Bookkeeper v. Bookseller

Anxious, sticking close to the oak, the Bookkeeper tugs at the corners of his patchy black mustache. He plucks a hair, takes it between his teeth and gently nibbles, bit by bit, until eaten.

It's a beautiful bright day. Cool but windless. Sparrows trill cheerfully on boughs above the Bookkeeper. The creek murmurs in the distance. At some point a deer steps carefully from the forest. She spots the Bookkeeper, pauses, then steps back behind the dark veil of brush.

Spring - in all its glorious promise!

The Bookkeeper plucks and eats another hair.

The Bookseller, flannel jacket draped over the crook of his arm, paperback in his back pocket, walks curtly from the road. He pauses on sight of the piled corpses - confronting the nauseating odor he smelled from far down road - then continues.

The Bookseller face is wan, oval, slightly creased. It wears (from habit) an expression of disinterest. His glasses aren't much more than functional, his watch is digital, his chin beveled.

Why aren't these people buried? he asks.

I didn't ask to come here at all so how should I know?

I'm not accusing you.

The Bookkeeper tugs at his mustache.

The Bookseller shakes his head. He turns his back to the Bookkeeper, looks out to the northeast. He speaks (less to the Bookkeeper than himself) guessing that it'd take a steam shovel hours just to dig a pit wide enough to fit everyone. He speaks more in the same vein for some time. The Bookkeeper is silent.

Then they're both silent.

Then the Bookkeeper speaks, words torrential:

If you ask me personally this entire ordeal is a joke the way whoever set it up set it up. I've never a mess like this in my life and I work in a store thats owner thinks its okay to just shove things everywhere so there's lamps and lights and things on the ground and on shelves and everywhere without rhyme or reason so that nobody would know where to look for what if their life depended on it, and how we stay in business is anyone's guess, but I think it has something to do with organized crime.

The Bookseller turns around and faces the Bookkeeper. The Bookkeeper looks away. The Bookseller turns back.

Another silence.

Then, again, the Bookkeeper:

On weekends I collect banners and promotional advertising from supermarkets. But just the ones for specials on pork and beef. Sometimes lamb, but definitely not chicken. They'll just throw that stuff out anyway and they'll let you have it. All you have to do is ask - but not many people know that. Do you have a hobby?

The Bookseller puts his hands to his hips. He turns. Should we...? he asks, motioning toward the pistols.

But you didn't answer the question, says the Bookkeeper accusingly.

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

The Bookkeeper takes a gun and walks out to the field. The Bookseller inhales deeply, takes the other gun, and follows him. They both stand ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bodyguard v. Bookkeeper

More should be said about the Bodyguard.

In his junior year of college, mainly to escape the boredom of his state school abroad program, but also on coaxing from a band of Parisian scoundrels looking for a laugh at the expense of his semi-rural midwestern naiveté, he signed a contract with the French Foreign Legion.

After enduring six months of training, where daily beatings were administered depending on one's proficiency in French, he - who previously showed seemingly insurmountable trouble conjugating verbs as easy as déconfire, souffrir, and mourir - became fluent. And hardened. Thus fluent and hardened, he was shipped off to patrol the Maroni River on the border of Guyane, then to guard a strip of desert in Obock province in northern Djibouti, then to battle in the equatorial grasslands of Côte d'Ivoire.

After three years of fighting in Côte d'Ivoire he grew tired and so, buying passage aboard a Cypriot tramp freighter bound for Charleston Bay, deserted.

Repatriated, he changed his Euros and sold his uniform and metals and bought a bus ticket to Hoboken. There he found work as a bouncer. Then, after a year of bouncing, he signed with an agency that assigned him to guard the body of a once-famous female Singer.

Now he drags the body of the Bishop and dumps his body on the ashes of the pyre.

The Bookkeeper arrives.

Here's what should be said of the Bookkeeper:

After passing a correspondence course in accounting, he took a job at a discount lamp outlet.

The two men greet. After the Bookkeeper vomits on sight of the bodies and the smell, and the Bodyguard drags the body Bodybuilder and the Biomedical Scientist to lie next to the Bishop on the pyre - all while trying to keep from inhaling the fumes from the pile of worm-ridden bodies by the fence, now peppered with newborn flies - the two men chose their weapons, take the field, and stand ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bishop v. Bodyguard

The rain stops. After a few hours the clouds part and the sky clears. During that period of overcast without rain yet before the clearing of skies, the Bishop wanders the field mulling over matters episcopate.

At some point he's broken from his mulling by the noise of shouting. He stops and looks north.

He watches with mild interest some activity by the wretched shed in the field, that field torn and muddy, specked with dark reflective puddles. He watches as two figures - the fat man and the frayed woman, both wearing expressions of profound discontent on their tired, pitted faces - step from the dark. They cough several times, hoarking phlegm, before the fat man slams shed door and they shamble over the slippery field due north-northeast. Their backs turned, they resume their argument. (In language largely incomprehensible, yet clearly of English derivation, possibly infected with aspects of demotic French, yet guttural and Saxon, seasoned with heavy swearing.) Thus they walk shouting until the shouting softens as they walk further, until they're no longer heard - but only seen very small on the horizon, as mites on a dog's neck.

The Bishop blinks, turns away, and continues his peripatetic meditation.

When the Bodyguard arrives, he's greeted by a shout. The Bishop calls him from a small hillock southwest of the oak. The Bodyguard is dressed in a conservative blue collared shirt, the shirt tucked into dockers, and - fitting the increasingly temperate weather - a heavy spring jacket, or a light winter coat, or neither a jacket nor a coat but an intermediary of unknown origin/label. He walks to meet the Bishop. From the minor vantage provided by the small hillock they look over the field.

They speak exactly as two good-intentioned strangers of lower middle-class origin are wont to speak when first meeting over a field rife with bones and skulls and decomposing bodies.

Beautiful weather we're having, says the Bishop.

That's for sure, says the Bodyguard.

There's a long period of silence. Both men stand in the same direction, both facing the oak, yet both looking away from the oak - one to the north and one to the south - as both wait in the hope that an either they or the other man, or both of them at once, or neither they nor the other but someone or something apart from either will speak or act.

Eventually they hear a low rolling thunder from above. Then the last mangled bits of the International Space Station arc across the clear sky leaving a trail of fire and white.

They turn to one another, both happy for a topic outside their present condition.

That was unexpected, says the Bishop.

Very! says the Bodyguard. 

They both express wonder and concern.

Then, like the sea to shore, the silence returns. Even as the echoing blast of the Station tumbles through the valley, the silence between them remains.

Minutes pass. Finally the Bodyguard, the whole time searching for an appropriate question to ask a bishop, finds one that seems to him appropriate:

Have you've blessed the dead?

Oh, says the Bishop. Well of course I plan to include them in the prayer I'll say at vespers.

The Bodyguard nods. The Bishop pauses, then clarifies:

As a bishop I try to focus my attention on the suffering of contexts. Peoples, causes, that sort of thing. Not so much specifics.

Of course.

For example, as I watched that thing fall and burn up in the atmosphere I prayed a quiet prayer to Saint Henri the Navigator, to help the spacecraft industry in this its time of need.

The Bodyguard nods.

In a matter of speaking, the Bishop says candidly, I pray less for a man than the umbrella over his head.

The Bodyguard, eager to continue, asks about those men without an umbrella.

Protestants?

Excuse me?

Silence.

More silence until, almost in unison, they decide to walk down from the small hillock and chose their pistols and take the field. Which they do. Standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bishop v. Bodybuilder

Enter Bodybuilder.

Old man! You are Ded Mozod?

No I think you have me confused with someone else.

Yes Ded Mozod! How you say... like a Santa Claus!

I'm a... a bishop.

O my God, very venerable man you are. I perform, eh - lift for you.

