Assassin v. Assessor

The Assassin pats down the Artist's coat. He pulls out a cigar. Squeezes it gently. Holds it up half an inch from his nose. Bites off the end, spits, and lights it with matches from the Artist's shirt pocket. Cigar clenched between his teeth, he drags the Art Director and the Art Therapist to the corpses by the northern fence. He drags the body of the Artist to a spot to southwest, close to where the road bridges the creek.

Then he returns to the oak. He drops the matches on the table beside pistols and the basket. Then he leans back and waits.

The Assessor walks from the road. She's a short-haired, severe woman in a coarse, straw colored wool turtleneck, dark jeans, drab flats.

He watches as she approaches.

Hi, she says curtly. Before we start I want you to know that this little get-together's put a crimp in my day.

The Assassin nods.

Not just a little crimp. I know you're not to blame but c'mon. It's tax time. And I'm the only county assessor with her head outside her ass. So. Enough said, she says.

She looks him over. Who are you?

I work in risk management, he says.

Good for you, she says.

Have you assessed this area?

Depending on who you ask? This area officially falls either under the jurisdiction of about like five municipalities/agencies. And that doesn't even include the three tribal counsels, each with their own claim.

Really.

And you know there's an old missile silo literally feet from here?

I didn't.

Oh yeah. So then you bring in the Feds, too. You know, from any tax law standpoint? This land? Forget about it. Much less from an assessor's. I don't even care who owns the title, okay? Whatever.

They continue talking about land assessment until the Assassin finishes his cigar. He drops it, grinds it out with the toe of his black oxford wing-tip. He gestures toward the pistols. The Assessor chooses hers, the Assassin his.

The take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.