of better provisions was believed to be as suspect as his sincerity in locating bullets to match the .455 caliber of two Webley revolvers. It didn't help that neither he nor his daughter reigned in Rhetoric, whose nightly vigil of the grounds - being the stalwart dog that he was - was enthusiastic to the extreme, full of mad barking and snarling often until daybreak.
With animosity growing in pitch with each new addition, with each passing day, in-fighting broke out within the camp. Duelists began forming petty alliances based largely on occupational lines: scientists congregated with scientists; artists with artists; businesspeople with businesspeople; and the escort with all and no one, each man vying for her attention regardless of his self-perceived station. She alone, it seemed, was content.
With regard to point of concern, the first:
Here two sides form. One half of the duelists believe that dueling should start immediately upon supply of ammunition, continuing throughout day and night until the duels are settled equally. The second believes that the duels should be spaced out in time. These sides aren't based along lines of occupation, but temperament.
Thus people argue and complain.
It's the Environmental Lobbyist (of all people) who finally rallies everyone together. In secret, he proposes the First Duelist Assembly. At the appointed time (noon, after lunch), the duelists quietly assemble apart from the Grave Digger and his daughter. After an hour, just before the Ethnologist arrives, they unanimously decide to hold a Second Duelist Assembly tomorrow.
The first order of business:
The delivery of speeches on whether or not to end Rhetoric.
The second order of business:
Petition for the purchase of croquet equipment.
Engineer
Engraver
Enologist
Entertainer
Entomologist
Entrepreneur
Entropologist
Environmental Lobbyist
Environmental Scientist
Epidemiologist
Ergonomist
Escort
Estate Agent
Esthetician
Today they live in a settlement described by its occupants as everything from a hilltop township (Entrepreneur) to an internment camp (Ergonomist). The muddy paths and beige canvas tents are reminiscent to some (Engineer, Entomologist, Environmental Scientist) of civil war campsites.
During the two weeks minor discoveries are made. The Engraver, for example, identifies the patterns worked into the brass pistol shells as hand-crafted, from several different people - not one man chosen exclusively for the task.
But this is the exception. Most of the interaction between the duelists is unimportant and easily overlooked; their conversations are predictable.
They have two main points of concern, namely:
1. The lack of dueling.
2. The quality of care provided by the Grave Digger and his obese daughter, the Employment Officer.
With regard to point of concern, the second:
Though the father and daughter, through exchange of the Krugerrands recovered, provided camping equipment, accouterments of all variety, and fair rations of fresh and canned food - the latter prepared thrice daily by the daughter - it in no way lives up to the combined standard of living expected from the growing number of professionals contained within the dueling grounds. The very fact that they are contained - not by force, but by a grudging sense of duty to the unspoken rules and an innate feeling of mutual competitiveness - also hinders efforts, in that they lack the liberty to purchase or seek the purchase of unnecessary items. The Entropologist, for example, would not let go of his desire to set up and organize a croquet tournament; this being impossible due to the lack of croquet equipment.
Thus resentment built. Blame was aimed squarely at the Grave Digger, whose promise of better provisions was believed to be as suspect as his sincerity in locating bullets to match the .455 caliber of two Webley revolvers. It didn't help that neither he nor his daughter reigned in Rhetoric, whose nightly vigil of the grounds - being the stalwart dog that he was - was enthusiastic to the extreme, full of mad barking and snarling often until daybreak.
With animosity growing in pitch with each new addition, with each passing day, in-fighting broke out within the camp. Duelists began forming petty alliances based largely on occupational lines: scientists congregated with scientists; artists with artists; businesspeople with businesspeople; and the escort with all and no one, each man vying for her attention regardless of his self-perceived station. She alone, it seemed, was content.
With regard to point of concern, the first:
Here two sides form. One half of the duelists believe that dueling should start immediately upon supply of ammunition, continuing throughout day and night until the duels are settled equally. The second believes that the duels should be spaced out in time. These sides aren't based along lines of occupation, but temperament.
Thus people argue and complain.
It's the Environmental Lobbyist (of all people) who finally rallies everyone together. In secret, he proposes the First Duelist Assembly. At the appointed time (noon, after lunch), the duelists quietly assemble apart from the Grave Digger and his daughter. After an hour, just before the Ethnologist arrives, they unanimously decide to hold a Second Duelist Assembly tomorrow.
The first order of business:
The delivery of speeches on whether or not to end Rhetoric.
The second order of business:
Petition for the purchase of croquet equipment.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
(Employment Officer v. Engine Driver) v. Engineer
Rhetoric is the scourge of woodland creatures. He barks all night, keeping the Engine Driver in a weary state of panic, unsure of who or what might be near. His sense of danger is heightened by lights from within Stetson's cabin to the north, the scurry of black figures blocking the light.
The barking stops at daybreak. The Engine Driver raises his tired eyes to the sky. It's clear, as pure as a lens.