There's really no need.

You wait.

The Bishop waits. The Bodybuilder returns with three large stones from the creek.

Desyat' - devyat' - vosem - SEM'!

The Bodybuilder begins juggling the stones. Juggling, he sings:

God bless America, land that I love, stand beside her and guide her, through the night with a light from above.

He drops all the stones at once and bows deeply.

That was very nice, thank you.

Now final show of might.

Oh, I think the juggling was impressive enough -

You are old venerable man. I respect old men. My grandfather very old, no tooth in mouth, very like a little child. Enjoy to be lift high over head.

I don't like where this is going.

Yes! I pick you - lift high over head!

No, no thank you.

Please. For me to show.

But I believe you.

No harm to you!

I have to insist. It wouldn't be proper.

You are bashful old man. Come to Sergei.

The Bishop tries backing away but the Bodybuilder grabs him roughly by the shoulder. With one swift movement, he adjusts the Bishop, flexes, and lifts the Bishop overhead.

Please - please let me down!

The Bodybuilder begins laughing.

You are like a tall horse now!

Unable to help himself, the Bishop begins giggling uncontrollably.

Yes laugh venerable old man!

The Bishop laughs. They laugh together. The Bodybuilder gently puts the Bishop down.

That was tremendous fun.

The Bodybuilder suddenly turns very serious.

Now it is time we fight with revolver.

You wouldn't - well... consider another lift?

Please. Choose revolver.

The Bishop choses his revolver. The Bodybuilder takes the other. They take the field, standing ten paces apart. They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Biomedical Scientist v. Bishop

The duel with the Biochemist is just one in a long list of ignoble, humiliating events that the Biomedical Student's experienced over the past month. Yet not the worst. The worst, which he still thinks on now, and has for several days, was an ill-conceived ploy to reveal - after years of silence - his hidden love for a lab colleague.

The thought of that shame occupies his mind as he stands under the oak, gazing afield, shielded from the rain with the Biologist's umbrella. He's so preoccupied, in fact, that he doesn't notice the arrival of the Bishop.

They greet each other. After a discussion of their surroundings, each giving theories on the placement of bodies, the pyre, the weather, and so on, the Biomedical Scientists asks if the Bishop would judge his story, to determine whether he was in the right or wrong.

The Bishop, a paternal, genial man, agrees. The Biomedical Scientist tells his story, summarized here:

Nearing the end of her post-doc internship, his beloved applied to several competing biomedical firms. The day before a telephone interview with Greenglade Chemicals, a subsidiary of Argus-PanoptyCorp, the lab manager asked her to present a report on the side-effects of a medication designed to offset feelings of unbridled hopelessness (which may include sweaty palms, dry eyes, spontaneous nose bleeds, manic violence, overactive libido, uncontrollable shrieking).

Forced to spend an all-nighter preparing for the presentation, she decided to call off her interview. This is when the Biomedical Scientist stepped in.

He ran to a pharmacy, returning with a small bottle of ipecac. He swallowed its contents, then wretched violently for the next half-hour into a large blue biowaste container. Insisting that the Intern to take him to the hospital, and stay with him the night - to which the she reluctantly agreed - their manager postponed her presentation until the following week. Thus, her interview was saved.

In the car on the way to the hospital, the Biomedical Scientist - weak from the marathon vomit - explained his ruse. Then, in a sudden and sentimental display of emotion (damped only by the very persistent smell of bile on his breath), he confessed his love.

She swung the car around and drove him home to his apartment. She hasn't spoken to him since.

The end.

The Bishop blinks several times. Purses his lips. He makes as if to speak - but catches himself. A false start. Then another. He sighs, obviously thinking deeply, wondering how best to begin.

Finally, after several minutes, he asks if the Biomedical Student has been baptized into the body of Christ.

I'm Jewish.

Oh, the Bishop laughs. Well - I'm sorry, he says, but I think you'd be better off consulting a rabbi. I have references.... The Bishop takes a messy wallet out from under his cassock, rummages through a maze of business cards. Tell me when to stop, he says: Renewal, Conservative, Reform, Modern Orthodox, Karaite....

Agnostic.

Reform, good.

The Biomedical Scientist takes the card of a well-regarded reform Rabbi, pockets it, thanks the Bishop, and offers first choice of weapon.

The Bishop choses his gun, the Biomedical Scientist the remainder. They walk to the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Biochemist v. Biomedical Scientist

Feeling guilt and professional obligation, the Biochemist lugs the corpse of the Biologist to the two cairns by the creek. Sneezing, coughing, and suspiciously warm, she loses grip of the Biologist's jacket every ten paces or so. She falls often, hands and face now filthy, hair matted, soaked from top to bottom.

At some point while piling stones - the Biologist now half buried - she becomes feverish, delusional. Her footing becomes confused. On a trip further downstream for larger rocks she trips and plunges into the current, hands outstretched. She hits stone beneath the water. Her left wrist cracks clean in the bend of an unseen souse hole. She lashes in pain, screams, grasps for dull roots in the spring rain.

On the bank, panting, groaning, she collapses.

Several hours pass.

The Biomedical Scientist pokes her on the bottom with the Bhikkhuni's staff. She wakes, startled. Then moans, sputtering.

I thought you were dead, says the Biomedical Scientist. After an hour of waiting I started poking everything.

You gave me hyacinths first a year ago, she murmurs. They called me the hyacinth girl....

Are you okay?

No answer.

The Biomedical Student deduces that she's not okay. Gently, he takes her by the crook of the arm and lifts. She reaches out to push, wailing when pressure's put on her left hand. Shocked, he drops her. She rolls on the ground. He waits, then attempts again. She pushes with her right hand and rises. Arm over his shoulder, they walk back to the oak. Her face is marked with scrapes from the struggle. A bruise rises from her forehead.

At the oak, all attempts by the Biomedical Scientist to comfort her go unwanted. She repeatedly crawls toward the table and the pistols. Finally ceding, he helps her up, takes her to the table. She choses a pistol. He takes the other. They walk to the field. She - amazingly - manages to stand, however shakily, on her own. He walks ten paces away.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Biochemist v. Biologist

The rain continues. The ground softens. The creek rises.

The Bellmaker's deck of cards and the Archivist's List of the Dead - both damp and warped from the rain - lie protected in the hole in the oak above her head, beside the ketsune statuette, eight feet above the Biochemist's head. She wears the Biographer's green bucket hat. His wax jacket's draped over her shivering body.

As she waits she sees figures in the field to the north. They trudge the earth, through the train, boots heavy and swollen with mud. Two figures, adults, sex indeterminate. They walk to the abominable shack, open the door, and disappear inside. Soon smoke rises from the shack's tin chimney.

From the road a slouched man in jeans and yellow rain boots approaches, face hidden behind the overhand of a black umbrella.

He lifts the umbrella when he arrives at the oak. The Biochemist blinks on seeing the Biologist, professor emeritus. He immediately reaches into the musty tweed jacket under his overcoat and pulls an off-white handkerchief. She makes to stand - he helps her up using the clothed hand - and provides shelter under the umbrella. She shakes off the damp.

He frowns, looking to the bodies by the north fence. That smell, he says. Hanging on the air. Almost palpable.

She asks about the faculty.

Your husband, he says, is still missing. I thought he might be here.

She says nothing.

The Bacteriology department lost an associate. You know about astronomy, their loss. Thankfully, they may have found a replacement: a man from Oxford. The geneticists have their discovery, currently under peer-review, which - as I'm sure you've heard - should make news for the university. Apart from this, nothing new: the chemists are chemists, the physicists aloof, and the geoscientists knocked three humanitiarians unconscious in the last faculty hockey game.

Why did you come? she asks.

I didn't think I had a choice.

I shot my husband.

These things happen.

I buried him by the creek under stones.

I see.

