The Cheerleader, a bit traumatized by the killing, takes pains to wipe away the blood near the hole on the chest of the Chaplain’s black uniform. She crosses his arms over his chest and stands watch as Pepple arrives.
Don’t rifle through his pockets like that, she says sternly.
Pepple frowns. He makes to take off the Chaplain’s boot.
Don’t take his boots!
Pepple sighs. He looks at her, then looks at the body of the Chaplain. Finally, after a few seconds, he drags him off and buries him—clothes, boots and all.
When the Cheesemaker arrives the next day, the Cheerleader sits reading the instructions the Bellmaker wrote on the deck of playing cards. Next to her, on the table, sits the Bhikkuni’s alms bowl—now filled with hardened clay. She explains everything to the Cheesemaker and they decide (on the Cheerleader’s urging, really) to repeat the first few steps of bell making.
After a brief search—instructions on the 2 of clubs maps where the best blue clay is found—they come across the fork near the road and the stripe of blue. The Cheesemaker begins digging with a stick he found by the oak. Eventually he digs enough to fill the alms bowl as high as it was before with fresh clay.
They return to the oak and turn the 4 of hearts. This instructs them on how to shape the interior mold. The Cheerleader, who considers herself somewhat craft-oriented, shapes the interior mold per the specifications on the card.
The 5 of diamonds explains the proper way to build a kiln.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Chaplain v. Cheerleader
Pepple pockets the remainder of the cash found in the Chandler’s purse, the carton of cigarettes, the gin, and the chocolates. All her fillings, he discovers, are cheap stainless steel.
The Chaplain, an Anabaptist, meekly chimes in as Pepple drags her off:
Sir, I think—that’s to say I hope you don’t mind if… well, one of those candy bars from that woman just before the, well—you know.
Pepple hands him a chocolate bar.
Oh, thank you very much! bows the Chaplain.
Pepple rolls his eyes and drags away the Chandler.
The Cheerleader arrives as the Chaplain finishes the bar, his mouth ringed with chocolate.
The Chaplain offers his chocolate-smeared hand, which she takes. Then noticing the slipperiness between their palms, they both recoil. The Chaplain offers his handkerchief, but in passing it, it becomes as filthy as his hands and mouth. She declines, deciding instead to run to the creek to wash up. The Chaplain agrees with the plan, and follows.
At the edge of the creek, the Chaplain stumbles and lands face down in a small bed of damp silt.
Face now dirt- and chocolate-smeared, the Chaplain climbs from the creek, sits on the grass, and sighs. And this is pretty mild compared what I’ve done in the past, he says sadly.
She asks him to explain.
When I was first with the army I was with a company of soldiers in the mountains. They were supposed to intercept an informer from a tribe that controlled that territory. They told us to keep radio silence, but on one break I accidentally sat on a walkie-talkie. Only me and another guy escaped the ambush alive.
Then they shipped me to the other war. When I was being through the city to our base, I sneezed so hard I hit my helmet hard against the dashboard. It made such a loud whack that the gunner thought we’d come under mortar fire, and he shot into a nearby crowd of women. That ended pretty badly, too.
Next they sent me to the third war. Basically, I was the one that exposed that war for a fraud. Remember the guy who tripped over the wire and fell into the stage scenery while they were filming the General's live, on-air death scene? That was me.
After that they sent me back to the first war, blindfolded me, and shipped me to our enemies as a hostage. I got along pretty well with the enemy, and so pretty soon they let me walk back to our base. Back, a team of officers beat me with sticks, then had me sent to tend an outpost up here near the Canadian border. Even though no one's an Anabaptist. And now here I am.
The Cheerleader can't believe that she's in the presence of a celebrity.
You're that guy? she screams.
The Chaplain wipes mud from his face, and nods.
The Cheerleader wiggles her hands excitedly.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
The Chaplain, an Anabaptist, meekly chimes in as Pepple drags her off:
Sir, I think—that’s to say I hope you don’t mind if… well, one of those candy bars from that woman just before the, well—you know.
Pepple hands him a chocolate bar.
Oh, thank you very much! bows the Chaplain.
Pepple rolls his eyes and drags away the Chandler.
The Cheerleader arrives as the Chaplain finishes the bar, his mouth ringed with chocolate.
The Chaplain offers his chocolate-smeared hand, which she takes. Then noticing the slipperiness between their palms, they both recoil. The Chaplain offers his handkerchief, but in passing it, it becomes as filthy as his hands and mouth. She declines, deciding instead to run to the creek to wash up. The Chaplain agrees with the plan, and follows.
At the edge of the creek, the Chaplain stumbles and lands face down in a small bed of damp silt.
Face now dirt- and chocolate-smeared, the Chaplain climbs from the creek, sits on the grass, and sighs. And this is pretty mild compared what I’ve done in the past, he says sadly.
She asks him to explain.
When I was first with the army I was with a company of soldiers in the mountains. They were supposed to intercept an informer from a tribe that controlled that territory. They told us to keep radio silence, but on one break I accidentally sat on a walkie-talkie. Only me and another guy escaped the ambush alive.
Then they shipped me to the other war. When I was being through the city to our base, I sneezed so hard I hit my helmet hard against the dashboard. It made such a loud whack that the gunner thought we’d come under mortar fire, and he shot into a nearby crowd of women. That ended pretty badly, too.
Next they sent me to the third war. Basically, I was the one that exposed that war for a fraud. Remember the guy who tripped over the wire and fell into the stage scenery while they were filming the General's live, on-air death scene? That was me.
After that they sent me back to the first war, blindfolded me, and shipped me to our enemies as a hostage. I got along pretty well with the enemy, and so pretty soon they let me walk back to our base. Back, a team of officers beat me with sticks, then had me sent to tend an outpost up here near the Canadian border. Even though no one's an Anabaptist. And now here I am.
The Cheerleader can't believe that she's in the presence of a celebrity.
You're that guy? she screams.
The Chaplain wipes mud from his face, and nods.
The Cheerleader wiggles her hands excitedly.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Chandler v. Chaplain
The Chandler presents Pepple with proposition:
See this check? It’s for $2,500. If you can find a way to get me to town by noon, I’ll give you $500 of it, cash.
Pepple, never one to turn down a good opportunity, haggles her up to $1,000, then throws down his spade and lopes across the field. An hour later the Chandler hears honking from the road. Behind the line of poplars Pepple waves from within an old farm pickup. The Chandler strides over to the truck, gets in, and the two drive to town.
They find the bank. Unfortunately, its closed. The sign on the door reads:
TEMPORARILY CLOSED DUE TO BANK RUNS —MANAGEMENT
The Chandler tells Pepple to stay in the truck. She walks into town.
First the Chandler enters a pathetically under-stocked grocery store. Cans of sausages, condiments, powered soup stock, and processed, vitamin-enriched bread make up most of what lies scattered on the plywood shelves. She approaches the Grocer, who sits reading a paperback novelization of popular movie made from a Broadway musical adapted from a famous poem.
I’d like to congratulate you on keeping what might be the last independently owned in the state. Rustic—that’s what this is. Rustic and true, like the best of America.
The Grocer nods. The Chandler pulls the crumbled check from between her sagging dugs. Let me introduce myself, she says, I’m an independent chandler specializing in organic—
Sorry, interrupts the Grocer, we don’t cash no checks.
The Chandler leaves. She walks across the street to a fast food restaurant.
I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to see a fast food restaurant with nice full, clean grease traps, the Chandler opens. She pulls out the wrinkled check.
We don’t cash checks, hon, croaks the Fry Cook.
The Chandler leaves. She walks back across the street to a dry cleaner.
The Dry Cleaner sits on a small white stool with a shotgun slung across his knee. What you want? he demands. She unfolds the creased check.
Do you cash checks? she asks.
No, he shouts.
Then can you at least iron it?
The Dry Cleaner irons the check. While ironing, he offers her $40 for it. They eventually settle on $250. With the money she buys a carton of cigarettes, a bottle of gin, and six chocolate bars.
Back in the truck, the Chandler explains what happened, then hands Pepple $50. Pepple takes the money and drive back to the grounds. He drops her off and drives back down the road.
She meets the Chaplain by the oak. He’s collected a miniature bouquet of daisies.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
See this check? It’s for $2,500. If you can find a way to get me to town by noon, I’ll give you $500 of it, cash.
Pepple, never one to turn down a good opportunity, haggles her up to $1,000, then throws down his spade and lopes across the field. An hour later the Chandler hears honking from the road. Behind the line of poplars Pepple waves from within an old farm pickup. The Chandler strides over to the truck, gets in, and the two drive to town.
They find the bank. Unfortunately, its closed. The sign on the door reads:
TEMPORARILY CLOSED DUE TO BANK RUNS —MANAGEMENT
The Chandler tells Pepple to stay in the truck. She walks into town.
First the Chandler enters a pathetically under-stocked grocery store. Cans of sausages, condiments, powered soup stock, and processed, vitamin-enriched bread make up most of what lies scattered on the plywood shelves. She approaches the Grocer, who sits reading a paperback novelization of popular movie made from a Broadway musical adapted from a famous poem.
I’d like to congratulate you on keeping what might be the last independently owned in the state. Rustic—that’s what this is. Rustic and true, like the best of America.
The Grocer nods. The Chandler pulls the crumbled check from between her sagging dugs. Let me introduce myself, she says, I’m an independent chandler specializing in organic—
Sorry, interrupts the Grocer, we don’t cash no checks.
The Chandler leaves. She walks across the street to a fast food restaurant.
I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to see a fast food restaurant with nice full, clean grease traps, the Chandler opens. She pulls out the wrinkled check.
We don’t cash checks, hon, croaks the Fry Cook.
The Chandler leaves. She walks back across the street to a dry cleaner.
The Dry Cleaner sits on a small white stool with a shotgun slung across his knee. What you want? he demands. She unfolds the creased check.
Do you cash checks? she asks.
No, he shouts.
Then can you at least iron it?
The Dry Cleaner irons the check. While ironing, he offers her $40 for it. They eventually settle on $250. With the money she buys a carton of cigarettes, a bottle of gin, and six chocolate bars.
Back in the truck, the Chandler explains what happened, then hands Pepple $50. Pepple takes the money and drive back to the grounds. He drops her off and drives back down the road.
She meets the Chaplain by the oak. He’s collected a miniature bouquet of daisies.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Chancellor v. Chandler
The Chancellor and Chandler find they have something in common: they both appreciate quality craftsmanship.
Buildings! cries the Chandler, arms jetting up. They make 'em tall now, sure - but they've got no spirit! All twisting mirrored glass and metal. What's so good about the world that we need it reflected back at us from a two billion dollar looking glass that rises eighty seven stories high? Nothing, that's what!
The Chandler's a wiry, thin frizzy-haired woman in a flowing hemp dress and denim headband, makes quick gestures to press important points during conversation.
What I attribute this to, confides the Chancellor while idly fingering his monogramed cufflinks, is simple lack of love. Love of that station to which one was born. Let bankers be bankers, peasants peasants, and craftsman craftsman. I find lack of love, or lack of pride to be the one great vice of the New World. Of my kind - and here I make no lie of baring to you that I am one born to serve, as they say in the better clubs of Beacon Hill - I believe I am a shining example. My work, of course, is to leave these hands of mine unsullied by work. Absolutely, I could have squandered my life on crass moneymaking. Yet instead I turned my efforts solely to matters of social importance: I dine and drink with the best sort of people, and in dining and through witty conversation, I provide a crucial model for them: of a man whose life is lived in hope of benefiting all others! Specifically, as chancellor now of my alma mater, that tower you see off in the distance... of grand ivory.
The Chancellor, impassioned, gestures with outstretched hand to the northeast. The Chandler turns and looks. She doesn't see an ivory tower, but she does see Pepple. He's burying the body of Chamberlain. She wrinkles her nose.
The Chancellor apologizes and explains.
