Ambassador v. Anesthesiologist

The Ambassador wipes the pistols to the side of the rosewood table. He empties his pockets. He lays everything out. A silver bill clip (containing $313) engraved with the initials B.O.J., a silver-inlaid pen knife, a set of keys with a silver boat anchor keychain.

He stretches against the tree, lunging, hands before him, palms to the trunk, head down, pressing, releasing. He stretches his legs, he stretches his arms. He decides to jog. He jogs a triangular route from the oak to the eastern fence to the creek, back and forth from the far creek to the oak. He does this 100 times or so.

The Anesthesiologist arrives and watches the Ambassador jog. The Anesthesiologist is a heavyset bald man. He wears a fine open-collared shirt beneath a casual brown corduroy jacket. His gut sags over his pressed chinos. He walks in scuffed Italian leather shoes.

The Anesthesiologist bores quickly. He whistles, motioning. The Ambassador stops before him, jogging in place.

Sir, you'll have to wait, says the Ambassador. Sir, I'd rather not wait, says the Anesthesiologist.

The Ambassador lays a sweaty hand on the Anesthesiologist's shoulder. Before we engage, says the Ambassador, I'll need to warm up physically. I'll also need to jog away the terrible thoughts that arose after killing that strange young man laying there with arms splayed. He gestures toward the body of the Aerospace Engineer with his chin. Then salutes. He continues his jog.

The Anesthesiologist steals sixty dollars from the Ambassador's bill clip.

100 laps or so later, the Ambassador stops before the Anesthesiologist again. There are deep sweat stains under his arms and down his chest and around his groin. What a jog, he says.

I'll pay you twenty dollars for your pen knife, says the Anesthesiologist. I'm sorry but it was a gift from my mother, says the Ambassador. Fourty, says the Anesthesiologist. I'm sorry, I could never part with it, says the Ambassador. Sixty, says the Anesthesiologist. Done, says the Ambassador, snatching the bills. The Anesthesiologist takes the silver-inlaid pen knife from the table. Well this is a piece of shit, says the Anesthesiologist. He throws it on the ground and grinds it into the dirt with his scuffed Italian leather shoe.

Sir, have I mentioned that I'm an ambassador? asks the Ambassador.

Really? You look like a piece of shit, the Anesthesiologist says.

And I sincerely apologize for that, says the Ambassador.

They take their places on the field, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.