Athlete v. Attorney

At some point the rain stops. There's a period of high winds from the north. Then snow. Then more snow. Then a bit less snow. Then heavy snow. Then a snow that's neither heavy nor light. Then snow and rain. And then snow again, sans wind. (Which is, nine out of ten landscape painters agree, the most picturesque kind of snow.)

The Athlete runs in place during this entire meteorological drama. A testament to her stamina. Also, her Down syndrome.

At some she wearies, stops, and falls into deep contemplation.

When combining the picturesque falling snow sans wind, the blanketed corpses in the middle distance, and the overwhelming serenity on the face of the Athlete, this scene constitutes the penultimate wet-dream of the hypothetical love-child of Winslow Homer and Francis Bacon and Diane Arbus, who appears later in this series as the Switchboard Operator.

The Attorney arrives. He carries a tan leather briefcase.

I think I've found a loophole in the unspoken rules, he says, sweeping aside the guns, laying his briefcase on the rosewood table.

This breaks the Athlete's meditation.

Great job, she says.

The Attorney explains.

Great, she says.

So that's basically all we need to do.

I think that should do the trick, she says.

The Attorney is bearded and serious, in suit and tie. He opens his suitcase and pulls out some legal documents.

I'd like you to sign here and here and initial here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here. And the date here. And we're done. Thank you.

You're welcome, she says.

Now you can take the field. I'll stand here behind the tree, with my pistol aimed at your face.

I have to warn you, she says, I'm a very good shot with this!

I take that warning under advisement, thank you, he says.

She takes the field and he hides 5/6th of his body behind the trunk of the oak, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.