Your university doesn't need organic soap, does it? she asks. Because if your students aren't showering with organic, hand-made soap, she points out, they might as well be slaughtering thousands of fish and birds in Micronesia. A sinful industry: bug-eyed chemists and profiteers the whole bunch of them.
The Chancellor's shocked.
Let me put you down for an order of 2,000 bars of my personal brand, Ginny's Ol' Fashioned Spit-Shine. You know, just a test order. Here's a complimentary sample.
The Chancellor takes the same, puts it to his nose. It smells a bit like musty basement, he says.
Well of course it does! How else would you know it's organic?
He nods, convinced, and writes out the check. The Chandler stuffs it down her blouse.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Buildings! cries the Chandler, arms jetting up. They make 'em tall now, sure - but they've got no spirit! All twisting mirrored glass and metal. What's so good about the world that we need it reflected back at us from a two billion dollar looking glass that rises eighty seven stories high? Nothing, that's what!
The Chandler's a wiry, thin frizzy-haired woman in a flowing hemp dress and denim headband, makes quick gestures to press important points during conversation.
What I attribute this to, confides the Chancellor while idly fingering his monogramed cufflinks, is simple lack of love. Love of that station to which one was born. Let bankers be bankers, peasants peasants, and craftsman craftsman. I find lack of love, or lack of pride to be the one great vice of the New World. Of my kind - and here I make no lie of baring to you that I am one born to serve, as they say in the better clubs of Beacon Hill - I believe I am a shining example. My work, of course, is to leave these hands of mine unsullied by work. Absolutely, I could have squandered my life on crass moneymaking. Yet instead I turned my efforts solely to matters of social importance: I dine and drink with the best sort of people, and in dining and through witty conversation, I provide a crucial model for them: of a man whose life is lived in hope of benefiting all others! Specifically, as chancellor now of my alma mater, that tower you see off in the distance... of grand ivory.
The Chancellor, impassioned, gestures with outstretched hand to the northeast. The Chandler turns and looks. She doesn't see an ivory tower, but she does see Pepple. He's burying the body of Chamberlain. She wrinkles her nose.
The Chancellor apologizes and explains.
Your university doesn't need organic soap, does it? she asks. Because if your students aren't showering with organic, hand-made soap, she points out, they might as well be slaughtering thousands of fish and birds in Micronesia. A sinful industry: bug-eyed chemists and profiteers the whole bunch of them.
The Chancellor's shocked.
Let me put you down for an order of 2,000 bars of my personal brand, Ginny's Ol' Fashioned Spit-Shine. You know, just a test order. Here's a complimentary sample.
The Chancellor takes the same, puts it to his nose. It smells a bit like musty basement, he says.
Well of course it does! How else would you know it's organic?
He nods, convinced, and writes out the check. The Chandler stuffs it down her blouse.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Chamberlain v. Chancellor
Though shaken by the quick report of fire, the speed of the CFO's death, and Pepple's impersonal looting and burial of the man's body, the Chamberlain's grateful to have survived. Even as the skies grow overcast. Even, as night falls, it starts to rain.
Collar up, huddled in wet clothes, the Chamberlain knocks on the door of the hideous shack.
The shack, made of junk timber and held together by bent nails and chicken wire, is surrounded by rusted tools, lengths of broken pipe, rain-weathered planks, ripped garbage bags, empty sardine tins, and every other bit of garbage - including a good portion of the possessions looted from the corpses of the dead (the Bhikkhuni's staff, ripped pages from the Bookseller's ruined copy of Denial of Death, and so on).
The Chamberlain hears a bar slide up, and the door opens. Pepple, shirtless, stands smoking a cigarette. He looks worse than he ever has - dark rings under his eyes, hair in disarray, crumbs and jam in his spotty beard, pimples across his face and lips and neck, spots across his chest - from disease or ticks, the Chamberlain can't tell.
Through the dim light inside the shack - everything illuminated by the red coals from the tiny mouth of a rusting, antique Franklin stove, and candles placed in peculiar fashion around a squalid little shrine around which were laid more looted trinkets (most notably the Cardinal's gold signet ring) and a bloodless painted finger - the Chamberlain spies the small face of a sick child wrapped tightly in moldering blankets and discarded clothes, and beside the boy the figure of a woman, face hidden, and nearby her, splayed out on a chair, Grubb's massive corpse. Around Grubb a great mass of books rise like mushrooms: tattered, used, of all colors and sizes, piled in free stacks.
The Chamberlain's decides against his original plan to ask for shelter for the night. He stands awkwardly.
What? Pepple asks sourly.
The Chamberlain stammers, never quite getting around finishing a sentence, never quite making any sense - only cold, and wet, and eager to leave.
Pepple backs up and shuts the door.
Thankfully, the Chamberlain turns. As he steps away, the door opens again. Pepple reaches out, handing the Chamberlain an umbrella. His face, though expressionless, hints sympathy. And so the Chamberlain takes the umbrella, thanks Pepple, opens it, and returns to the oak.
The next morning he relates the events of the previous night to Chancellor, a man dressed head to foot in specially tailored clothes from his tailor in the city.
A small shrine? asks the Chancellor.
With a woman's finger on it, yes.
The Chamberlain blows his nose with a damp handkerchief.
Hm. What a choice little morsel of regional anthropology. I should pass this along to the dean of social sciences. Of course in no way do we support desecration of the dead - far from! - but still... my gosh, just think of the press that would come from the study of this. A backwoods cult? Oh! Glossy magazine covers, a spread in the Times. Appeal to alumni for donations to fund a new department - an institute... the Institute of Alternative Mythology and Atypic Folklore. Tremendous opportunity.
Thinking from that perspective, the Chamberlain admits that what resides in that hideous shack might have been a bit interesting. In fact, the more he considers the entirety of what he saw from an objective standpoint, the more interesting it seems. Until, finally, the horror he felt is in part subsumed by excitement over his bizarre discovery.
In short, he feels conflicted.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Collar up, huddled in wet clothes, the Chamberlain knocks on the door of the hideous shack.
The shack, made of junk timber and held together by bent nails and chicken wire, is surrounded by rusted tools, lengths of broken pipe, rain-weathered planks, ripped garbage bags, empty sardine tins, and every other bit of garbage - including a good portion of the possessions looted from the corpses of the dead (the Bhikkhuni's staff, ripped pages from the Bookseller's ruined copy of Denial of Death, and so on).
The Chamberlain hears a bar slide up, and the door opens. Pepple, shirtless, stands smoking a cigarette. He looks worse than he ever has - dark rings under his eyes, hair in disarray, crumbs and jam in his spotty beard, pimples across his face and lips and neck, spots across his chest - from disease or ticks, the Chamberlain can't tell.
Through the dim light inside the shack - everything illuminated by the red coals from the tiny mouth of a rusting, antique Franklin stove, and candles placed in peculiar fashion around a squalid little shrine around which were laid more looted trinkets (most notably the Cardinal's gold signet ring) and a bloodless painted finger - the Chamberlain spies the small face of a sick child wrapped tightly in moldering blankets and discarded clothes, and beside the boy the figure of a woman, face hidden, and nearby her, splayed out on a chair, Grubb's massive corpse. Around Grubb a great mass of books rise like mushrooms: tattered, used, of all colors and sizes, piled in free stacks.
The Chamberlain's decides against his original plan to ask for shelter for the night. He stands awkwardly.
What? Pepple asks sourly.
The Chamberlain stammers, never quite getting around finishing a sentence, never quite making any sense - only cold, and wet, and eager to leave.
Pepple backs up and shuts the door.
Thankfully, the Chamberlain turns. As he steps away, the door opens again. Pepple reaches out, handing the Chamberlain an umbrella. His face, though expressionless, hints sympathy. And so the Chamberlain takes the umbrella, thanks Pepple, opens it, and returns to the oak.
The next morning he relates the events of the previous night to Chancellor, a man dressed head to foot in specially tailored clothes from his tailor in the city.
A small shrine? asks the Chancellor.
With a woman's finger on it, yes.
The Chamberlain blows his nose with a damp handkerchief.
Hm. What a choice little morsel of regional anthropology. I should pass this along to the dean of social sciences. Of course in no way do we support desecration of the dead - far from! - but still... my gosh, just think of the press that would come from the study of this. A backwoods cult? Oh! Glossy magazine covers, a spread in the Times. Appeal to alumni for donations to fund a new department - an institute... the Institute of Alternative Mythology and Atypic Folklore. Tremendous opportunity.
Thinking from that perspective, the Chamberlain admits that what resides in that hideous shack might have been a bit interesting. In fact, the more he considers the entirety of what he saw from an objective standpoint, the more interesting it seems. Until, finally, the horror he felt is in part subsumed by excitement over his bizarre discovery.
In short, he feels conflicted.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Friday, April 25, 2008
CFO v. Chamberlain
The CFO stands over the mass grave, watching Pepple bury the naked body of the Cellist.
It's been a difficult few days for my family, says Pepple.
That doesn't explain why you stripped the poor woman! cries the outraged CFO.
Pepple heaves a shovelful of dirt down in anger. Her dress is for my sister, he says. She's lost her common-law husband and I'm trying to make it up to her is all.
And her hand? You had to cut off her hand?
You know--it's all laid out in the contract, mister.
The CFO squints, disgusted, and walks back to the oak. The Chamberlain arrives. He wears a dark suit with a small sprig of cherry blossoms pinned to his lapel. Being a cheerful, receptive sort of person, the Chamberlain patiently hears out the CFO's ramblings.
One arm of company manufactures pharmaceuticals, base chemicals and industrial lubricants, the other offers "green solutions". And on the side we've got a few paper mills, and a failing automotive division, a new aeronautics department, and six or seven offshore textile plants. The universities, they love us for our funding. Lobbyists attached to both parties. Bottom line, we're doing okay. Not great, but okay.
The Chamberlain nods.
But no one knows who the hell is doing what because the goddamn CEO up and leaves two days ago! I can only imagine what they're doing without me. I swear if my Blackberry got any sort of signal up here - well, I'm grateful it doesn't. It gives me time to think about work without work in front of me.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
It's been a difficult few days for my family, says Pepple.
That doesn't explain why you stripped the poor woman! cries the outraged CFO.
Pepple heaves a shovelful of dirt down in anger. Her dress is for my sister, he says. She's lost her common-law husband and I'm trying to make it up to her is all.
And her hand? You had to cut off her hand?
You know--it's all laid out in the contract, mister.
The CFO squints, disgusted, and walks back to the oak. The Chamberlain arrives. He wears a dark suit with a small sprig of cherry blossoms pinned to his lapel. Being a cheerful, receptive sort of person, the Chamberlain patiently hears out the CFO's ramblings.
One arm of company manufactures pharmaceuticals, base chemicals and industrial lubricants, the other offers "green solutions". And on the side we've got a few paper mills, and a failing automotive division, a new aeronautics department, and six or seven offshore textile plants. The universities, they love us for our funding. Lobbyists attached to both parties. Bottom line, we're doing okay. Not great, but okay.
The Chamberlain nods.
But no one knows who the hell is doing what because the goddamn CEO up and leaves two days ago! I can only imagine what they're doing without me. I swear if my Blackberry got any sort of signal up here - well, I'm grateful it doesn't. It gives me time to think about work without work in front of me.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Cellist v. CFO
When Pepple arrives to carry off and bury the liquidated CEO, the Cellist stands wary.
She doesn't sleep that night. She keeps herself awake by force of will, her back to the oak, starring at the dim light shining through the cracks in the wall of the shack. Listening for the door to open. But it never does.