The Employment Officer and her father the Grave Digger emerge from the cabin. They walk past the bean field - beans now sprouting - to the oak. They pass the Engine Driver. They walk to the most western cairn by the creek. There, under the most western rock, they discover the pouch of gold Krugerrands earlier hidden by the Detective.
Excitement hits father and daughter, enough to cause the daughter to buckle under wheezing bout of exhaustion. The pouch is concealed before the Engine Driver arrives, asking about the commotion.
Nothing, says the Grave Digger.
Nothing, seconds his daughter.
What about the duel?
The duel, the Grave Digger says, isn't possible.
The Engine Driver asks why.
The Grave Digger explains that only four bullets are left for the two guns. It's fine if you duel, but what's keeping you safe from the people what the dog barks at each night?
What does the dog eat?
They turn to the dog, lying nearby. He is thin.
You can shoot her, he says, pointing to his daughter, but you'll only have two bullets. Then what'll you fight the next day with?
The Engine Driver brushes each of his thick mustaches with petulant strokes. No, no, no, he says. He explains that this goes against the Unspoken Rules of the duel. One must fight the challenger.
We're already late, he says. What if another challenger comes?
Just then, then Engineer arrives. He waves from the oak.
Now?
The Grave Digger frowns. You'll wait. I need to find bullets.
And we? What should we do? What should we eat?
Wait. Just wait. We'll provide everything.
He shoves past the Engine Driver and to the cabin. Later, he starts his truck left idle by the road and drives to town.
The barking stops at daybreak. The Engine Driver raises his tired eyes to the sky. It's clear, as pure as a lens.
The Employment Officer and her father the Grave Digger emerge from the cabin. They walk past the bean field - beans now sprouting - to the oak. They pass the Engine Driver. They walk to the most western cairn by the creek. There, under the most western rock, they discover the pouch of gold Krugerrands earlier hidden by the Detective.
Excitement hits father and daughter, enough to cause the daughter to buckle under wheezing bout of exhaustion. The pouch is concealed before the Engine Driver arrives, asking about the commotion.
Nothing, says the Grave Digger.
Nothing, seconds his daughter.
What about the duel?
The duel, the Grave Digger says, isn't possible.
The Engine Driver asks why.
The Grave Digger explains that only four bullets are left for the two guns. It's fine if you duel, but what's keeping you safe from the people what the dog barks at each night?
What does the dog eat?
They turn to the dog, lying nearby. He is thin.
You can shoot her, he says, pointing to his daughter, but you'll only have two bullets. Then what'll you fight the next day with?
The Engine Driver brushes each of his thick mustaches with petulant strokes. No, no, no, he says. He explains that this goes against the Unspoken Rules of the duel. One must fight the challenger.
We're already late, he says. What if another challenger comes?
Just then, then Engineer arrives. He waves from the oak.
Now?
The Grave Digger frowns. You'll wait. I need to find bullets.
And we? What should we do? What should we eat?
Wait. Just wait. We'll provide everything.
He shoves past the Engine Driver and to the cabin. Later, he starts his truck left idle by the road and drives to town.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Employment Officer v. Engine Driver
After catching her breath, soaked head to foot, the Employment Officer and Embalmer fought - and the Employment Officer won.
Her concern isn't one of ammunition scarcity, but of drying off. Or at least of getting out of the rain.
She walks north to Stetson's cabin and bangs on the door. The Grave Digger releases the crude latch and looks outside, careful to open just far enough to keep out the rain. He looks down on a miserable sight: the Employment Officer - her make-up running in streaks down the contours of her puffy face, flat dark hair pressed against the sides of her face and neck, blouse soaked, making apparent the outline of a gargantuan bra. He cries out.
My daughter!
Pee-paw!
The door opens, the Employment Officer enters, and thus begins a tearful reunion.
This is where you've been?
I'm sorry I left you, sugar lumps. I just couldn't bare to be without work, seeing you starve on your government salary.
Oh pee-paw!
Oh honey dough!
They embrace.
I'm all wet from the rain, and I killed a man.
Don't you ever speak of that! We'll get you clean and set.... We'll find a way.
When the Engine Driver arrives, he sees no one. He waits.
Her concern isn't one of ammunition scarcity, but of drying off. Or at least of getting out of the rain.
She walks north to Stetson's cabin and bangs on the door. The Grave Digger releases the crude latch and looks outside, careful to open just far enough to keep out the rain. He looks down on a miserable sight: the Employment Officer - her make-up running in streaks down the contours of her puffy face, flat dark hair pressed against the sides of her face and neck, blouse soaked, making apparent the outline of a gargantuan bra. He cries out.
My daughter!
Pee-paw!
The door opens, the Employment Officer enters, and thus begins a tearful reunion.
This is where you've been?
I'm sorry I left you, sugar lumps. I just couldn't bare to be without work, seeing you starve on your government salary.
Oh pee-paw!
Oh honey dough!
They embrace.
I'm all wet from the rain, and I killed a man.
Don't you ever speak of that! We'll get you clean and set.... We'll find a way.
When the Engine Driver arrives, he sees no one. He waits.
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