Did everyone know? Of his affiar?

No, no one. Well, some. A handful. Two dozen. So yes - everyone.

They chose their guns and take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Biochemist v. Biographer

Sobs as the Biochemist drags the body of the Bioengineer, yard by yard, to the Archer’s hound's cairn.

The rain, which had abated, begins again.

A few yards west from the cairn she drops the body. She takes stones from the river and begins piling them. A pile forms, covering the Bioengineer's corpse. Larger than the Archer's hound's cairn. Exhausted after several hours of dragging and lifting and dropping, she collapses. She's soaked with tears and rain and sweat.

When the Biographer arrives, rain dripping from the brim of his light green bucket hat, down his long waxed jacket, he sneezes. Then again. Then uncontrollably, several times, before wiping his watery eyes. He's a younger man in his early thirties, who - with long face, great goatee and glassy stare - has the look of a disappointed schnauzer.

He sniffs, spots the Biochemist lying against her husband's cairn, and trods over.

He introduces himself. She nods, wiping her eyes with the cuff of her jacket. He sneezes.

Excuse me, he says. The change of seasons always brings on a cold. I can't think of anything worse.

She notifies him of the death of her husband, buried under the cairn.

The Biographer, standing awkwardly, shuffles through a list of platitudes. Coming over nothing that meets his standard, he quotes:

But who knows the fate of his bones, or how often he is to be buried? Who hath the Oracle of his ashes, or whether they are to be scattered?

The Biographer pauses for effect, folding his hands. Sir Thomas Browne, he says.

She stands.

Whose skull, the Biographer adds lightly, wiping a finger under his nose, was - I guess fittingly - stolen from his casket and kept on display at a medical museum for over a century. Until being re-interred in nineteen twenty-something. I forget the exact date. But maybe that wasn't an appropriate piece of trivia at a time like this.

No, she says. She walks toward the oak.

It probably wasn't, he agrees. He follows close behind.

They choose their guns, then walk to the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Biochemist v. Bioengineer

She spots the Bioengineer.

Well this is awkward, she says.

He walks from the road. When he spots the Biochemist he pauses, sighs, continues. He arrives at the oak. He finds it hard to look her in the eye.

The Biochemist, in the same moderate, precise, commanding tone that won her respect from the community of scientists within the chemistry department, using the same tone and awkward poise that ultimately (in conjunction with a favorably received book that proposed the medical administration of trace chemicals believed to be organically manufactured during sex to extend the lives of celibates, so that they'd match those of married individuals) won her tenure - using these she begins an inquisition into the circumstances that led to the Bioengineer's recent flight, his dalliance with a young Registrar in the administrative department, and the discovery of a manuscript of poetry written to the girl that the Biochemist had found beneath tax returns in the desk drawer of their study. She finishes by asking why he hasn't returned her calls.

The Bioengineer pinches the bridge of his nose.

She asks if he'd like to give their relationship another chance. He asks about the paperwork. She reaffirms her refusal to sign off on a divorce. Until, she says, she's satisfied that nothing can salvage their vows.

He laughs. She accuses him of childishness.

All this, she says, is a just matter of insecurity. We discussed it with the Marriage Counselor. You admitted a fear of cerebral, successful women. It's something we both know you can overcome.

I don't want to overcome, he says. At thirty-seven, I can't overcome.

She tells him he's delusional. Boiling, he spouts. Spouting, he lists several examples of things that have an inherently greater sex appeal than her, including:

- The Book of Leviticus
- The New England Journal of Medicine
- The Gettysburg Address
- A nature documentary on the asexual reproduction of Acrtic lichen

I don't know how to make this clearer, he says. I've lost all physical attraction to you.

I think you need to temper your passion and listen to reason, she says.

He takes up a pistol and walks to the field. She takes the other and follows. They stand ten paces apart.

I thought your poems to her were laughably jejune, she says. I read them all.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bhikkhuni v. Biochemist

The Bhikkhuni prays over the dead. She prays over the bones on the pyre and prays over the eaten and half-eaten bodies by the fence.

She returns to the oak. She looks at the design of the bell drawn at the bottom of the List of the Dead. She flips the List. On the reverse, a grocery receipt:

COSMO'S ARTICHOKE HEARTS $1.29
APPLGT P/S HAM ANTIBIOTIC-FREE $6.49
VERMONT OG MULTI GRN BR $4.19
APPLE, ROYAL GALA (weighed) $3.13
etc.

Her first thought is that the prices seem high. Her second thought: who buys artichoke hearts?

She turns the receipt over and, reading the list, awakens to its purpose. She writes Bellmaker, Bhikkhuni, Bhikkhu. Then she folds the list, places it beneath the Artist's box of matches and the Bellmaker's deck of cards, next to the pistols, and takes to tidying the area.

The Biochemist arrives, dressed in a coat and dark slacks and a black thick-knit turtleneck sweater. Her face is closed, chin predominant and cleft, nose long and sharp, eyes drooping. A spindly, awkward figure. She wears a wedding band.

When she meets the Bhikkhuni she bows slightly, glances at the pistols, then at the Bhikkhuni.

The Bhikkhuni conscripts the Biochemist. Together they move the body of the Bellmaker beside the pyre. The Biochemist, a curious woman, walks to the eaten and half-eaten bodies by the fence. The crows scatter, alighting on the wire fence nearby. The rats squeak and worm away through the tall grass. She kneels over the body of the Bacteriologist. Mostly disfigured and torn, but her pink jacket and russet hair make their mark.

Oh, she says. She calls the Bhikkhuni over. The Biochemist explains that they had worked together at the university. The Biochemist offered advice on the Bacteriologist's post-doc paper regarding the viral-induced manufacture of spider pheromones. As she says this, a large spider crawls over the Biochemist's face, and into her black and gaping mouth.

They return to the oak and select their pistols. They take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bellmaker v. Bhikkhuni

The rain continues. The Bellmaker stands beneath the tree, the Bhikkhu's stinking robe over his head.

Then the rain stops.

The Bellmaker drags the body of the Bhikkhu to the pyre. He covers him with the robe. He walks to the creek. Then west, downstream. Every thirty paces or so he crouches and checks the soil at the bank. He pauses just east of the small tributary, spots something and kneels. Reaching out, he presses his thumb into a stripe of blueish clay running along the edge of the gulch. He pinches off a piece the size of an acorn and rolls it between his fingers. He smells it, tastes it, and determines it excellent clay for a mold.

He looks up.

The Bhikkhuni arrives from the road. She, unlike the Bhikkhu, has a robe of single cut. It's red. Her head is shaved. She carries a walking stick and an alms bowl. She affects a stern, purposeful look as she walks toward the Bellmaker.

He tells of her his discovery. She kneels and touches the clay. It's moist and frigid. He explains his intentions.

The two dig with their fingers until their fingers are numb. They collect the clay in the alms bowl. When the alms bowl overflows, the Bellmaker collects the clay in his shirt, lifting it to form a papoose.

They take the clay to the table. There, as the Bhikkhuni examines the guns, the Bellmaker draws a design on the bottom of the List of the Dead. Then, taking the deck of cards from his coat pocket, begins listing instructions. An instruction for each card, starting with clubs, in ascending order, alphabetically, to spades. Finished, he lays the cards on the table. He heaps the clay in the bowl, drapes the bowl with - after running to collect it - a damp rag torn from the Bhikkhu's robe.

While he runs the Bhikkhuni sees the diagram: a small bell, five inches in height.

Why this, she asks as he drapes the damp rag over the clay.

The Bellmaker doesn't know. It seems like the only thing he knew to do, at a time when the need to do something is strong.

They chose their guns and take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bellmaker v. Bhikkhu

The snow turns to a light rain.