The next morning, when the CFO arrives, the Cellist asks for time to sleep. The CFO objects. He lists the myriad of problems he's faced since receiving notice of the duel:
First off, my wife tells me she won't sign the divorce papers. My daughter refuses to live with me. My son got sent home from school for attempted arson. Heard about that last bit of news during an emergency conference call over the disappearance of a kid we sponsored to fly across the Atlantic, and then of our CEO. This was all yesterday, mind you. I get home and my son's drunk off the bottle of a 36 year-old Talisker single-malt I was keeping to celebrate the one year aniversary of my father's fatal aneurism. Also, the cable's blown. And there's a note from the maid telling me she quit - and took the cook.
The Cellist rubs her eyes.
This morning I woke up with a crick in my neck. I was strip-searched at airport security. I sat squeezed next to an obese lamp wholesaler who wouldn't stop showing me pictures of his fat kids, and naked pictures of his two Filipino mistresses. After we landed I ran across the tarmac to board some paint-flecked prop that probably hasn't been serviced since the Truman administration, landed in this ho-dunk town, and got carted up here by a stuttering maniac who just inherited his uncle's taxi business and got us lost four times before fishing a map from under a pile of fast food wrappers.
The Cellist's eyes droop shut, then open. She blinks.
So I'll be damned, he concludes, if I come all this way to wait because some young woman - the same woman with whom I will fight to the death - wants to take a mid-morning siesta. No ma'am. We came to duel, we're dueling.
The Cellist sighs.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
She doesn't sleep that night. She keeps herself awake by force of will, her back to the oak, starring at the dim light shining through the cracks in the wall of the shack. Listening for the door to open. But it never does.
The next morning, when the CFO arrives, the Cellist asks for time to sleep. The CFO objects. He lists the myriad of problems he's faced since receiving notice of the duel:
First off, my wife tells me she won't sign the divorce papers. My daughter refuses to live with me. My son got sent home from school for attempted arson. Heard about that last bit of news during an emergency conference call over the disappearance of a kid we sponsored to fly across the Atlantic, and then of our CEO. This was all yesterday, mind you. I get home and my son's drunk off the bottle of a 36 year-old Talisker single-malt I was keeping to celebrate the one year aniversary of my father's fatal aneurism. Also, the cable's blown. And there's a note from the maid telling me she quit - and took the cook.
The Cellist rubs her eyes.
This morning I woke up with a crick in my neck. I was strip-searched at airport security. I sat squeezed next to an obese lamp wholesaler who wouldn't stop showing me pictures of his fat kids, and naked pictures of his two Filipino mistresses. After we landed I ran across the tarmac to board some paint-flecked prop that probably hasn't been serviced since the Truman administration, landed in this ho-dunk town, and got carted up here by a stuttering maniac who just inherited his uncle's taxi business and got us lost four times before fishing a map from under a pile of fast food wrappers.
The Cellist's eyes droop shut, then open. She blinks.
So I'll be damned, he concludes, if I come all this way to wait because some young woman - the same woman with whom I will fight to the death - wants to take a mid-morning siesta. No ma'am. We came to duel, we're dueling.
The Cellist sighs.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Cellist v. CEO
The Cellist wakes to sunlight over the mountains to the far east.
Rising, she realizes that one of the two pistols is missing. She pads her person, looks under the table, looks around the base of the oak, jumps and catches a quick look inside the hole in the oak. Nothing. Gone.
Then she remembers the previous night: an argument from inside the shack. Shouting, yelling, the sound of a door slam shut. She fell asleep soon after, back to the oak, one pistol in hand a and the other tucked in her coat pocket. But when? And how could she have slept through the theft?
She breaks and trembles. Thinking, irrationally fearing that the caretakers are somewhere nearby, now armed. A profound, unreasonably vulnerability sweeps across her. Then, moments later, guilt, as if some mortal duty had been neglected. Without both pistols there stood a terrifying variable—and there she cowered, the cause of that variable.
Just then—the splinter of gunfire. One shot.
Soon after: wailing.
From the shack to the north.
She gently cracks the top catch of the revolver, checks the rounds, locks the catch, and crouches against the oak.
Pepple emerges soon after, pistol in hand, drained. The wailing continues from within. Pepple walks across the newly turned field. He walks past the posts that formed the fence, and past the mass grave. He walks across the field, and—just feet from the oak—he meets the Cellist, pistol out and hammer back, aimed at Pepple’s chest.
Pepple looks at her with slate blue eyes. He blinks. With gentle motion, he tosses the pistol on the grass between them. Then turns and walks back to the shack.
She watches as he nears the shack and watches as a haggard woman emerges, crying, beating Pepple’s chest. Pepple pulls her off him by her hair, and she falls to the earth. Pepple enters the shack. The woman lies motionless.
The CEO arrives in high spirits.
There’s nothing like the innocence of nature to align the moral compass, he says with ebullience, stretching his arms wide, taking in the spring air.
The Cellist doesn’t move from her crouch.
Said by Emerson, I believe—Emerson or Thoreau. Emerson or Thoreau or Whitman. Or Frost. Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman, Frost or Charles Kuralt, I forget.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Rising, she realizes that one of the two pistols is missing. She pads her person, looks under the table, looks around the base of the oak, jumps and catches a quick look inside the hole in the oak. Nothing. Gone.
Then she remembers the previous night: an argument from inside the shack. Shouting, yelling, the sound of a door slam shut. She fell asleep soon after, back to the oak, one pistol in hand a and the other tucked in her coat pocket. But when? And how could she have slept through the theft?
She breaks and trembles. Thinking, irrationally fearing that the caretakers are somewhere nearby, now armed. A profound, unreasonably vulnerability sweeps across her. Then, moments later, guilt, as if some mortal duty had been neglected. Without both pistols there stood a terrifying variable—and there she cowered, the cause of that variable.
Just then—the splinter of gunfire. One shot.
Soon after: wailing.
From the shack to the north.
She gently cracks the top catch of the revolver, checks the rounds, locks the catch, and crouches against the oak.
Pepple emerges soon after, pistol in hand, drained. The wailing continues from within. Pepple walks across the newly turned field. He walks past the posts that formed the fence, and past the mass grave. He walks across the field, and—just feet from the oak—he meets the Cellist, pistol out and hammer back, aimed at Pepple’s chest.
Pepple looks at her with slate blue eyes. He blinks. With gentle motion, he tosses the pistol on the grass between them. Then turns and walks back to the shack.
She watches as he nears the shack and watches as a haggard woman emerges, crying, beating Pepple’s chest. Pepple pulls her off him by her hair, and she falls to the earth. Pepple enters the shack. The woman lies motionless.
The CEO arrives in high spirits.
There’s nothing like the innocence of nature to align the moral compass, he says with ebullience, stretching his arms wide, taking in the spring air.
The Cellist doesn’t move from her crouch.
Said by Emerson, I believe—Emerson or Thoreau. Emerson or Thoreau or Whitman. Or Frost. Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman, Frost or Charles Kuralt, I forget.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Cellist v. Censor
The Cellist wakes to the low rumble of a diesel engine. She looks to the north and sees a tractor. It trundles along, plowing under the tall weeds of early spring. Inside, a Farmer wearing a plaid jacket and long-brimmed cap sits, face obscured.
It's a beautiful morning. Crisp air, the first in months not soured by the smell of human rot. Light blue sky overhead. The oak's branches birth light green buds. The forest in the distance takes the start of a dark, verdant hue. Daffodils rise from the base of the posts past the mass grave, demarcating the border between the grounds and the field.
The hideous shack is still hideous, but now stands sturdier. Gaps during late winter had been filled by boards or plastic or corrugated tin. If the Farmer has any issue with the shack and the motor by the shack, he doesn't show it. He plows around the home and the well, leaving ample space.
The Censor, who arrives a few hours after the Cellist wakes, is dressed for the season: a bright yellow sweater, brown slacks, a pink collared shirt, sports jacket. He greets the Cellist warmly. They soon fall into pleasant discussion.
I can't think of anything more rewarding, says the Censor, the creation of art that all can enjoy. And the music you perform as a cellist does just that.
The Cellist thanks him.
I love art without smut, he continues. Nothing in my opinion mars expression more than, say, an off-color joke or potty humor, or things that ordinary, decent people - Ohioans for example - would find morally offensive.
The Cellist admits that even if she wanted to perform a smutty piece on her cello, there's probably very little chance she could.
That's because the cello is, in essence, I think, a - ah, profoundly moral instrument.
The Cellist isn't sure whether to agree or disagree, so she smiles. The tractor rumbles by the north posts.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
It's a beautiful morning. Crisp air, the first in months not soured by the smell of human rot. Light blue sky overhead. The oak's branches birth light green buds. The forest in the distance takes the start of a dark, verdant hue. Daffodils rise from the base of the posts past the mass grave, demarcating the border between the grounds and the field.
The hideous shack is still hideous, but now stands sturdier. Gaps during late winter had been filled by boards or plastic or corrugated tin. If the Farmer has any issue with the shack and the motor by the shack, he doesn't show it. He plows around the home and the well, leaving ample space.
The Censor, who arrives a few hours after the Cellist wakes, is dressed for the season: a bright yellow sweater, brown slacks, a pink collared shirt, sports jacket. He greets the Cellist warmly. They soon fall into pleasant discussion.
I can't think of anything more rewarding, says the Censor, the creation of art that all can enjoy. And the music you perform as a cellist does just that.
The Cellist thanks him.
I love art without smut, he continues. Nothing in my opinion mars expression more than, say, an off-color joke or potty humor, or things that ordinary, decent people - Ohioans for example - would find morally offensive.
The Cellist admits that even if she wanted to perform a smutty piece on her cello, there's probably very little chance she could.
That's because the cello is, in essence, I think, a - ah, profoundly moral instrument.
The Cellist isn't sure whether to agree or disagree, so she smiles. The tractor rumbles by the north posts.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Cashier v. Cellist
It's a world of strife and change, of connection and classification. The Cashier, by no means of her own, has developed--through acceptance of a handful of parameters established by unseen institutions--a myopic vision of reality in which greater value is attributed to reality television than, say, the reality of her own mortality.
I can't make a call from up here, she says, shaking her cell phone. I've got no bars, y'all.
The caretakers heave the Carver's body into the pit.
How I gonna know who won Dance Dance Dance: Dance Party Dance-Off? Because you know I voted for Luaman.
The Cellist arrives.
You, says the Cashier, pointing. The Cellist looks behind her. You, says the Cashier. Who won Dance Dance Dance: Dance Party Dance-Off?
The Cellist informs her that Luaman won the contest.
The Cashier squeals with delight. Ooh, Brandi's gonna be so pissed, ya'll. She voted for Lo'train.
Oh, I think Lowanan would beat Lo'train any day, says the Cellist.
That's I what said, girl!
Thus a bond is formed between these women based almost entirely on the gyrations of several competing, meretricious personalities in an hermetically sealed, well-lit enclosure two thousand miles away.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
I can't make a call from up here, she says, shaking her cell phone. I've got no bars, y'all.
The caretakers heave the Carver's body into the pit.
How I gonna know who won Dance Dance Dance: Dance Party Dance-Off? Because you know I voted for Luaman.
The Cellist arrives.
You, says the Cashier, pointing. The Cellist looks behind her. You, says the Cashier. Who won Dance Dance Dance: Dance Party Dance-Off?
The Cellist informs her that Luaman won the contest.
The Cashier squeals with delight. Ooh, Brandi's gonna be so pissed, ya'll. She voted for Lo'train.
Oh, I think Lowanan would beat Lo'train any day, says the Cellist.
That's I what said, girl!
Thus a bond is formed between these women based almost entirely on the gyrations of several competing, meretricious personalities in an hermetically sealed, well-lit enclosure two thousand miles away.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Carver v. Cashier
If the Cartographer's goal was to create a true-to-scale map of Dayton, Ohio, the Carver's goal is to maintain as steady an existence as possible. An existence without undue worry or strife or anxiety.
He's not much of one for duels. Or settling labor disputes.
That's our ring, says Pepple.
The Carver, white chef's coat unbuttoned, looks around anxiously. I'm probably not the best person to talk to about this, he says.
