Astrophysicist v. Athlete

The Astrophysicist tools his wheelchair under the oak. Heavy drops make loud thumps on his black umbrella. He holds there a second. He looks south toward the creek.

Fuck it, he says, throwing his umbrella aside. I'm ending it all.

He jams the joystick forward.

The wheelchair jostles over the roots, then violently over the uneven turf, whizzing at top speed. (10mph.) Aimed headlong toward the slight decline before the stones.

The Athlete watches from beneath one of the poplars that line the road. She sees the Astrophysicist - a curious little silhouette - pop and rumble onward across the horizon. She watches as, without much ceremony, the chair lunges forward, out of sight, into the creek.

The Athlete immediately jumps to action. She bolts from the poplar and runs across the field. Soon she stands over the wreckage.

The Astrophysicist lies with his leg pinned under the overturned carriage. He raises his head, eyes lolling, from over a flat stone. The Athlete rushes down, lifts the wheelchair, pushes his leg free and helps raise him to his feet.

Shockingly, she finds he can stand without help. He looks at her, blinking, eyes just now taking focus.

Who are you? he asks.

She introduces herself. I can't believe this. You can walk. It's a miracle. Look!

The Astrophysicist takes a few tentative steps along the tiny bank. He looks back for her approval. She claps her hands enthusiastically. He smiles brightly. Hah! he says. I say!

They make their way to the oak. There, she discovers that his memory's been blanked.

Nothing? she asks.

Absolute zilch, he says.

She strokes his head. Poor thing, she says.

Yes, well, he says, blushing, right-o and all that, what?

He clears his throat.

But here I am fairly blathering on the subject of - well, that's to say, myself, when all efforts should be dedicated to the expression of charitable feelings toward the long-locked savior before me!

Who?

Well - you.

Oh.

Yes. Thoroughly capital salvage. Not unlike Circe's brace-up of old what's-his-name.... Nautical personage, in any event.

Thank you, she says.

Now what is it we've assembled for again?

The Athlete explains.

By Jove, I'm in the soup again.

The Athlete says they should start picking out pistols.

You wouldn't rather settle this over a hot-blooded game of droughts, would you?

She offers him a gun. He takes it, and she takes the second. They walk out to the field.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.