After the Bellhop's body is dragged to the the great pile of ash of the pyre the Bellmaker wipes his calloused hands off on the sides of his trousers. The smell doesn't bother him now. He returns to the oak, waits, then turns up his collar and walks to wander along the edge of the creek to the south.

The Bhikkhu - tall, bald, wearing a red robe - walks from the road.

His robe is red but variegated, in patches. As if several smaller robes had been rent, many and uneven, and these pieces spaced at an equal distance from each other, the gaps between those pieces taken with cloth from others in the array of robes, as if layered, in dizzying fashion, to create from several smaller robes of singular cloth one large robe of many cloths, some old, some new, some weathered, and so on, forming a greater whole.

The Bellmaker, sitting atop the Archer's small cairn, hears footsteps behind him and turns. He greets the Bhikkhu with a nod. The Bhikkhu smiles, cheerful. He stands nearby. They discuss the weather and the creek, and death by water.

As they return to the oak for the guns it strikes the Bellmaker (noiselessly) that for a man confronted with a pile of dead, and a pyre of the dead, and the close prospect of death, the Bhikkhu - now blithely humming the tune from the third act of a musical - seems disturbingly undisturbed. This, to the Bellmaker, is disturbing. The thought that the Bellmaker is more disturbed by the undisturbed Bhikkhu than the dead is also, the Bellmaker reflects momentarily, disturbing in its own right. But this doesn't take him from the source of his greatest disturbance.

They select their guns and take the field, standing ten paces apart. The Bhikkhu bows.

Did you see the dead by the fence? asks the Bellmaker.

The Bhikkhu says he has.

I don't know if you saw the crows?

The Bhikkhu says he has.

And the pyre? That's where the bodies are burning.

The Bhikkhu's seen this too.

And that doesn't bother you?

The Bhikkhu laughs. Bellmaker, if all is burning, he says, it make sense that the bodies are burning too.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bellhop v. Bellmaker

The Bellhop and the Bellmaker play cards on the table under the oak. The pistols lay on the dirt nearby. A light snow falls.

The Bellmaker explains: It was the moment when he turned to him and said, 'You'll make bells; I'll paint icons.' that I knew. That was it. I was twenty-six.

The Bellhop smiles. He brushes back his hair. Then takes a pensive look at his hand. He thinks to knock, but decided to wait. He discards. The Bellmaker takes his discard into his hand, rearranges his cards, and knocks on two. The Bellmaker wins seven points.

I should have knocked, says the Bellhop.

In the distance the pyre billows flame and smoke. Great smoke and steam from the wood and corpses. White ash dances upward, mingles with the snow, and falls. The wind blows steadily from the west.

The north fence, once lined with old timber, is decimated, nearly gone. Uprooted. Torn up from the earth in places, the driven stakes. The fire rages.

After several more hands the Bellmaker wins the game. Their score is marked at the bottom of the List of the Dead.

They choose their guns - the Bellhop rubbing off the knicks of the kitsune statuette as best he can, so that, by casual glance, they don't show - and take to the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Beekeeper v. Bellhop

The Beekeeper, quick to understand the nature of the pyre and the bodies by the fence, begins to drag all the bodies she can to the area beside pyre. She's a sturdy woman, yet an aged woman, allowing only the relocation of the small-to-medium sized bodies: the Beadle, the Bank Teller, the Bassist, and the Basketmaker. The rest she arranges tidily by the field of batter.

Finding the box of matches in the pocket of the Bassoonist, she places them on the table, atop the List of the Dead.

The Bellhop walks brightly from the road, chipper and pimply. He greets the Beekeeper with a large smile, and asks about the smell. She explains. Understanding, the Bellhop offers his help. Together, they relocate the rest of the bodies by the pyre.

Did you travel far? asks the Beekeeper.

The Bellhop tells her that the hotel overlooks the dueling ground, though the field is obfuscated by the tall poplars by the road.

It's on the mountain, he says, beyond the mill and mine.

She turns to the west, looking up at the mountain past the poplars, beyond the mill and mine, but sees nothing. Nothing hotel-like.

They move the Beeder, the Bartender, the Barber and the Banker. They line them by the pyre. They know they should make a fire - each know this - but given effort to move the bodies and the lack of firewood apart from timber from the fence far off they decide to stop. They stand observing the bodies and the ash and the bones. Then, only exchanging light conversation, they return to the oak.

They select their pistols and take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bassoonist v. Beekeeper

The wind picks up. It whips from the southwest.

His coat blown by the wind, the Bassoonist crouches by the body of the Beautician.

The Bassoonist is a man defined by exceptional abilities. He - unlike most other bassoonist - has the ability to play several of Bach's Goldberg Variations on the bassoon. He also - unlike most other sensible people - has the ability to find pronounced romance in situations that lack all romance, as, for example, the brief non-romantic relationship between he and the Beautician.

He strokes her cheek.

He drags her past the bodies still on the field - the Beadle, the Beader, the Bank Teller, the Bassist, the Basketmaker, the Bartender, the Barber, and the Banker - to the cold pyre. The crows scatter. The rats scurry. He drags her through the ash and bones to lay beside his broken bassoon. The symbolism in this is almost too much for the Bassoonist to bare.

Returning to the oak, he searches the area for the matches. Unable to find them, he begins searching the pockets of the dead. Finally, checking the Banker's shirt pocket, he pulls the box.

He returns to the pyre, collects fallen branches that fell on the field before the fence and timber from the fence. He returns the pyre and using the Beautician's jacket, starts the fire. It burns, and cooks her, but not nearly enough to turn her to ash. More a broiling. He gets more timber and piles it atop. The fire roars now. She cooks, emanating foul odor.

As the Bassoonist stokes the fire, he hears a muffled beeping. It continues, incessantly, for over five minutes.

Finally, taken from his romantic revelry, more annoyed than curious, the Bassoonist searches among the corpses for the beeping. He stands over the bloated corpse of the Astronaut, raises the Astronaut's arm, and unbuckles the beeper on his belt. He looks at the message - CALL HQ ASAP, then (without much pause) presses the off button. The beeping stops. He drops the beeper and, after stopping to meditate at the site of the pyre again, returns to the oak.

The Beekeeper, a patrician woman of middle age and shortish hair and a gold broach in the shape of a bee pinned to the lapel of her blouse, walks across the field from the road. They greet each other.

Given the demur, taciturn nature of the Beekeeper and the awkward, preoccupied state of the Bassoonist, no conversation is made. They simply choose their guns (politely) - the Bassoonist takes the nicked gun - and take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bassoonist v. Beautician

The Bassoonist, broken bassoon in tow, wanders to the cremains by the northern fence. He sees the ash, the skulls, the bones. Nearby he sees the remaining bodies, the crows - and, from beneath body of the Bailiff - a family of rats. He throws his bassoon on the ash heap. It clatters against the black bones, kicking up a small cloud of dust. He turns and walks back to the oak.

The Beautician arrives shortly after. She's a pretty, well-shaped woman. Slight pug nose. Dyed blond hair. Eyebrows plucked, then reapplied. In dark skin-tight jeans, a pink jacket, a sweater.

The Beautician explains how difficult it was to take time off from work. The explanation involves mention of a considerable number of other women, all referred to by their first name, all of whom - except for one - were unable to cover the Beautician's shift. All - except for that one - cite spurious reasons as to why they can't help cover. She says all this as if speaking to an old acquaintance, finally turning her back to the Bassoonist, bending slightly to rummage through her purse, which she's set on the table.

The Bassoonist, feeling naked without his bassoon, and presently confronted by the recreational end of moderately attractive woman, brushes down his hair, adjusts his tortoise frame glasses and attempts his hand at polite conversation.

Nice pants, he says.

The woman rights herself, turns and frowns. She watches him sternly as she applies lipstick. Then, closing the lipstick and tossing it back into her purse, she smiles sarcastically and asks if he's always been as charming with the ladies. The Bassoonist coughs. Thinking quickly, he asks what job it was from which she sought relief. (He words it exactly like that, unfortunately.)