You're the man, says Grubb, we wanna talk to. You're a duelist.
Yeah, but not by choice, says the Carver. I just got a job at the hotel over there and then I got this telegram that - well, here - look.
The Carver takes a telegram from his pocket and hands it to Grubb. Grubb looks at it, confused, abashed, then hands it off to Pepple. Pepple reads it aloud for Grubb:
PRESENCE MANDATORY TOMORROW STOP ADDRESS PROVIDED ON REVERSE STOP HONOR MUST BE SATISFIED END
Pepple hands the telegraph back to the Carver.
Listen here, says Pepple, it explicitly states in that contract that any and all possessions found on the body of the dead are ours to keep. And that ring was on the finger of that guy what got killed. Therefore by deductive logic I just proven that that ring belongs to us.
I don't know. I just don't know, says the Carver, fingering the ring. He'd taken it off right after the duel, per the Cartographer's instructions.
Grubb speaks up. I can get you a nice little plot huh?
Who says I'm going to die?
Pepple and Grubb look at each other. The both laugh.
Jesus, fine--just take the goddamn thing! says the Carver. He slams it down into Grubb's dirty outstretched hand. Pepple and Grubb sneer, and return to their hideous shack.
The Cashier arrives. She chews gum loudly. They greet each other.
You from the hotel up near the mine? she asks. The Carver does.
Yeah, my baby's daddy work in the boiler room. Name's Chester. You heard of him?
The Carver has not heard of a Chester.
They say it closed, but y'all know it ain't. They got high class people what go there.
It's true. I served the Vice President last week, says the Carver. He asked for a slice, extra rare.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
He's not much of one for duels. Or settling labor disputes.
That's our ring, says Pepple.
The Carver, white chef's coat unbuttoned, looks around anxiously. I'm probably not the best person to talk to about this, he says.
You're the man, says Grubb, we wanna talk to. You're a duelist.
Yeah, but not by choice, says the Carver. I just got a job at the hotel over there and then I got this telegram that - well, here - look.
The Carver takes a telegram from his pocket and hands it to Grubb. Grubb looks at it, confused, abashed, then hands it off to Pepple. Pepple reads it aloud for Grubb:
PRESENCE MANDATORY TOMORROW STOP ADDRESS PROVIDED ON REVERSE STOP HONOR MUST BE SATISFIED END
Pepple hands the telegraph back to the Carver.
Listen here, says Pepple, it explicitly states in that contract that any and all possessions found on the body of the dead are ours to keep. And that ring was on the finger of that guy what got killed. Therefore by deductive logic I just proven that that ring belongs to us.
I don't know. I just don't know, says the Carver, fingering the ring. He'd taken it off right after the duel, per the Cartographer's instructions.
Grubb speaks up. I can get you a nice little plot huh?
Who says I'm going to die?
Pepple and Grubb look at each other. The both laugh.
Jesus, fine--just take the goddamn thing! says the Carver. He slams it down into Grubb's dirty outstretched hand. Pepple and Grubb sneer, and return to their hideous shack.
The Cashier arrives. She chews gum loudly. They greet each other.
You from the hotel up near the mine? she asks. The Carver does.
Yeah, my baby's daddy work in the boiler room. Name's Chester. You heard of him?
The Carver has not heard of a Chester.
They say it closed, but y'all know it ain't. They got high class people what go there.
It's true. I served the Vice President last week, says the Carver. He asked for a slice, extra rare.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Cartographer v. Carver
Pepple wakes to a pistol aimed at his face. The Cartographer sits in the grass near where he and the fat man fell unconscious. Pepple slaps the fat man, and the fat man wakes.
I don’t know who either of you are, says the Cartographer, or what qualifies either of you for this occupation of yours—this exchange of goods for the service of disposing the dead—and I don’t care.
Pepple blinks.
You signed a contract with those that came previously. I’m neither in a position to call for or desirous of the termination of that contract, the cessation of your services. What I am desirous of is first, this ring that was owed to me by the diocese of this dueling ground as established by verbal mandate of a representative of the Holy See—
Still bleary-eyed, they see the Cardinal’s signet ring on the Cartographer’s ring finger, right hand. The hand that holds the pistol.
—and second, distance. Distance between our two parties, the duelists and the caretakers. I don’t want to speak to you, or hear you fighting, or see you nearby unless you’re performing the job my predecessors contracted.
The caretakers say nothing.
What are your names?
Pepple, says Pepple.
And yours?
Grubb, says Grubb.
The Cartographer stands and tells them to stand. They stand.
Now cart off the body on the field and leave, he says.
The Cartographer returns to the oak and the caretakers—Pepple trembling with resentment—clean the body, and return to their hideous shack to the north.
When the Carver arrives, the Cartographer stands studying the map he’s drawn on the table. I run a firm, he says eventually. But my goal is to create a to-scale map of Dayton, Ohio. A thing that's never been done.
The Carver, still wearing the white robe and tall white had he wore hours ago during the early shift at the nearby hotel, nods.
Ever since I've been young I've been thinking of ways to revitalize the profession of cartography, to usher in its second golden era.
Life-sized maps? asks the Carver.
Always been somewhat of a dreamer, admits the Cartographer.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
I don’t know who either of you are, says the Cartographer, or what qualifies either of you for this occupation of yours—this exchange of goods for the service of disposing the dead—and I don’t care.
Pepple blinks.
You signed a contract with those that came previously. I’m neither in a position to call for or desirous of the termination of that contract, the cessation of your services. What I am desirous of is first, this ring that was owed to me by the diocese of this dueling ground as established by verbal mandate of a representative of the Holy See—
Still bleary-eyed, they see the Cardinal’s signet ring on the Cartographer’s ring finger, right hand. The hand that holds the pistol.
—and second, distance. Distance between our two parties, the duelists and the caretakers. I don’t want to speak to you, or hear you fighting, or see you nearby unless you’re performing the job my predecessors contracted.
The caretakers say nothing.
What are your names?
Pepple, says Pepple.
And yours?
Grubb, says Grubb.
The Cartographer stands and tells them to stand. They stand.
Now cart off the body on the field and leave, he says.
The Cartographer returns to the oak and the caretakers—Pepple trembling with resentment—clean the body, and return to their hideous shack to the north.
When the Carver arrives, the Cartographer stands studying the map he’s drawn on the table. I run a firm, he says eventually. But my goal is to create a to-scale map of Dayton, Ohio. A thing that's never been done.
The Carver, still wearing the white robe and tall white had he wore hours ago during the early shift at the nearby hotel, nods.
Ever since I've been young I've been thinking of ways to revitalize the profession of cartography, to usher in its second golden era.
Life-sized maps? asks the Carver.
Always been somewhat of a dreamer, admits the Cartographer.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Cartographer v. Cartwright
Violence erupts over the Cardinal’s gold signet ring.
First violence within the shack: yelling, sounds of crashing, falling, objects thrown, trembling of the shack, shrieking of a woman.
Then violence outside the shack: Pepple and the fat man hit and wrestle across the dusty field, the fat man scratching Pepple’s clenched hands (within which: the signet ring), and Pepple biting the fat man’s fat hands with blackened teeth.
The fat man yells and releases Pepple.
A blunt weapon is found by the fat man. (An unearthed post.) This escalates the violence. The fat man flails the weapon madly. Pepple's hand clutches the ring. An advance is made on the part of the fat man, a retreat on the part of Pepple.
The Cartographer watches from dueling ground.
A blunt weapon is found by Pepple. (Uninterred femur, originally the Audiologist’s.) This escalates the violence.
Enter the Cartwright.
More violence between the fat man and Pepple. Pepple flags. The fat man swings. And Pepple falls.
A blunt weapon is found by the Cartographer. (Dueling pistol, gripped by the barrel.)
The fat man removes the ring from Pepple’s hand. Then rests, sits on the grass of the north field, next to Pepple's unconscious body. The fat man's chest heaves. Arrival of Cartographer, who stands behind fat man. The fat man turns.
The Cartographer removes the ring from fat man’s hand.
What just happened? asks the Cartwright, the Cartographer returning with pistol tucked in his belt, examining the craftsmanship of the signet ring.
The Cartographer explains. He was owed by the diocese.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
First violence within the shack: yelling, sounds of crashing, falling, objects thrown, trembling of the shack, shrieking of a woman.
Then violence outside the shack: Pepple and the fat man hit and wrestle across the dusty field, the fat man scratching Pepple’s clenched hands (within which: the signet ring), and Pepple biting the fat man’s fat hands with blackened teeth.
The fat man yells and releases Pepple.
A blunt weapon is found by the fat man. (An unearthed post.) This escalates the violence. The fat man flails the weapon madly. Pepple's hand clutches the ring. An advance is made on the part of the fat man, a retreat on the part of Pepple.
The Cartographer watches from dueling ground.
A blunt weapon is found by Pepple. (Uninterred femur, originally the Audiologist’s.) This escalates the violence.
Enter the Cartwright.
More violence between the fat man and Pepple. Pepple flags. The fat man swings. And Pepple falls.
A blunt weapon is found by the Cartographer. (Dueling pistol, gripped by the barrel.)
The fat man removes the ring from Pepple’s hand. Then rests, sits on the grass of the north field, next to Pepple's unconscious body. The fat man's chest heaves. Arrival of Cartographer, who stands behind fat man. The fat man turns.
The Cartographer swings. And the fat man falls.
The Cartographer removes the ring from fat man’s hand.
What just happened? asks the Cartwright, the Cartographer returning with pistol tucked in his belt, examining the craftsmanship of the signet ring.
The Cartographer explains. He was owed by the diocese.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Cartographer v. Cartoonist
Within five minutes of falling lifeless the Cardinal’s stripped of his scarlet vestments, his fillings, signet ring, and pectoral cross. His frail naked body, pearl white and bloodless, is dumped into the pit. Sprinkled with ash. Buried atop the others, covered with two inches of damp earth.
Carrying their haul back to the shack, the caretakers fight over the signet ring. They fight over it on the way, and outside the shack, and (presumably) inside the shack.
The Cartographer bides his time by drawing monsters in the unknown regions of the map he drew for the Cardinal.
Description of monsters drawn by the Cartographer, clockwise from north: serpent entwining large black tortoise; hairy smoke-breathing dragon; squid-like being with bat wings, fleshy claws; iron robot possessed by the ghost of Heinrich Himmler.
The Cartoonist arrives dressed in black. He greets the Cartographer with an impassive expression, a weak handshake.
The Cartographer shows him his map. The Cartoonists regards the map, and it pleases him. The Cartographer asks if he might have a monster to suggest to fit the gap in the unmarked region to the northwest. The Cartoonist does. He the pen and draws a penguin holding a gun.
The Cartographer asks what he’s drawn.
One of many thieving Italians, says the Cartoonist.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Carrying their haul back to the shack, the caretakers fight over the signet ring. They fight over it on the way, and outside the shack, and (presumably) inside the shack.
The Cartographer bides his time by drawing monsters in the unknown regions of the map he drew for the Cardinal.
Description of monsters drawn by the Cartographer, clockwise from north: serpent entwining large black tortoise; hairy smoke-breathing dragon; squid-like being with bat wings, fleshy claws; iron robot possessed by the ghost of Heinrich Himmler.
The Cartoonist arrives dressed in black. He greets the Cartographer with an impassive expression, a weak handshake.
The Cartographer shows him his map. The Cartoonists regards the map, and it pleases him. The Cartographer asks if he might have a monster to suggest to fit the gap in the unmarked region to the northwest. The Cartoonist does. He the pen and draws a penguin holding a gun.
The Cartographer asks what he’s drawn.
