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.