I signed up at the CC for cosmology but because of a stupid bureaucratic error I got put in cosmetology instead. And I was really good at it, because I always gave my sister and my dog makeovers, and so I did really well. And the guy I was dating at the time was all, you should get a job at the mall. And so I did. And that's what put me through college.

What was your major?

I told you. Cosmology.

The Bassoonist nods.

Anyway, then I thought, well - why not just keep doing what got you through college? I would have to get like at least ten more years of school to be a cosmologist, anyway, and can you imagine the student loans? So for the past two years I've been working as chief personal aesthetician, which is like a supervisor.

She looks away. The Bassoonist, looking to push ahead the conversation, struggles for words.

Were - were you interested in anything, with regard to cosmology?

What? She looks back. Oh, she says, I don't know. Quintessence, I guess. Mostly quintessence.

The Bassoonist fidgets.

She choses the gun without the kitsune nicks. Without objection, he takes the other. They the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bassoonist v. Beadle

The Bassoonist takes the kitsune statuette from the pocket of the dead Beader. He holds it up to the light, considers it, then returns to the oak.

At first he places the statuette between two large roots at the base of the oak. Then he places it on the table next to the pistols and the Archivist's crumpled List of the Dead. Then, still unsatisfied, he looks around - stopping when he spots the hole in the side of the oak. Moving the table beside the oak, he stands and looks inside the hole. Inside he finds the well-crafted basket hidden by the Assessor. He removes it. In its place - at the lip of the hole - he sets the statuette, so that it's visible from below. He gets down.

Inside the basket he finds the Astrologer's coral beads, Artist's silver cufflinks, the Art Therapist's turquoise necklace, and the Assassin's gold tie clip.

He looks up at the kitsune statuette. Then down. For a long while he considers what to do with his treasure.

Finally he empties the contents of the basket into his jacket pocket, places the basket on the table, takes up his bassoon and heads toward the creek. His nose wrinkles as he nears and passes the corpse of the Artist. He stops in time to see a wood rat peek its head from a hole in the Artist's pearl-white, feculent neck, look around, then duck back inside.

The Bassoonist hurries to the creek. He comes to a section of the creek where a small tributary - the flow of run-off from the marsh - converges. Here the Bassoonist hefts up a large stone (to centipedes and beetles), and deposits his treasure, then lays the stone back in place. He stands, wipes off his hands.

The bassoon still under his arm, caught by a desire to trek the other side of the creek, he makes to jump to the center of the fork. Instead, catching his foot under a twisted root, he splays his arms, sending the bassoon out - hitting a rock. There's a sharp crack. The Bassoonist cries. He picks up the bassoon. The reed is missing, the bocal bent, and the maple long joint split, a yaw down center.

Hours later, the Beadle arrives. As he walks, he hears the sound of a cat in heat from behind the oak.

The Bassoonist, having replaced the reed and bent back the bow, flows furiously, hands covering the crack.

The Beadle, a soft-faced man in a cheap suit, peeks from around the oak. He greets the Bassoonist. They speak.

It doesn't sound too bad to me, says the Beadle eventually.

Don't patronize me, please, says the Bassoonist. I'm in a bad enough mood as it is.

Honestly, says the Beadle. I've never understood the vain preoccupation of some who think that all instruments should be kept in tune. Why, the pipe organ at our workhouse hasn't been touched in thirty years and it plays just beautifully. What's more, we don't have the need to hire any extravagant tuners. The acolytes only flush the pipes of swallows and bats every three years. And that's just one of their duties, voluntary work, you understand.

The Bassoonist choses the pistol without knocks and hits from the kitsune statuette. The Beadle takes the other. They take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bassoonist v. Beader

The Bassoonist picks up his bassoon, wipes it clean with the hem of his jacket, replaces the reed (dirty), and plays Vivaldi to pass the time.

The Beader arrives. He's a blond, neolithic-looking man in blue overalls, a leather bomber jacket. Whatcha playing? he asks.

Vivaldi.

Looks like a bazooka.

It's a --

The Beader stops him. He holds out his arm, hand out. Then crouches slightly. Ho, he says. He asks the Bassoonist if he felt it.

What?

That tremor, says the Beader. I can feel tremors easy.

The Beader explains. When on leave one night while stationed in Japan, he was hit over the head and robbed of his wallet. He woke. His scalp was bleeding. On the ground beside him he saw the kitsune statuette, red with blood. Ever since then he's had a heightened sensitivity to seismic phenomenon.

Like dogs, he explains. And Polynesians.

The Bassoonist, seeing that his playing time is over, gruffly puts aside his bassoon, next to the upright bass.

There it is again, says the Beader. And again.

In the distance the makeshift shack stands by the overgrown well, the motor quiet, the wind-swept field deserted.

The Bassoonist stands, skeptically. He feels nothing. He says so.

There it is, again, says the Beader. The darndest - and there again! Like a low rumble. And now - gone.

They both wait for a long while. The phenomenon is over. The Beader scratches under his left arm, shaking his head. Peh, he says. Feh.

What happened to the kitsune statuette? asks the Bassoonist.

The Beader takes the statuette - a solid marble idol of a nine-tailed fox sitting on a rectangular pedestal - from his left pocket. He carries it, he says, wherever he goes.

Brings you luck? the Bassoonist asks.

The Beader's already busy rubbing down the pistol he's chosen with the statuette. He rubs the pistol up and down, then starts tapping it roughly. The barrel pings and clangs. Yeah, he says over the racket, I hit it on pretty much everything for luck. My tools, my car, my appliances. And so far? - the Beader turns to face the Bassoonist, flashing a wide chip-toothed grin - I've lived a blessed existence.

They take their guns to the field. They stand ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bank Teller v. Bassoonist

The Bank Teller watches the field-dwellers from afar, deep into night, as they light a bonfire, their silhouettes blinking in the distance. By midnight the motor stops.

Later, the Bassoonist - a tall, extra large-framed man in drab colors and a drab coat and tortoise frame glasses - walks to the oak. He carries a bassoon under his arm.

Oh now this is a laugh, says the Bank Teller.

She asks if he, like the Bassist, never leaves his apartment without his instrument. He answers that he rarely leaves his apartment, though when he does its to drive to the symphony hall.

So, technically speaking, no, he says. Or not no but rarely.

Now it's a reflex? she asks.

No, he says. I brought it because I'd like to be buried with it.

That? It looks like a vacuum nozzle.

It's a bassoon.

Well, you might as well play something.

He asks if she has any requests. She asks for something jazzy. His eyes droop. Or impressive, she says. He coughs, then rights his instrument.

Goldberg Variations, variations 26 to 30, he says. On bassoon.

He plays.

Somewhere during variation 28, the Bank Teller yawns. The Bassoonist chucks his bassoon to the ground.

God dammit! he says. Do you know how hard that is to play? And what the hell is that throbbing?

They look over to the commotion in the field. The diesel motor's started again. She explains.

This is why I stay in my apartment, he says.

They chose their guns and take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bank Teller v. Bassist

Why the Bassist would bring his upright bass to a duel is a mystery, even the Bassist. It wasn't a decision, he contends, but a reflex. Whenever I leave my apartment I bring, he says, my bass.

The Bank Teller asks how often he leaves his apartment.

Often, he says.

The Bank Teller frowns. She tells him that he might as well play.

He grips the bass and plays. Then he begins whistling to the rhythm. By reflex, the Bank Teller begins dancing. She claps and dances and the Bassist plucks and whistles.

When the first song is over she asks him to play another. He plays a slower song by the same artist. They play and dance, respectively.