One of many thieving Italians, says the Cartoonist.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Cardinal v. Cartographer
The Cardinal thanks the Lord for what seemed to him a miraculous win against the Carpenter. (Overcome with the previous prayer on death, he'd clenched his jaw, arm extended, eyes squeezed tight while pulling the trigger.) Thus, since the miraculous win he can't stop turning his mind to the Book of Ezekiel, specifically --
Now let them put away their whoredom, preaches the Cardinal, and the carcasses of their kings, far from me, and I will dwell in the midst of them for ever.
Pepple and the fat man and the dog all stand, mouths open, half-asleep on their feet.
The Cardinal continues:
And if they be ashamed of all that they have done, shew them the form of the house, and the fashion thereof, and the goings out thereof, and the comings in thereof, and the forms thereof, and all the ordinances thereof, and all the forms thereof, and all the laws thereof -
Pepple groans.
- and write it in their sight, that they may keep the whole form thereof, and all the ordinances thereof -
The fat man walks off. Pepple follows.
- and do them.
The dog sits and nibbles its genitals.
The Cartographer arrives. He regards the Cardinal, who walks meditatively by the oak.
Of course I don't seriously think I'll be here for ever, the Cardinal tells the Cartographer, but there's must be a reason for these wins. I had a vision last night.
Short description of vision, as told by Cardinal: Within dream, mystic in nature, booming voice of Archangel Michael, display of 15th century statue of Virgin Mary to be set upon duel grounds, angry demand to found dioceses, church.
Short description of vision, aspects of vision left unmentioned by Cardinal: inappropriate lusting for above mentioned 15th century statue of Virgin Mary, flirtatious slap on face from Virgin when attempting to 'get fresh' with said statue, unplayful knock on head with butt of sword by Saint Michael after playful slap.
I believe very deeply, says the Cardinal, that I've been sent to nurture and lead this small flock of indigenous mountain people, and those that come to this place. Those, as I see it, who are in exile. I know now that this is my calling.
The Cartographer nods, listening politely.
As a cartographer, continues the Cardinal, your skills are invaluable to the Church in the delineation of this new diocese.
The Cartographer ponders. Finally, he offers an estimate.
I think you misunderstand. The Church needs representation, and delineation of territory. You would be doing a favor for the Church.
The Cartographer lowers his fee by 5%.
That's better, says the Cardinal.
The Cartographer goes to work. He paces off the territory, takes note of special topographical features, relevant areas, etc. Finally, after the accumulation of details, he draws the map to scale in pen on the top of the table under the oak.
The Cardinal regards the map, and it pleases him.
The Cartographer asks how the Cardinal would like to pay. The Cardinal asks him to bill the diocese.
Description of anger expressed on part of the Cartographer: significant yet muted.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Cardinal v. Carpenter
The two caretakers spread ash from the pyre atop the decomposing bodies in the pit. Then, with the mangy dog watching from a few feet off, begin shoveling dirt. The Cardinal, asleep in the grass by the tree, wakes in time to offer a blessing. He blesses the bodies of the passed duelists, bows his head, and asks for the caretakers to join him in prayer.
The Cardinal prays:
Nihil est in intellectu quod non sit prius in sensu, he says.
The caretakers look at each other. The thin man shrugs. The stand silently.
And yet what, the Cardinal says, prepares man’s intellect for the final meeting with our Lord? Can any sense pave the road for the intellect’s understanding?
The dog wanders off toward a spot along the northern fence.
Help us only to accept with very unthinking serenity that Moment, That at the time You appoint. Without undue panic, or terror, or shrieking, or weeping. Without wailing, or pleading, or bargaining. Without fainting at the first sign of It, or contorting one’s face into a maddened grimace with hands clutching air, or rending garments.
None of the senses, he concludes, founds a base upon which the intellect can stand, and survey past the towers of ignorance - to the nature of That Which Takes. And even though you have given us nothing to come close to figuring the face behind the cowl, at least, Lord, give us a bit of dignity at the end.
And so we say in Your name, Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen.
The fat man peers over to where the dog stands, sniffing intently.
Pepple, he says, you bury those two by the fence?
The thin man looks over.
The dog rips a hunk of hide from the Background Artist’s green-black midriff.
Pepple indicates that he may have forgotten.
The Cardinal waves his hand over the grave, making the sign of the cross. Without nodding to the others, he returns heavy-hearted to the oak. Full of introspection, full of regrets. What if I’d followed my passion and chosen a career as a Park Ranger? he wonders. What good was all the striving, the politicing for this red garment, this golden ring, this high station?
Thus the Cardinal falls into a profound funk.
Yet when the Carpenter arrives, the Cardinal plays his well-worn role to perfection, standing upright, smiling expectantly, aloof, stern, serene.
The Carpenter, not sure what to do, takes off his baseball cap and - slightly paniced - bows. Never would have expected to a man as yourself here, he says.
When will people realize that the Church is everywhere? wonders the Cardinal.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Cardinal v. Cardiologist
As the thin man drags off the body of the Car Designer - immediately dumping him into pit - the fat man stands by the Cardinal, mutely. The Cardinal nods. The fat man nods.
Don't you mind him, says the fat man, motioning toward the thin man. He's always reading sorts of books.
The Cardinal brings up something he noticed yesterday at the grave, specifically that in the heap of dirt that had been excavated, bones and partial skulls - obviously long buried - were intermingled with stone. He asks about this.
The fat man grunts. He speaks in some demotic hill language.
What?
Bones and more bones beneath our feet, between the roots of this tree, growls the fat man. And more beneath. We break 'em with the hammer to bits, and from bits the earth breaks 'em to ash, and from ash that's what grows the grass and crops.
The Cardinal looks down, and regards the grass beneath his feet.
The fat man wipes his nose roughly with the back of his hand. He nods and walks off.
The Cardiologist arrives. His hands are bloody. He holds them out and up.
I just got out of surgery, he says.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Don't you mind him, says the fat man, motioning toward the thin man. He's always reading sorts of books.
The Cardinal brings up something he noticed yesterday at the grave, specifically that in the heap of dirt that had been excavated, bones and partial skulls - obviously long buried - were intermingled with stone. He asks about this.
The fat man grunts. He speaks in some demotic hill language.
What?
Bones and more bones beneath our feet, between the roots of this tree, growls the fat man. And more beneath. We break 'em with the hammer to bits, and from bits the earth breaks 'em to ash, and from ash that's what grows the grass and crops.
The Cardinal looks down, and regards the grass beneath his feet.
The fat man wipes his nose roughly with the back of his hand. He nods and walks off.
The Cardiologist arrives. His hands are bloody. He holds them out and up.
I just got out of surgery, he says.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Cardinal v. Car Designer
Holding his nose, the Cardinal walks from the oak to where the caretakers throw the heap of dead into newly dug pit. He's followed close behind by the mangy dog. At the pit, the caretakers look up from their work and regard the Cardinal.
The Cardinal's dressed in black, the sash of office - the red fascia - tied squarely around his waist, pectoral cross hanging brightly. He looks down on the caretakers from nearby, surveys their work. The rumpled bodies, bones, tangled blood-stained clothes of previous duelists litter the bottom of the long six-foot mass grave. Along with half-burned flesh. All in various states of decomposition. A plump girl's naked body lies face down, her left leg sawed at the hip.
The thin man coughs. The Cardinal glances over. Question, says the thin man, eyes screwed on the Cardinal. The Cardinal nods.
Question is, says the thin man: why make belief in transubstantiation a mandate of the Church, especially when proof of the practice is based on an outmoded Aristotelian understanding of primary substance?
The dog sits and scratches his ear. The Cardinal explains. The thin man argues. The fat man grunts in contempt of the subject, turns and continues his work.
When the Car Designer arrives, the thin man is still arguing. The Cardinal shakes his head. We must remember, he says, the teachings of Ambrose of Milan when he writes: let us prove that this is not what nature made, but what the blessing consecrated.
Feh, says the thin man.
The Car Designer bows and kisses the Cardinal's signet ring. They make to depart.
So long, says the Cardinal. God be with you.
We'll see you soon enough, says the thin man. The fat man laughs. The caretakers both return to work and the Cardinal and Car Designer make toward the oak. The dog follows.
The Car Designer tells the Cardinal that he helped draft his company's design for the new popemobile. He describes it in detail, including his suggestion to make many non-security related features from wood, hemp, and recycled newspaper. His firm did not win the bid. It went to the Germans again, he says.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
The Cardinal's dressed in black, the sash of office - the red fascia - tied squarely around his waist, pectoral cross hanging brightly. He looks down on the caretakers from nearby, surveys their work. The rumpled bodies, bones, tangled blood-stained clothes of previous duelists litter the bottom of the long six-foot mass grave. Along with half-burned flesh. All in various states of decomposition. A plump girl's naked body lies face down, her left leg sawed at the hip.
The thin man coughs. The Cardinal glances over. Question, says the thin man, eyes screwed on the Cardinal. The Cardinal nods.
Question is, says the thin man: why make belief in transubstantiation a mandate of the Church, especially when proof of the practice is based on an outmoded Aristotelian understanding of primary substance?
The dog sits and scratches his ear. The Cardinal explains. The thin man argues. The fat man grunts in contempt of the subject, turns and continues his work.
When the Car Designer arrives, the thin man is still arguing. The Cardinal shakes his head. We must remember, he says, the teachings of Ambrose of Milan when he writes: let us prove that this is not what nature made, but what the blessing consecrated.
Feh, says the thin man.
The Car Designer bows and kisses the Cardinal's signet ring. They make to depart.
So long, says the Cardinal. God be with you.
We'll see you soon enough, says the thin man. The fat man laughs. The caretakers both return to work and the Cardinal and Car Designer make toward the oak. The dog follows.
The Car Designer tells the Cardinal that he helped draft his company's design for the new popemobile. He describes it in detail, including his suggestion to make many non-security related features from wood, hemp, and recycled newspaper. His firm did not win the bid. It went to the Germans again, he says.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Captain v. Cardinal
After waiting and seeing no one, the Captain begins cleaning. He rights the table. He wipes off the two revolvers. He picks up the carpet of scattered bullets and cleans them off one by one and, hands full of bullets, pours them all back into the table's small drawer. He closes the drawer.
Then he wipes off the contract (thumb print of dried blood on the bottom right corner). He wipes off the grossly maligned List of Dead ('Calligrapher' calligraphed neatly beneath Bhikkhuni). He straightens the cracked and drying bowl of blue clay. He puts all these on the table.
He regards the gore and small flecks of bone stuck to the trunk of the tree. This he cannot clean.
He waits.
The Cardinal arrives. Shortly after the arrival of the Cardinal, the two caretakers exit the hideous shack and walk across the field. The thin man resumes digging. The fat man begins snipping the wire between the posts of the northern fence, and in this way - after work of a day - removes the northern fence, save the posts.
The Cardinal regards the dead. His stance is grounded, sure. He looks to the Captain, and asks him to ask the caretakers for water. The Captain pauses. He regards the Cardinal. Then walks, four gold bands on each cuff swaying in 4-4 time, to the fat man by the fence.
Then the Cardinal prays thusly:
Have mercy on me, Lord, when it comes.
Shadow at morning striding behind me,
Or shadow at evening rising to meet me,
I feel it by me at all times.
And after the prayer a dog - a cur - limps from the forrest and walks to the Cardinal, and sits by the Cardinal. And the Cardinal regards the dog, and the dog regards the Cardinal.
The Captain returns without water. He says the fat man said, here is no water but only rock. Just rock and no water and the sandy road.
Poetic for a ditch-digger, says the Cardinal. The Captain agrees.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Then he wipes off the contract (thumb print of dried blood on the bottom right corner). He wipes off the grossly maligned List of Dead ('Calligrapher' calligraphed neatly beneath Bhikkhuni). He straightens the cracked and drying bowl of blue clay. He puts all these on the table.
He regards the gore and small flecks of bone stuck to the trunk of the tree. This he cannot clean.
He waits.
