Anthropologist v. Arborist

The Anthropologist, taken by his recent discussion with the Animator, decides to wile away the time by attempting a very amateur archeological field study. Verily, he clasps his arms behind his back, stoops down - glasses drooping - and advances, waddling forward, eyes to the ground. He waddles bit by bit, occasionally kicking at the turf. Like a large corduroy turkey.

Under the oak he kicks at the dirt and sees a sparkle. He kicks again. Something shines. He finds a small stick and digs up the Ambassador's silver pen knife, recently ground into the earth by the Anesthesiologist.

My my, says the Anthropologist, rubbing the knife clean with his sleeve. What a find.

The Arborist walks from the west. He's a small wiry man with pellucid green eyes and full ruddy beard. Hi-ho, says the Arborist.

Hello. What's the problem here? says the Anthropologist.

This oak, sadly. I noticed it from the road. Very serious, says the Arborist. If you don't mind I'd like to determine the root issue.

Take your time, says the Anthropologist. I have a little project of my own.

The Arborist climbs the tree with ease. Soon he's out of view.

You see, says the Anthropologist loudly, I was just talking recently about the Ch'mekalek.

I know them, says the Arborist from high above. Beautiful basketry. Wonderful craftsmanship.

Correct, says the Archeologist. In any event, I realized recently that I've never scalped a man. As they would have. 'Win up near, take an ear; win from away, a mane you shall flay' is the old mnemonic we used as students. To remember the Ch'mekelek warrior code.

Uh-huh, says the Arborist.

The Anthropologist opens the silver pen knife. Well then. I'll be over by the corpses alongside the fence.

The answer the Arborist gives is distant, unclear.

The Anthropologist nods, turns and wanders up to the Animator. Beautiful scalp but such a nice woman, such an unworthy opponent. He wanders up to the Anesthesiologist. Balding, little grip. He wanders up to the Analyst. Perfect! he says.

The Anthropologist takes some time to recall the precise method described in the classic texts. Eventually, girded, he squats behind the Analyst's head. He makes the lateral cuts, the arcing cuts. Planting both feet firmly on the Analyst's shoulders, he pulls with all his might. He hears a ripping.

So consumed with his work, the Anthropologist fails to notice the crows pecking clean the face of the Acrobat. Or the advance of the Arborist, both pistols tucked under his belt.

Two years, sighs the Arborist. That's all I'll give it. Such a sad thing. Such a beautiful tree.

The Anthropologist stands. He holds up the Analyst's dripping scalp.

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

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.