They stop half-way through the fifth song at the sound of a diesel engine coughing to life. They look to the northern fence. In the distance, in the northern field past the fence, they see commotion. The Bassist sets his bass against the oak. They walk to the northern fence.

Standing at the northern fence they smell the dead and look out to the field and see in the distance two men - one fat, one thin - a small filthy boy and a haggard woman standing around a heaving motor. The motor is situated next to the old wind-powered well. Now a motor-powered well. The Aviator's plane has disappeared. A hideous shack of red painted wood and recycled newspaper stands by the well. The men and boy and women dance as if drunk. They lurch and sway to the rhythmic pounding of the motor.

The Bassist leans forward. He squints. The Bank Teller touches his elbow, concerned.

From a bent and rusted pipe, the hollow gurgle of water - then a swift gush. Another. A fetid mud pours, frothing like foul champaign as it hits the earth. The woman sweeps her arms low, then high. She ululates amid piercing cries. The men stagger and sway. The boy shuffles in the semi-circle about the ground where the water pools.

This is why I stay in the city, the Bank Teller says.

The Bassist nods.

They shake their heads, return to the oak.

There, they choose their guns and take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bank Teller v. Basketmaker

The Bank Teller feels little. This comes as a surprise. She thought she had true feelings for the Bartender. But those feelings immediately dissipated once the Bartender fell lifeless on the turf. Maybe he wasn't such a catch, she says, after all.

The Basketmaker is a round young woman with a flat face. Her flat face wears a sad expression. She's clothed in a colorful patterned dress and boots and a bulky brown coat. She walks up to the oak. She and the Bank Teller speak.

Years ago, the Basketmaker says after a suitable amount of discussion, this was my people's land.

The two women look out over the the Basketmaker's ancestral land. The cairn, the creek, the copse, the corpses, the crows.

Nicer back then, says the Bank Teller, I'd bet.

I was worse, she says. Or the same.

The Basketmaker is a pessimist and a fatalist. A pessimistic fatalist. She plays euchre for money. She wins more often than she loses, but only feels satisfaction in loss. Thus perpetually unsatisfied, her world view is affirmed. The satisfaction from this affirmation is substantive: primarily represented by the money she wins from others, all optimistic determinists.

The Bank Teller decides, if she comes out of this alive, to move on with her life and marry the Pharmacologist.

The Basketmaker envisions a new design for a basket. A basket for keys and coins and cell phones. Also, maize.

They chose their guns and take to the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bank Teller v. Bartender

The Bartender and the Bank Teller know each other from five years of business at the bank, and two years of business at the bar. And one year of no business at either the bank or the bar.

Hi, she says.

Hi, he says.

I'm still angry at you, she says.

I married her. I don't know why we can't just get over this, he says.

Is it true you proposed to her under an overpass?

The Bartender clarifies. It was under a drawbridge, he says. I don't know how the rumor got out that it was an overpass. Drawbridge.

The Bartender explains why both he and his wife are attracted to drawbridges. Romance of the drawbridge is one reason, but not the only reason. The other reason is the affordability of proposing under a drawbridge. Expenses are minimal, if not nil. Proposing under a drawbridge requires only three things:

- A route down the cliff to the water's edge, and from the waters edge to a spot beneath, or very close to beneath, the drawbridge in question.
- Good timing, if the proposal is to be done at the moment a drawbridge closes, thus symbolizing the connection of two masses viz. a conjoining metal. Drop-forged steel in the case of a drawbridge; gold in the case of an engagement ring.
- A sense of adventure.

The Bank Teller isn't impressed. She tells him he probably still thinks of her. He does, at night, at around nine-thirty. She thinks of him at around four in the afternoon. In this way, their relationship persists, though in time zones that are necessarily and temporally inconsolable.

They chose their guns and take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bank Teller v. Barber

The Bank Teller looks down at her nails, purses her lips, then takes to filing again. She leans with her back against the oak. She looks out over the field to the fence, the smoldering ash of wood and bone, the stack of bodies, the crows.

The smell of death is still dense and thick, but less so than it was earlier, by the pile. She has cleaned her hands by the creek. She waits. And waits.

After she files her nails she pokes around the base of the tree. Seeing the trash piled a few feet away - mostly the Astronauts space food tubes - she resolves to burn these, too. She takes the tubes in her hands and makes for the pile, then gets second thoughts. Especially as the smell intensifies. Just outside the field of battle, just yards from the Banker's corpse, she drops the tubes in disgust and runs back to the oak.

The Barber arrives. His face is contorted, frowning. He holds his coat lapel to his nose.

Mfello, he says.

Hello, says the Bank Teller. Isn't that the worst smell you've ever smelled in your life?

The Barber says its not as bad as the smell of a paper mill, but close. He says this through his lapel, which muffles his voice, rendering it incomprehensible. He speaks at length this way, at times looking agreeable, at other times understanding, and at other times jocular. Each in turn. Then in combination, looking at once agreeable and understanding. Then understanding and jocular. Then jocular and agreeable. Then agreeable and jocular. Then understanding and agreeable. Then understanding and jocular. Then, in a show of particular conversationalist acumen that society allows barbers alone to display, the Barber speaks in a manner altogether agreeable, understanding and jocular.

I can't understand one damn thing ya'lls saying, baby, says the Bank Teller.

The Barber removes the lapel from his nose.

I said I think the Tigers might just win the pennant this year, he says. Then, overcome by the full odor of the half-burned remains, turns and vomits on the trunk of the oak.

They chose their pistols and take their places on the field, ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Banker v. Bank Teller

The Banker starts his tape recorder.

He clears his throat.

It was a bright morning in May when I got the call from my secretary. Word from the hospital, she told me. Congratulations—you’re a father. Tell my wife to name the boy Henry, I said. Then gave the phone back to the hotel porter.

The Bank Teller, who'd been vomiting by the poplars by the road, arrives. The Banker shuts off the recorder. He nods. She wipes her brow with her coat sleeve.

They speak, then walk to the smoldering pile of bones. Around the ash runs a ring of black scorched grass, the untouched ends of half-burnt timber, the untouched ends of half-burnt appendages.

The Banker walks to the eastern fence to gather more timber. The Bank Teller throws hands and fingers and feet into the middle of the heap. The Banker throws on the timber. The pile smolders. The Banker gets takes out the Artist's box of matches and lights the clothes that the Bank Teller takes off the Bank Robber, then stuffs under the wood. Smoke rises. The timber catches.

They watch the fire.

I knew a man, says the Banker, that started his career as a bank teller in the town of Macklenburg, Alabama. Young man, high school drop out. Worked like hell, kissed ass, got promoted. Got promoted seven times in two years. Worked his way up to management, worked his way up to senior management. Ran the regional office, then ran every bank in the east, then every goddamn retail bank in continental US.

The Banker looks off nostalgically. Guess who that man was, he asks her.

You sir?

Fellow by the name of Trent Buckhalter. He was the first man I fired after graduating Yale, class of '72. Wept openly. Disgusting display.

Yes sir.

They return to the oak. The Banker choses his gun, the Bank Teller takes the other, and they both take the field. They stand ten paces apart.

Before we do this, I want you to know how very important you are to the bank, the Banker says. And that goes no matter what anyone says.

Yes sir.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Banker v. Bank Robber

Note: This installment of "The Duelists" was written by the Clerk, a guest contributor. - The Author

The Banker looks down at his watch, shaking his head. He is not accustomed to downtime- even on his honeymoon he managed to short some stock off on the Polynesians at the resort. A free moment is a wasted moment, he always said. Taking a tape recorder out of his coat pocket, he decided to get back to work on his memoirs.

Mistakes? Sure, I've made them, he mused, pacing around the table. Deals gone bad? Take a look at Poughkeepsie. Mistresses? I've had 'em in spades. Thought I could get away with it. Was I right? Oh baby, I was worst than right- I was wrong. Do it again? You bet your ass I would.