The Cardinal arrives. Shortly after the arrival of the Cardinal, the two caretakers exit the hideous shack and walk across the field. The thin man resumes digging. The fat man begins snipping the wire between the posts of the northern fence, and in this way - after work of a day - removes the northern fence, save the posts.
The Cardinal regards the dead. His stance is grounded, sure. He looks to the Captain, and asks him to ask the caretakers for water. The Captain pauses. He regards the Cardinal. Then walks, four gold bands on each cuff swaying in 4-4 time, to the fat man by the fence.
Then the Cardinal prays thusly:
Have mercy on me, Lord, when it comes.
Shadow at morning striding behind me,
Or shadow at evening rising to meet me,
I feel it by me at all times.
And after the prayer a dog - a cur - limps from the forrest and walks to the Cardinal, and sits by the Cardinal. And the Cardinal regards the dog, and the dog regards the Cardinal.
The Captain returns without water. He says the fat man said, here is no water but only rock. Just rock and no water and the sandy road.
Poetic for a ditch-digger, says the Cardinal. The Captain agrees.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Camp Counselor v. Captain
She fires five bullets. With the sixth she hits her brainpan.
The Captain arrives. He waits.
The Captain arrives. He waits.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Cameraman v. Camp Counselor
A young, plump girl with blond hair in braids walks from the woods. She sees the dead and the crows and the caretakers, and decides to walk to the Cameraman, who stands with his back to the oak.
The fat caretaker digs the grave - now waist deep - while the other sits nearby in the grass, cracking a short pile of exhumed objects into tiny bits with his shoddy hammer.
The Cameraman and Camp Counselor discuss. The Camp Counselor asks about the dead and the caretakers. The Cameraman explains. Then she describes the route she took to get from the camp to the grounds.
Pretty long distance to travel alone, he says.
I know, right? she replies.
Then she describes the camp:
It's called Camp Hadigonsa-Shono, and it's pretty much the best. We have canoeing, crafts, a lake, air rifles, Sleep-Under-the-Stars Night, a scavenger hunt, a water slide, and the Day Orb-Of-Light Thanksgiving. And every year, near the end of the year, the False Face Dance.
The latter explained by rote, thusly:
Many moons ago, the stealthy Ch'mekaleks celebrated the victory over the Mowhawks. They say this victory was aided by a long-nosed spirit - called Long Nose Spirit - whose face was broken by a falling mountain. He gave the Ch'mekaleks wisdom, luck, bravery, and then taught them to be good at basketmaking. Each year every camper's asked to dream up a scary mask, and the five best masks made in wood shop get picked by Chief Thunderer (Mr. Henderson) and they dance around the fire with clubs, shaking rattles of snapping turtle shell.
The Cameraman nods. She scratches her nose.
They say Long Nose Spirit kidnaps children, too, in exchange for giving Camp Hadigonsa-Shono all those intangible virtues, but I don't really believe in that, she adds.
The thin man slams his hammer down, smashing what looks very much like a dug-up human skull.
The Cameraman instructs her on the finer points of self-defense.
And keep the sixth bullet for yourself. Right in your mouth, like this. And remember to aim up, so you get the brain pan.
The Camp Counselor is shaken.
Don't worry, he says. I'll probably kill you in a second or two anyway.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
The fat caretaker digs the grave - now waist deep - while the other sits nearby in the grass, cracking a short pile of exhumed objects into tiny bits with his shoddy hammer.
The Cameraman and Camp Counselor discuss. The Camp Counselor asks about the dead and the caretakers. The Cameraman explains. Then she describes the route she took to get from the camp to the grounds.
Pretty long distance to travel alone, he says.
I know, right? she replies.
Then she describes the camp:
It's called Camp Hadigonsa-Shono, and it's pretty much the best. We have canoeing, crafts, a lake, air rifles, Sleep-Under-the-Stars Night, a scavenger hunt, a water slide, and the Day Orb-Of-Light Thanksgiving. And every year, near the end of the year, the False Face Dance.
The latter explained by rote, thusly:
Many moons ago, the stealthy Ch'mekaleks celebrated the victory over the Mowhawks. They say this victory was aided by a long-nosed spirit - called Long Nose Spirit - whose face was broken by a falling mountain. He gave the Ch'mekaleks wisdom, luck, bravery, and then taught them to be good at basketmaking. Each year every camper's asked to dream up a scary mask, and the five best masks made in wood shop get picked by Chief Thunderer (Mr. Henderson) and they dance around the fire with clubs, shaking rattles of snapping turtle shell.
The Cameraman nods. She scratches her nose.
They say Long Nose Spirit kidnaps children, too, in exchange for giving Camp Hadigonsa-Shono all those intangible virtues, but I don't really believe in that, she adds.
The thin man slams his hammer down, smashing what looks very much like a dug-up human skull.
The Cameraman instructs her on the finer points of self-defense.
And keep the sixth bullet for yourself. Right in your mouth, like this. And remember to aim up, so you get the brain pan.
The Camp Counselor is shaken.
Don't worry, he says. I'll probably kill you in a second or two anyway.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Call Girl v. Cameraman
—And that’s what the third assistant does.
—Gets stuff? Winds cord?
—There’s a special way to work it. It took me ten minutes to learn.
—What things do they get?
—I’m the center of action. I help block, handle the lenses, bring the lenses from the case. They can’t function without me. It’s why they pay me.
—Did you meet her?
—I meet everyone. I work with everyone.
—Did you meet her?
—I’ve met everyone.
—Even —
—Especially.
—her?
—Yes. Especially her. She was in front of me, always. She’s who I shot.
Description of revolver, the first:
Webley Mk. VI. Blackened gun steel, black. Small dents in barrel, locking mechanism.
—And that’s what the third assistant does.
—Gets stuff? Strokes cord?
—There’s a special way to work it. It took me ten minutes to learn.
—What things do they get?
—I’m the center of action. I help position, handle the zones, bring the zones to climax. They can’t function without me. It’s why they pay me.
—Did you meet him?
—I meet everyone. I work with everyone.
—Did you meet him?
—I’ve met everyone.
—Even —
—Especially.
—Him?
—Yes. Especially him. He was in front of me, always. He’s who I —.
Description of revolver, the second:
Webley Mk. VI. Blackened gun steel, black. Small dents in barrel, locking mechanism.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
—Gets stuff? Winds cord?
—There’s a special way to work it. It took me ten minutes to learn.
—What things do they get?
—I’m the center of action. I help block, handle the lenses, bring the lenses from the case. They can’t function without me. It’s why they pay me.
—Did you meet her?
—I meet everyone. I work with everyone.
—Did you meet her?
—I’ve met everyone.
—Even —
—Especially.
—her?
—Yes. Especially her. She was in front of me, always. She’s who I shot.
Description of revolver, the first:
Webley Mk. VI. Blackened gun steel, black. Small dents in barrel, locking mechanism.
—And that’s what the third assistant does.
—Gets stuff? Strokes cord?
—There’s a special way to work it. It took me ten minutes to learn.
—What things do they get?
—I’m the center of action. I help position, handle the zones, bring the zones to climax. They can’t function without me. It’s why they pay me.
—Did you meet him?
—I meet everyone. I work with everyone.
—Did you meet him?
—I’ve met everyone.
—Even —
—Especially.
—Him?
—Yes. Especially him. He was in front of me, always. He’s who I —.
Description of revolver, the second:
Webley Mk. VI. Blackened gun steel, black. Small dents in barrel, locking mechanism.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Calligrapher v. Call Girl
They walk, eyes flitting from the distance to her plain frame to the ground and back, crossing the space from the heap to the corpse of the Businessmen. She stands by the table beneath the oak. The thin man smiles. One holds the left leg and one the right and they drag the corpse in this fashion. The thin man looks back as he walks.
The men take the corpse to a place not seen well from the oak, behind the pyre, and process it.
Finished - the fat man now wearing the Businessman's grey suit jacket, the thin man in the Bookseller's plaid jacket - they walk to the imagined border that marks the line before the space between the dead and the oak, and watch her. They watch, and speak softly. Glancing and speaking, softly.
The Calligrapher pretends to ignore them. She pretends to read the contract.
They advance. They advance at first tentatively, watching her. Then boldly. She takes a half-step back, trodding on a gnarled root from the base of the oak. They advance, and the thin man smiles.
Twenty paces from the oak, the Calligrapher lays the contract on the table, and takes up one of the pistols. The two men stop. They stop, watching.
Is there anything I can help you with? she asks.
The two men watch her.
She swallows. She musters all the command her voice will carry, then speaks. She tells them to finish their work.
Nothing.
After a long pause, she cracks the top break and loads the pistol. Carefully, slowly. Six bullets in six chambers.
The men wait. Then, without expression, turn and walk back to the dead. The fat man takes up the shovel. The thin man back to the corpse of Businessman.
Finished, they leave the ground.
The Calligrapher tucks the other pistol in her pocket. When the Call Girl arrives, she sees the the Calligrapher sitting back to the oak, eyes never off the shack in the distance. They speak at length. The Calligrapher hands her the second pistol.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
The men take the corpse to a place not seen well from the oak, behind the pyre, and process it.
Finished - the fat man now wearing the Businessman's grey suit jacket, the thin man in the Bookseller's plaid jacket - they walk to the imagined border that marks the line before the space between the dead and the oak, and watch her. They watch, and speak softly. Glancing and speaking, softly.
The Calligrapher pretends to ignore them. She pretends to read the contract.
They advance. They advance at first tentatively, watching her. Then boldly. She takes a half-step back, trodding on a gnarled root from the base of the oak. They advance, and the thin man smiles.
Twenty paces from the oak, the Calligrapher lays the contract on the table, and takes up one of the pistols. The two men stop. They stop, watching.
Is there anything I can help you with? she asks.
The two men watch her.
She swallows. She musters all the command her voice will carry, then speaks. She tells them to finish their work.
Nothing.
After a long pause, she cracks the top break and loads the pistol. Carefully, slowly. Six bullets in six chambers.
The men wait. Then, without expression, turn and walk back to the dead. The fat man takes up the shovel. The thin man back to the corpse of Businessman.
Finished, they leave the ground.
The Calligrapher tucks the other pistol in her pocket. When the Call Girl arrives, she sees the the Calligrapher sitting back to the oak, eyes never off the shack in the distance. They speak at length. The Calligrapher hands her the second pistol.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Businessman v. Caligrapher
One digs and the other picks through the heap of dead, and regards things found within the heap of dead. Trading off, back and forth. So now one picks and the other digs. Or one digs and the other picks. Or - at times when neither work, but both sit at rest on the dull grass - neither pick nor dig. Which occurs in periods. At times in periods of longer frequency, at times in periods of shorter frequency; at times for hours, at times for seconds. And the five minute break between each period, whose breaks are indeterminate - dictated by caprice, or fatigue, or neither.
And their hands and clothes are made putrid. And they recoil at the smell of a flipped body. Recoil at the sight of the white squirming mound of maggots digging cavernous from inside, pushing up from the under the skin, budding from the under the skin of the arms and breast and face, that fall from the skin to the earth, that wriggle over the earth under next body, and next. But the strength of desire, the will to knowledge, the deep curiosity and wanting - here the Bishop's mitre (soiled, crushed), there the Ambassador's silver pen knife (caked with ash, dust) - overwhelms and subsumes, and so all is regarded, and in their bottomless inventory collected. And the recoiling lessens degree by infintesimal degree, so that by days end they recoil markedly less than at the start of the day. And less, going forward.
There exists space between the oak and the dead. And from that space the Businessman refrains, and from that space the hired refrain. Unless for airing of concerns on the part of the Businessman, or barking on the part of the Businessman, or threats made by the Businessman, or harassment from the Businessman, or spying on the part of the Businessman, wherein the Businessman will walk the space between the oak and dead, and walk close to the dead - but still at a distance from the dead - and air concerns, or bark, or threaten, or harass, or spy from that distance, upon the hired. The hired only enter the space when pulling a fresh body from the field of battle. And this space is known and kept, and the rules of passing over the space, and the rights to pass over the space are kept, yet kept unsaid. And both parties - both the party of the first part and the party of the second part - understand, intuitively, the necessity for this space, and in space is in this way keep. And they regard this space as good.
