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.