A loud retching is heard in the distance. The Banker pauses the tape.

After a while, you don't even notice the smell, the Banker tells the Bank Robber, wiping away vomit with a neckerchief. You ever lived by a paper mill? Now that's agony.

The Banker looks the Bank Robber up and down.

You're really not at all as I expected. Looks-wise, I mean. You don't look like you could hold up a mirror, let alone a bank.

The Bank Robber nods. He still had on the same t-shirt and jeans he wore to the coffee shop. He had considered dressing up, but ran out of time.

I get that a lot. What most people don't understand is- the industry has changed. It's all done on computers now, really. Just get the account numbers and re-route over the Internet. I'm lucky to do it at all, honestly. Most of the work has been outsourced.

The Banker kicks the dirt gently and looks into the distance, glumly nostalgic. Maybe it's the cremains, he thought, or maybe I'm just getting sappy in my old age. Times have changed? Kid, you're a dinosaur, and that big comet's coming right for you. One minute you're laying dames on a hotel bed covered in fifty dollar bills, and the next you're yesterday's news. Your face is still in the paper, sure, but they're wrapping fish in it.

The Banker turned and walked over to the table. Well, he says to the Bank Robber, time to cash the checks.

Hold on, hold on now, the Bank Robber pleads. I've robbed three banks- does that really qualify me as a bank robber? This isn't all I do, you know. Check my tax returns. I freelance, I play drums. Should I come back later?

They get the pistols and take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bailiff v. Banker

I have to bury these people, says the Bailiff.

He puts his hands on his hips. He spits. He thinks. He thinks of the Bandit. He thinks of the Balloonist. He thinks of the Baker. He thinks of the Baker's cat's eye. He thinks of cat eyes. He thinks of cats. He thinks of hats. He thinks of stovepipe hats. He thinks of stoves. He thinks of hellfire melting the writhing bodies of the eternal damned.

He decides to build a pyre.

He pockets the Artist's matches, takes the Attorney's tan briefcase - heavy with the book of law and legal drafts - to a spot just thirty feet southeast from the mass of the dead by the northern fence. He looks at the crows, the crows look at him.

He drops the briefcase then walks to the east timber fence. Using his stout fury, he rips the timber slats from the fence. Rips and rips and rips. Until there's a sufficient pile of timber. He moves the timber to where he set down the briefcase. After time he builds a makeshift pyre. With pages from the book of law and the legal drafts, and up using six matches, he lights the pyre.

The Banker arrives. Greying temples, sculpted jowls, unwavering gaze. Black overcoat, pinstripe suit, blue and white striped tie. He walks to the Bailiff.

What's this about here? asks the Banker.

The Bailiff explains.

The Banker thinks. He nods, takes off his overcoat, takes off his jacket, and rolls up his sleeves. They walk to the bodies. The crows scatter, flying or hopping away with satisfied insouciance. The two men set about carrying off the light, mostly-eaten bodies of Accountant, the Acrobat, the Actor, the Actuary, the Administrator, the Advocate, the Aerospace Engineer, the Agent, the Agronomist, the Air Traffic Controller, the Alchemist, and the Ambassador.

The clothes and dried flesh catch quickly. The smell is horrendous. Acrid, nauseating, sweet. The two men vomit until they can't vomit any more.

Once these are burnt to mostly skull and bone, they tear down more timber and move on to more bodies.

They throw in those bodies that are still decomposing, half-eaten: the bodies of the Anesthesiologist, the Analyst, the Animal Trainer, the Airman, the Anthropologist, the Arborist, the Archbi -

Should we burn this Archbishop? asks the Bailiff.

What's he gonna say if we do? asks the Banker.

They throw on the body of the Archbishop, the Archer, the Archaeologist, the Architect, the Archivist and the Armorer.

Throughout this work, the two men speak:

Sir, says the man in a nixonian tone, I've banked in Boston and New York. Banked in Charlotte and Los Angeles. Banked in Houston in the 70s. Miami in the 80s. Banked internationally. Buenos Aires. Geneva, Switzerland. London, Pittsburgh, Tacoma, Toronto, Hong Kong, Cape Town, Madras, Pago Pago. Banked the Isle of Wight. Across the Caribbean from Grand Bahama to the Turks and Caicos. I've banked every city I've known. Athens? Banked it. Milan? Two deals brokered with issuers of industrial automotive debt instruments. Ask me about Stockholm.

What about Stockholm?

Biggest deal our bank had seen out of Scandinavia. I made it happen. That's right, the man before you.

That's something.

That's banking. That's old fashioned banking. Deal-making. How'd'ya do, let's buy us a hooker and let's made a deal. Yes, I come from the original mold. Yankee thrift, Yankee heft. Strong shake, strong eye, strong chin. You get me?

I sure do.

Well good. I'm glad to help these dead with you. I'm a man of the people, you understand. I'm not above you. Monetarily, maybe. Do I wear black tie and know how to use a finger bowl? Sure. Attractive wife? Better believe it. Four days in the gym? I'll say so. One kid in Williams, the other at Yale? Yes, and I'm proud of it. But does that make me somehow superior to men like you? Good men of the earth? Well I say no. I say you have just as good a shot as I. How about that for a mindset, huh?

It's a good one.

It's what makes this country run, sir. No, I'm not ashamed to call you sir. You seem like a good man, good with his hands, good ideas. Burning bodies. Now that's not to say it's something I wouldn't have through up, but you thought it up first and I'm not less of a man to sit sullen because one man hit the spike before it was my turn to pitch the shoe. I'll roll up the sleeves, I'll grease the elbow. Look at me know. How do you like me, now?

I like you just fine.

I think we're pals. You a family man? You know golf? Answer the second question first.

I think we're as done for now.

This was true. They fire had calmed. The new bodies heaped didn't catch like the earlier bodies. They smoldered, roasting atop coals. A worse smell couldn't be described. It clung to their clothes, to their skin.

We did an exemplary job here. First rate work, says the Banker.

They get the pistols and take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bailiff v. Bandit

Well of all the people I'd never expect to see, says the Bailiff, gun drawn.

The Bandit holds his hands up. Now hold on there, Bailiff, says the Bandit. Just hold on. I'm unarmed.

When did you bust out of prison? Last week?

I came here for a fair duel, Bailiff. I ain't gonna stand here and be talked to like a common criminal. We're two men alike here. You know that. It's the Unspoken Rules of the Duel.

The Bailiff frowns. He lowers his gun.

I think I'd like to chose my weapon now if you don't mind, Bailiff.

The Bailiff spits. Suit yourself, he says. It's over by the table.

The Bandit, a brown-eyed man of unremarkable appearance, of average build walks to the table. He takes up a pistol. He surveys the setting. Looks like hell around here, says the Bandit. How many dead you kill over by the fence there, Bailiff?

Don't mind about who I've killed or who I haven't. Done well for myself so far.

Surprised you know how to shoot at all. Look at those shaking hands. The Bandit smiles, leans back against the oak. Just look, he says. Middle-aged, fat, a drunk. You got kids?

The Bailiff spits. Yeah I got kids. What's it to you?

I feel bad for your kids.

The Bailiff frowns. You got kids, Bandit?

Yeah I got kids, thanks, the Bandit says. He scowls. Wanna see pictures?

The Bailiff squints. I'd love to, he says.

They show each other wallet-sized pictures of their children.

Your daughter's grown so much since I last seen her, says the Bandit.

And yours, I'll tell ya, is a real gem of a girl.

She is, says the Bandit. I say mine girl's the sweeter of the two, he adds, eyeing the Bailiff.

Maybe, says the Bailiff through clenched teeth, they're both sweet in their own particular way. Each equalling each other in sweetness, either by sweetness in looks, sweetness in our regard for them, or sweetness in their general demeanor.