Especially the Businessman, who's gotten a bit freaked out with all this.
It's not my usual business, he tells the Caligrapher. She nods.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
And their hands and clothes are made putrid. And they recoil at the smell of a flipped body. Recoil at the sight of the white squirming mound of maggots digging cavernous from inside, pushing up from the under the skin, budding from the under the skin of the arms and breast and face, that fall from the skin to the earth, that wriggle over the earth under next body, and next. But the strength of desire, the will to knowledge, the deep curiosity and wanting - here the Bishop's mitre (soiled, crushed), there the Ambassador's silver pen knife (caked with ash, dust) - overwhelms and subsumes, and so all is regarded, and in their bottomless inventory collected. And the recoiling lessens degree by infintesimal degree, so that by days end they recoil markedly less than at the start of the day. And less, going forward.
There exists space between the oak and the dead. And from that space the Businessman refrains, and from that space the hired refrain. Unless for airing of concerns on the part of the Businessman, or barking on the part of the Businessman, or threats made by the Businessman, or harassment from the Businessman, or spying on the part of the Businessman, wherein the Businessman will walk the space between the oak and dead, and walk close to the dead - but still at a distance from the dead - and air concerns, or bark, or threaten, or harass, or spy from that distance, upon the hired. The hired only enter the space when pulling a fresh body from the field of battle. And this space is known and kept, and the rules of passing over the space, and the rights to pass over the space are kept, yet kept unsaid. And both parties - both the party of the first part and the party of the second part - understand, intuitively, the necessity for this space, and in space is in this way keep. And they regard this space as good.
Especially the Businessman, who's gotten a bit freaked out with all this.
It's not my usual business, he tells the Caligrapher. She nods.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Businessman v. Cabinet Maker
Throughout the night the Businessman watches across the grounds, past the fence, across the field, where light seeps from cracks in the hideous shack, and singing or chanting can be heard at times, then silence, with occasional shouting, and - near midnight - laughter.
That morning he wakes, surveys the pillaged pile of dead by the old pyre, and waits, frustrated. He waits by the north fence until mid-morning.
No one comes. Another hour. No one comes.
In anger - anger compounded by the shame of yesterday's profane indecency, more anger at waiting - he steps over the fence and marches across the weedy earth to the shack, the shack next to the motor, connected to the well.
He strikes his fist against the door. Again, and again. From inside the shuffling of feet. Then an reddened eye peeking from a slat. The lifting of a bolt. And the fat man stands before, unshaved and shirtless, the Bishop's blood- and mud-stained cassock draped carelessly over his meaty left shoulder.
The fat man grunts. The Businessman begins shouting. The fat man slams the door. The Businessman hits his hand against the door, shaking the shack. The fat man opens the door. Now dressed in the Bookseller's plaid jacket (several sizes too small), holding a rusted shovel. He pushes his way past the Businessman, slams the door behind him.
The Businessman yells as he walks beside the fat man. The fat man sidles the fence, walks a few paces - now just feet from the twisted, decomposing, maggot-infested bodies - and begins digging.
Do it out of plain sight, you understand me? shouts the Businessman. Or the contract's off!
The fat man continues digging.
When the Cabinet Maker arrives the Businessman stands dour, back to the oak, re-reading the contract.
The two men talk. The Businessman explains. The Cabinet Maker - a lanky, honest looking tradesman - is skeptical, but says nothing.
As they speak, the thin man steps from the shack and staggers still drunk over the field, over the fence to join the fat man. The fat man stops his work and talks. And the thin man talks. This at the time when the Businessman and Cabinet Maker talk. And in this way the two groups of two men mirror each other exactly - one thin, the other fat; one certain, the other skeptical - save for cleanliness and conversation.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
That morning he wakes, surveys the pillaged pile of dead by the old pyre, and waits, frustrated. He waits by the north fence until mid-morning.
No one comes. Another hour. No one comes.
In anger - anger compounded by the shame of yesterday's profane indecency, more anger at waiting - he steps over the fence and marches across the weedy earth to the shack, the shack next to the motor, connected to the well.
He strikes his fist against the door. Again, and again. From inside the shuffling of feet. Then an reddened eye peeking from a slat. The lifting of a bolt. And the fat man stands before, unshaved and shirtless, the Bishop's blood- and mud-stained cassock draped carelessly over his meaty left shoulder.
The fat man grunts. The Businessman begins shouting. The fat man slams the door. The Businessman hits his hand against the door, shaking the shack. The fat man opens the door. Now dressed in the Bookseller's plaid jacket (several sizes too small), holding a rusted shovel. He pushes his way past the Businessman, slams the door behind him.
The Businessman yells as he walks beside the fat man. The fat man sidles the fence, walks a few paces - now just feet from the twisted, decomposing, maggot-infested bodies - and begins digging.
Do it out of plain sight, you understand me? shouts the Businessman. Or the contract's off!
The fat man continues digging.
When the Cabinet Maker arrives the Businessman stands dour, back to the oak, re-reading the contract.
The two men talk. The Businessman explains. The Cabinet Maker - a lanky, honest looking tradesman - is skeptical, but says nothing.
As they speak, the thin man steps from the shack and staggers still drunk over the field, over the fence to join the fat man. The fat man stops his work and talks. And the thin man talks. This at the time when the Businessman and Cabinet Maker talk. And in this way the two groups of two men mirror each other exactly - one thin, the other fat; one certain, the other skeptical - save for cleanliness and conversation.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Businessman v. Cab Driver
When the thin man arrives for work - stepping to the ground from the northern fence carefully, almost skeptically - he slowly lopes, then squats on his haunches over the Broker. Within minutes he strips him of everything, even of things with little to no material value: house keys, a ball of crumpled receipts, dental floss.
After the search he fishes around his pocket, pulls out a greasy pen knife. The blade's spotted with rust. Prying open the Broker's mouth, he looks inside, then (using the Broker's chin as a fulcrum) pops out three gold fillings. He holds them in his hand, stirring, watching the shine. He looks up at the Businessman and smiles. A black and spotted smile. The Businessman walks off. The Broker pockets the fillings, stands, and begins stripping the body.
By the time the Cab Driver arrives the fat man and the haggard woman and the filthy boy all stand against the northern fence, watching with eager interest as the thin man pokes his way through the swollen corpses by the pyre.
What's going over there? asks the Cab Driver.
The Businessman explains. He explains that that man and his family are the new caretakers. He shows him the contract for their work. He explains their payment, and the service they render.
The Cab Driver asks when they'll be digging the mass grave. The Businessman nods. Soon, he says, soon.
Well, says the Cab Driver, they're not the only ones made a killing on the people what come up here.
Until today, the Cab Driver - a forgettable man wearing all denim - operated a profitable small business, shuttling the majority of the duelists up from the nearby town through the small backroads - all dirt and gravel - past the turn-off to the old hotel, to the dueling ground. (What anybody says they work at that hotel or stay there they don't, cause no one has since they closed it back twenty years, he adds.) He's left his taxi business to fight.
To fight you, he clarifies.
The Businessman holds his chin up, looking down on the Cab Driver. We'll see, he says.
The Cab Driver's about to respond when something captures his eye. He watches as the thin man, knee pressed against the chest of naked corpse, moves his arm in a sawing motion. With his back hiding the action, the Cab Driver can't make out the man's purpose. He asks the Businessman.
The Businessman looks, sweat on his forehead. He turns back, obviously unfomfortable, stepping casually to block the Cab Driver's view of the action.
What what? he says. Man's doing his job. Knows his work.
The two men chose their guns. They take the field, standing ten paces apart.
As the Cab Driver redies himself, he looks back to the thin man. And it's then - just at that moment - that the thin man stands, hands hidden, holding something beneath the front of his overalls. The two men - both shaken - turn from each other quickly: the thin man runs to his kin by the fence, the Cab Driver takes his stance. While by the pyre the body of Broker lies naked and pale, save for a red hole in his waist.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
After the search he fishes around his pocket, pulls out a greasy pen knife. The blade's spotted with rust. Prying open the Broker's mouth, he looks inside, then (using the Broker's chin as a fulcrum) pops out three gold fillings. He holds them in his hand, stirring, watching the shine. He looks up at the Businessman and smiles. A black and spotted smile. The Businessman walks off. The Broker pockets the fillings, stands, and begins stripping the body.
By the time the Cab Driver arrives the fat man and the haggard woman and the filthy boy all stand against the northern fence, watching with eager interest as the thin man pokes his way through the swollen corpses by the pyre.
What's going over there? asks the Cab Driver.
The Businessman explains. He explains that that man and his family are the new caretakers. He shows him the contract for their work. He explains their payment, and the service they render.
The Cab Driver asks when they'll be digging the mass grave. The Businessman nods. Soon, he says, soon.
Well, says the Cab Driver, they're not the only ones made a killing on the people what come up here.
Until today, the Cab Driver - a forgettable man wearing all denim - operated a profitable small business, shuttling the majority of the duelists up from the nearby town through the small backroads - all dirt and gravel - past the turn-off to the old hotel, to the dueling ground. (What anybody says they work at that hotel or stay there they don't, cause no one has since they closed it back twenty years, he adds.) He's left his taxi business to fight.
To fight you, he clarifies.
The Businessman holds his chin up, looking down on the Cab Driver. We'll see, he says.
The Cab Driver's about to respond when something captures his eye. He watches as the thin man, knee pressed against the chest of naked corpse, moves his arm in a sawing motion. With his back hiding the action, the Cab Driver can't make out the man's purpose. He asks the Businessman.
The Businessman looks, sweat on his forehead. He turns back, obviously unfomfortable, stepping casually to block the Cab Driver's view of the action.
What what? he says. Man's doing his job. Knows his work.
The two men chose their guns. They take the field, standing ten paces apart.
As the Cab Driver redies himself, he looks back to the thin man. And it's then - just at that moment - that the thin man stands, hands hidden, holding something beneath the front of his overalls. The two men - both shaken - turn from each other quickly: the thin man runs to his kin by the fence, the Cab Driver takes his stance. While by the pyre the body of Broker lies naked and pale, save for a red hole in his waist.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Broker v. Businessman
The Broker repeats the Bookseller's plan (as appropriated by the Broker), with this addendum:
It won't work the way it is now.
The Businessman tilts his head, opens his mouth, then closes it. He widens his stance, adjusts his belt. He's a tall, heavy-set man, a former college athlete. He wears his hair slicked and back, long in the back, and moves with quick jerks. Well just talk to me now--what's the real problem? he asks.
The Broker explains. The Businessman bobs his head. Okay, he says. So neither of us leaves. Other people can, right? So what about that guy?
The Businessman lifts his head, motioning north. In the field, hammering down a plank laid diagonal across the east wall of his shack, stands the thin hick. His free hand clutches a small nest of irregular nails.
The Businessman and Broker walk to the north fence. The Broker presses his fingers to his mouth and whistles sharply. Then again. And again. Finally, the hick stops and turns. They meet his ovine gaze, all dull and sullen, with open expression, smiles and nods. Many entreaties to come closer before the hick looks about, chews a bit, then flips his hammer--gripping it at the head--and walks toward them.
The hick's dressed in denim overalls. Beneath his overalls cling two layers of unwashed, sweat-stained undershirt. His boots, immense, seem a few sizes too large. More, as he nears they notice his that his head seems disproportionate, too narrow when seen laterally. As if during infancy it'd been swaddled between the claws of an industrial vise.
He nears, closer, then steps close, uncomfortably close, within a foot. Too close for either of the other two men, who step back.
That your home? asks the Businessman.
The thin hick squints. He looks back. Then looks both men over. Then, slowly, starts laughing.
The Broker looks at the Businessman. The Businessman at the Broker. Then both at the hick. The hick continues laughing. They laugh too for a bit, then smile, then (done smiling) wait for him to stop. He does, eventually. When he stops, the Businessman starts his pitch. The pitch follows the idea proposed by the Broker, thought up by the Bookseller, agreed to by the Business Owner, up to a point. After the pitch, the Broker asks what he thinks. The hick, who gave the impression he'd been watching the movements of the Businessman more than listening, faces the Broker with sudden and vicious distain. Then looks back at the Businessman. He smiles at the Businessman.
You remind me of my brother, he says to the Businessman. He turns back to the Broker. And you remind me of that little faggot that's gets on TV some days, he says.
The Broker starts toward the hick. The Businessman pushes the Broker back, his girth between the two men. He waives them off, waves the insult off. Then whispers to the Broker, telling him to walk back toward the oak. At first the Broker refuses, insisting that the idea was his, but after minute the Broker relents and leaves.
The Businessman and the hick hash the details of the deal. Then the Businessman takes out a napkin--a crumpled napkin from a fast food restaurant--and on that napkin, using a bent knee, he writes out the terms of their agreement. Both parties sign. A brief exchange of money is made (bills counted, handed to the hick). Then the Businessman folds the contract and pockets it, they shake hands, and go their separate ways: the Businessman returns to the oak, the hick to his shack.
At the oak, the Broker asks what happened.
Deal's done, says the Businessman. We've got sanitation.
How much?
The Businessman takes out the contract and tosses it on the table by the guns. For shit, says the Businessman. Half the cash that mafioso lamp store owner had in his pockets for deposit, plus a claim on anything they find on the bodies, along with a pound of flesh.
The Broker figures he misheard.
No, the guy wanted it. I objected, but he intimated it was going to be a deal breaker, so--what the hell? The guy wants a pound of flesh from every new corpse, let him have it.
The Broker quietly touches his side, looking north, where the thin hick stands holding his claw hammer, looking south. Watching them, he realizes: the Broker and Businessman. Intent now, in a way. Waiting.
The Broker blinks.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Broker v. Business Owner
The idea's flawless.
Men are hired from the depressed local workforce at a discount rate. Just a small crew to come out here with shovels, all that stuff, and dig a mass grave somewhere nearby. I’m talking a nice sized mass grave. Size of an indoor pool, say. And the best quality for the departed, God bless their souls. That’s where we dump them, all the pieces right down the side together. Easy, all at once, using spades, rakes, whatever. A real operation. We hire them to clean up the other bodies, too. The half-buried one by the creek, the one overrun by maggots over where the road bridges the creek. You get the point. All chucked in the pit. Done.
And going forward?
Easy. We bring back the best diggers, a skeleton crew—-no offense, pun not intended-—and these people act as caretakers. New body? This time an individual grave. Maybe even a marker. Or maybe we set up some kind of incinerator. Options are limitless.
The Business Owner considers this. He nibbles at the insides of his cheek. Finally, he asks who’ll pay. The Broker reaches out his hand, taps the Business Owner on the chest. As if to threaten, or make a point.
That’s the beauty of it, the Broker says. The beauty of all this is if play it right, talk to your Accountant, keep the receipts—you can write this off as a corporate donation.
To who?
I don’t know. Your priest, your parish church.
The Business Owner asks him why he doesn't put in his money.
How can I write anything off as a corporate donation if I’m not incorporated? asks the Broker.
The Business Owner considers. He sees the benefit of the idea, yet understands the idiocy of believing it an expense that can be written off. Still, he thinks, after seventeen years in the discount lamp business, it would be nice to give back to the community. So he agrees.
The Broker’s pleased. He claps the Business Owner on the shoulder. Now it’s just up to one of us to go into town and hire the workers to start their work, he says.
The two men stand.
Birds chirp in the distance.
Neither move.
They both suddenly realize the flaw in the plan.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Men are hired from the depressed local workforce at a discount rate. Just a small crew to come out here with shovels, all that stuff, and dig a mass grave somewhere nearby. I’m talking a nice sized mass grave. Size of an indoor pool, say. And the best quality for the departed, God bless their souls. That’s where we dump them, all the pieces right down the side together. Easy, all at once, using spades, rakes, whatever. A real operation. We hire them to clean up the other bodies, too. The half-buried one by the creek, the one overrun by maggots over where the road bridges the creek. You get the point. All chucked in the pit. Done.
And going forward?
Easy. We bring back the best diggers, a skeleton crew—-no offense, pun not intended-—and these people act as caretakers. New body? This time an individual grave. Maybe even a marker. Or maybe we set up some kind of incinerator. Options are limitless.
The Business Owner considers this. He nibbles at the insides of his cheek. Finally, he asks who’ll pay. The Broker reaches out his hand, taps the Business Owner on the chest. As if to threaten, or make a point.
That’s the beauty of it, the Broker says. The beauty of all this is if play it right, talk to your Accountant, keep the receipts—you can write this off as a corporate donation.
To who?
I don’t know. Your priest, your parish church.
The Business Owner asks him why he doesn't put in his money.
How can I write anything off as a corporate donation if I’m not incorporated? asks the Broker.
The Business Owner considers. He sees the benefit of the idea, yet understands the idiocy of believing it an expense that can be written off. Still, he thinks, after seventeen years in the discount lamp business, it would be nice to give back to the community. So he agrees.
The Broker’s pleased. He claps the Business Owner on the shoulder. Now it’s just up to one of us to go into town and hire the workers to start their work, he says.
The two men stand.
Birds chirp in the distance.
Neither move.
They both suddenly realize the flaw in the plan.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Bookseller v. Broker
There's a section of every used bookstore where books on death are kept. There, there's always at least one copy of Denial of Death. Some people (not many, but some) claim the ability to determine the quality of a bookstore based on the quality of that copy.
First they find the book. Then they remove the book. Then they touch the cover carefully, with the tips of their fingers. They turn the book in their hands, inspecting the spine, checking for dog-earred pages, water marks left by coffee cups. In this way they learn things about the store's proprietor.
They open the book. They smell the pages. They smell for age. Some copies are opened and the fresh cool smell of the press still lingers. Others are dank. Others still carry the unmistakable scent—the saccharine, musty scent—of stale cigarettes. In this way they learn things about the store's patrons.
Less often they throw the book. In this way they learn things about the store's security.
They say that from the careful study of a store's copy of Denial of Death comes a picture of the store that somehow transcends the store's immediate state; that it opens an understanding encompassing both its past and future, its coarsest limitations and most glorious possibilities; that it mirrors the store in the way the cosmos mirrors our world. If you know what you're looking for.
These connoisseurs exist outside the understanding of most booksellers.
Present company included.
The Bookseller carries a copy of Denial of Death that's old and torn and slightly water damaged and, in parts, highlighted. And underlined. It's a paperback. In its seventh printing. Dog-eared. And inscribed by (to?) an H. Paul Gatomachia, in childlike cursive. It smells sharp, marine, with a subtle hint of cellar mildew.
It's the book that was in the Bookseller's back pocket. It's the book that's presently being read.
Until the Broker comes and interrupts.
But the Bookseller's relieved. He's relieved because he'd discovered why the book's been sitting unread in his store, in the section on death, for the past seven years, untouched. The Bookseller, in all his limited wisdom (booksellers' wisdom), considers it a hideous, horrible, unreadable book. (But feels he'd recommend it, if asked.)
The Bookseller explains his idea to the Broker. An idea that he's formed over the past few days. He speaks softly but enthusiastically. The Broker listens. But the Broker isn't really listening. But he is, in a way. But not. But he seems like he is. In a way.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
First they find the book. Then they remove the book. Then they touch the cover carefully, with the tips of their fingers. They turn the book in their hands, inspecting the spine, checking for dog-earred pages, water marks left by coffee cups. In this way they learn things about the store's proprietor.
They open the book. They smell the pages. They smell for age. Some copies are opened and the fresh cool smell of the press still lingers. Others are dank. Others still carry the unmistakable scent—the saccharine, musty scent—of stale cigarettes. In this way they learn things about the store's patrons.
Less often they throw the book. In this way they learn things about the store's security.
They say that from the careful study of a store's copy of Denial of Death comes a picture of the store that somehow transcends the store's immediate state; that it opens an understanding encompassing both its past and future, its coarsest limitations and most glorious possibilities; that it mirrors the store in the way the cosmos mirrors our world. If you know what you're looking for.
These connoisseurs exist outside the understanding of most booksellers.
Present company included.
The Bookseller carries a copy of Denial of Death that's old and torn and slightly water damaged and, in parts, highlighted. And underlined. It's a paperback. In its seventh printing. Dog-eared. And inscribed by (to?) an H. Paul Gatomachia, in childlike cursive. It smells sharp, marine, with a subtle hint of cellar mildew.
It's the book that was in the Bookseller's back pocket. It's the book that's presently being read.
Until the Broker comes and interrupts.
But the Bookseller's relieved. He's relieved because he'd discovered why the book's been sitting unread in his store, in the section on death, for the past seven years, untouched. The Bookseller, in all his limited wisdom (booksellers' wisdom), considers it a hideous, horrible, unreadable book. (But feels he'd recommend it, if asked.)
The Bookseller explains his idea to the Broker. An idea that he's formed over the past few days. He speaks softly but enthusiastically. The Broker listens. But the Broker isn't really listening. But he is, in a way. But not. But he seems like he is. In a way.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Bookseller v. Botanist
Standing under the tree, having spent the last several hours planning for a major burial of the dead, the Bookseller turns to watch a small balding man runs from the forest, past the line where a eastern fence once stood but - do to all the post being torn out to feed the pyre - no longer stands, and up to the oak. He's sweating profusely. This is the Botanist.
The Botanist says a quick hello then takes the guns from the table and offers the Bookseller his choice.
What's the hurry?
Just choose.
The Bookseller asks why. The Botanist turns to face the forest, then turns back, then thrusts the guns forward, pressing into the Bookseller's gut. Let's go, he says. Hurry up!
The Bookseller, who'd expected time to discuss his overarching plan, is a bit put off. He decides not to chose.
Not until you tell me why you feel so rushed to duel.
Goddammit, says the Botanist. We're late! We're late for the duel!
The Bookseller looks down at his wrist. He taps the top of his digital watch. Sure enough, as the LCD display flickers grey on pale, he sees that time's nearly up. He hadn't noticed.
Where were you? asks the Bookseller.
I'm sorry - I just can't help field study when the opportunity for field study arises. Look, I picked some wild spearmint. The Botanist pulls one gun under his arm, and with his free hand pulls a mangled clump of spearmint from his jean pocket.
The Bookseller choses the gun under the Botanist's arm. The Botanist pockets the watercress. They quickly take to the field. Stand ten paces apart.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
The Botanist says a quick hello then takes the guns from the table and offers the Bookseller his choice.
What's the hurry?
Just choose.
The Bookseller asks why. The Botanist turns to face the forest, then turns back, then thrusts the guns forward, pressing into the Bookseller's gut. Let's go, he says. Hurry up!
The Bookseller, who'd expected time to discuss his overarching plan, is a bit put off. He decides not to chose.
Not until you tell me why you feel so rushed to duel.
Goddammit, says the Botanist. We're late! We're late for the duel!
The Bookseller looks down at his wrist. He taps the top of his digital watch. Sure enough, as the LCD display flickers grey on pale, he sees that time's nearly up. He hadn't noticed.
Where were you? asks the Bookseller.
I'm sorry - I just can't help field study when the opportunity for field study arises. Look, I picked some wild spearmint. The Botanist pulls one gun under his arm, and with his free hand pulls a mangled clump of spearmint from his jean pocket.
The Bookseller choses the gun under the Botanist's arm. The Botanist pockets the watercress. They quickly take to the field. Stand ten paces apart.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
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