Well said, Bailiff, says the Bandit.

Any father would say the same, he says. Now I'm going to kill you.

Yes sir, I think I've had just about enough of your face.

They take their places out on the field, ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bailiff v. Balloonist

Both pistols tucked under his belt, the Bailiff relocates the body of the Baker. Then walks west down the fence line. He passes the bodies of the Animator and Background Artist. He walks to the point closest to the Aviator's overturned Sopwith Camel, lying partially dismantled on the turned black soil. A filthy-looking boy, head covered in a brown tuque, swaddled in an oversized barn coat squats beside the skeletal fuselage. Eating something from his mittens. Quickly, like a squirrel. When the boy sees the Bailiff he shoves the food into his coat pocket and gazes, eyes dull and feral.

Hey son! shouts the Bailiff. Have a shovel you can spare?

The boy turns away. Two men emerge from the far end of the plane. One fat, one thin. Their features are vague, yet their faces and hands clearly show greasy and oil-stained. The thin man grabs the boy roughly by the back of the coat and hefts him to his feet. The three walk behind the plane, out of sight.

In the distance, flying south on the northern currents, a spec appears. The Bailiff squints. Rubs his eyes, spits, and squints again. He waits as the spec nears. A balloon of white and blue fabric. Beneath not a basket but a wood structure, a small red tool shed.

He watches as the balloon gracefully glides closer, ever lower. It seems on target to land in the field. But at the last moment, just a hundred meters from the northern fence, a sudden gust from the west sends the shed swiveling. The balloon's pushed east, over the northeast tip of the fence and into the forest. It disappears from sight just before the sound of cracking branches, splintering timber. The great thump - then whoosh of a punctured air bladder.

The Bailiff rushes as fast as his stout little frame'll carry him to the eastern timber fence. He puts one foot on the timber and peers into the woodland. Inscrutable shade, thick brown bramble, dense foliage. Hello? he says. He hears a fall. A great umphf. Then steps over crisp leaves.

The Balloonist, a gangly ill-kept in denim overalls, walks from forest. He holds his arm, broken in two places, bone showing.

The Bailiff helps him over the fence, then to the oak. He sits at the base of the tree.

Jesus pal, says the Bailiff, you look like you need a doctor.

I think I can still fight, says the Balloonist. Just my left arm's broken, eh? He demonstrates. It's broken good. Let's fight, he says, and then I'll put up right in a sling.

Well fine, says the Bailiff. You want me to mark your job down? The Bailiff indicates the List of the Dead. The Balloonist shrugs. The Bailiff writes 'baloonist'. After the Bailiff helps him to his feet, the Balloonist sees the error but is too week to care.

They take their place out on the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bailiff v. Baker

The Bailiff, unsure of what exactly transpired, tucks both pistols under his belt (very tight fit) and walks over to the fence, near where the Background Artist had risen. He sees the mangled body of the Animator. Not knowing why, but knowing it the right thing to do, he returns to the field and drags the Background Artist's body to lay alongside the body of the Animator.

Someone should really bury these people, he says. He looks around. He spits, then returns to the oak.

The Baker arrives. He's a tall young man with sandy hair, a lantern jaw. He wears stained sweatpants, sneakers, a thick winter coat. Cigarette stains mark his left hand. Tattoo of on base of his neck reads: shantih shantih shantih.

This is gonna be tough, says the Baker. I can only see out of one eye.

The Bailiff asks why.

The Baker explains. As a child he suffered slingshot backfire. The tubing snapped, striking his eye, lacerating his pupil. If you have a lighter you can see, says the Baker. It looks like a cat's eye. The Bailiff takes the matches sitting on the table and strikes one. He holds it close to the Baker's face and stands on tip-toe. Sure enough: a cat's eye.

You can't see anything out of it?

Nah. Blurry. A fog.

The Baker pantomimes the actions of the accident, grasping at his eye, shrieking in mock pain. They both laugh.

Say, says the Bailiff, you don't have drink on you, do you?

The Baker doesn't. The Bailiff nods.

The Bailiff asks if he'd like to chose pistols. The Baker choses his, the Bailiff takes the other.

I think we need to write our jobs on the paper here, says the Bailiff, pointing to the List of the Dead. The Bailiff takes up the pencil and writes his job. The Baker follows suit. The Bailiff misspelled bailiff but the Baker says nothing.

They walk out to the field. They stand ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Background Artist v. Bailiff

The Background Artist returns to where she left the body of the Aviator. She musters enough strength to drag him the rest of the way to the fence. There, pinching her nose, she looks over the clustered bodies of the dead and decomposing. She stops at the sight of the swollen, partially eaten Animator. Staggers in disbelief.

She clothes her hands in the Actor's English hunting jacket (lying discarded apart from the bodies) and hefts the Animator's body from the others. Weeping uncontrollably, she strokes the Animator's eye-less face and hunk-torn cheeks and her six-fingered hand and drags her west along the fence, half-way between the pile of bodies and the road.

There she sits for a long while, crying and occasionally punching the ground before her.

The Bailiff walks onto the field from the road. He's a short barrel of a man. Tight buzzcut, broad shoulders, sunken eyes, bulging rose-kissed nose, swollen as if stung by wasps. He walks to the oak. Seeing no one, he spits. Looks around. Starts playing with one of the revolvers on the table. Spinning the chamber, looking down the barrel, testing the firing pin.

The Background Artist falls asleep next to the Animator.

The Bailiff spends an hour practicing his quick-draw. Ba-hey! he says each time he draws. Bang!

Finally he bores. He tucks the pistol under his tight-fitting polyester pants and shambles through the snow-spotted grass. He walks to the creek and regards the creek. He walks to the cairn and regards the cairn. He walks to the bodies of the dead and regards the bodies of the dead. Then he looks out to the northern field and regards the northern field, especially the ragged figures in the distance that work, dismantling the Aviator's Sopwith Camel.

He turns away. Once more - the quick-draw: Ba-hey! he shouts. Bang!

This wakes the Background Artist. She gets to her feet and and wipes her tears and stomps over to the oak. The Bailiff spots her and walks after.

Hey, says the Bailiff. He catches up to her as she writes 'animator + background artist' on the List of Dead. She takes a pistol and walks to the field. Hey, he says.

Let's just shoot! she cries.

The Bailiff shrugs. He takes the field. They stand ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Background Artist v. Bacteriologist

The Background Artist tries hefting the Aviator to the north fence. She makes it about half-way before tiring and returning to the oak. There she gently smoothes out the Archivist's List of the Dead. Still damp, she lets it sit. She takes the golf pencil - lying amid the trash that she'd heaped - and places it atop the list.

The Bacteriologist arrives. She's a small-eyed, surefooted, russet-haired woman in trousers, a puffy ski jacket. The two women greet each other. Both are shy. They comment on the setting, the cold, the crows. The Background Artist comments on the smell. Finally, when there's nothing left on which to comment, the Bacteriologist comments on the Background Artist's nails and hair. I like your nails and hair, she says. The Background Artist smiles.

Not to change the topic, but I'm pretty excited, the Bacteriologist says, about a new finding of ours. But, no - I hate to talk about work. It's rude.

The Background Artist asks her to continue.

Well, we've been working on something that makes chicken smell like fish and fish smell like mutton.

What does it make mutton smell like?

Sauteed mushrooms.

What is it?

The vaccine we were trying to make would have counteracted a new strain of African Swine Fever. It didn't work. It just made pork smell like pot roast. We found that out when we threw the diseased pigs into the incinerator. Then we tried it on a rooster.

The Background Artist narrows her eyes.

We think it must be restructuring the proteins. It's too early to tell. But it's such a discovery, I can't tell you how giddy it makes me.

The Background Artist selects her pistol. The Bacteriologist takes the other. They walk out to the field, stand ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.