The workmen work all day. What's left of the hideous shack are only those materials that could not be applied to the new: absurdly warped planks, rotted wood, rusted chicken wire, rusted metal sheets, and so on. An irregular rhomboid of dead grass outlines the spot where the old shack lay. In the middle of this unnatural clearing stands an incongruous two-foot red rock, once claimed by weeds encroached upon it from the well, but now bare and bright, casting a shadow in the noonday sun.
Nearby the workmen weatherproof the clapboard cabin with moss from the forest to the east.
As their work nears completion, the Constable arrives and, in no easy terms, requests housing. The workmen look to Pepple. Pepple twists his gaze. The Constable looks inside, through a doorway open to the west.
The cabin is ten feet long by ten feet wide, with an arched roof ten feet at its peak. The interior is clean and uncluttered. A single bed sits at one end, made with cloth stitched together from the best of those clothes belonging to previous duelists. Likewise, curtains for the three windows (north, east, and south) have been made from similar reclaimed cloth. A chair and desk sit facing south. The small franklin stove squats in the northeast corner, atop which lies a cast-iron pot. Beside the stove is a small table or cupboard stacked with unlabeled jars. Shelves line the cabin above the desk and above the bed, and the shelves are full with a variety of books, all old and many mouldering.
One workman - after a look from Pepple - pulls the Constable away.
The workmen are two. One is a Construction Worker and one is a Contractor. The Construction Worker is an apprentice to the Contractor. The Construction Worker pulls the Constable from the cabin. He pulls him hard. The Constable stumbles back, trips over a mound, and falls back with a thump on the hard, still-wet ground.
Oh buddy, coughs the Constable, staggering to his feat, that's right where you've gone wrong.
The Constable dusts off his uniform - navy blue shirt, open-collar, navy blue polyester slacks, flashlight, sans weapon - and lunges toward the Construction Worker. The two men scuffle. So close as to prove ineffective, half-punches are thrown, and poor wrestling moves. Finally the Contractor breaks up the fight. With both men apart, the Contractor asks them to reason out their differences. The Contractor, rebuffed and humiliated by the fall the Construction Worker caused him, doesn't listen. As the Contractor talks, he spits in the Construction Worker's eye.
The two have at it again.
Both are separated once more. Both men have a look of inconsolable hatred.
If I didn't have a duel to be at, says the Constable, I'd kill you.
And if I didn't have a duel to be at, says the Construction worker, I'd kill you.
Then they realize that, as luck would have it, the duel is theirs.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
Congressman v. Constable
The Congressman stands by the side of the pit, head hung in a show of mourning, as Pepple shovels dirt and dry bone over the body of the Con Artist. After the burial, the Congressman shakes Pepple's hand.
I hope you don't think less of me for killing this man, says the Congressman.
Pepple shakes his head. He wipes the sweat from his forehead. It's a warm, humid day. Storm clouds form in the west. To the north, the workmen throw a weathered plank roof atop a layer of corrugated tin. As Pepple turns to face the clouds, his face in profile, the strangest notion dawns on the Congressman: that he's seen this man before. The circumstance of Pepple's existence bars him from believing this, however. His constituency may be nearby, but at no rally or public meeting has he met a man as paradoxical: a man of ravaged attire, largely unwashed, stinking of sweat and work, hair and beard matted; yet with eyes dark and silent and keen, back upright, stance assured.
Pepple returns to supervise the building of the new cabin, which is coming along at fast and steady pace.
If only I could place him, thinks the Congressman.
As the Congressmen stands pondering by the freshly covered grave, a marmot shuffles through the grass up the oak. At the base of the oak he stops, stands, and looks. When the Congressman turns, he sees the marmot pointing his paw toward the South Pointing Marmot, who points its paw south. The marmot and the Congressman lock eyes. The marmot lowers his paw, blinks, and shuffles back to the bulrushes along the creek to the southeast.
It rains and thunders. The Congressman opens an umbrella left leaning against the oak, and stands beneath it. The bottoms of his khakis wet.
Then it stops raining.
Then the Constable arrives and the Congressman welcomes the Constable. The Constable voted against the Congressman, and he tells him this within minutes of their meeting.
Soft on evil-doers, says the Constable. That's the reason you lost my vote.
The Congressman asks him to explain. The Constable regurgitates the defense of death by drowning which he'd heard from a Pundit, a guest on a television program, whose book Death By Water was widely cited though never read, or very seldom read, and very certainly not read by the Constable, who restates the argument poorly.
That book was satirical, says the Congressman. I don't think anyone would advocate death by drowning for all criminals, petty or otherwise, or the rioters in the cities, or the strikers. Of course the Pundit doesn't mean that.
Of course he means it, and I mean it, too, the Constable says stiffly. Why write a book on it if you don't mean it?
Someone thought the starving Irish should eat their own babies. Do you think he meant that?
Now that's just crazy, says the Constable. (Though secretly he thinks it might not be a bad idea, given the circumstances.)
Suddenly it hits the Congressman. Stetson! he shouts.
Pepple turns.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
I hope you don't think less of me for killing this man, says the Congressman.
Pepple shakes his head. He wipes the sweat from his forehead. It's a warm, humid day. Storm clouds form in the west. To the north, the workmen throw a weathered plank roof atop a layer of corrugated tin. As Pepple turns to face the clouds, his face in profile, the strangest notion dawns on the Congressman: that he's seen this man before. The circumstance of Pepple's existence bars him from believing this, however. His constituency may be nearby, but at no rally or public meeting has he met a man as paradoxical: a man of ravaged attire, largely unwashed, stinking of sweat and work, hair and beard matted; yet with eyes dark and silent and keen, back upright, stance assured.
Pepple returns to supervise the building of the new cabin, which is coming along at fast and steady pace.
If only I could place him, thinks the Congressman.
As the Congressmen stands pondering by the freshly covered grave, a marmot shuffles through the grass up the oak. At the base of the oak he stops, stands, and looks. When the Congressman turns, he sees the marmot pointing his paw toward the South Pointing Marmot, who points its paw south. The marmot and the Congressman lock eyes. The marmot lowers his paw, blinks, and shuffles back to the bulrushes along the creek to the southeast.
It rains and thunders. The Congressman opens an umbrella left leaning against the oak, and stands beneath it. The bottoms of his khakis wet.
Then it stops raining.
Then the Constable arrives and the Congressman welcomes the Constable. The Constable voted against the Congressman, and he tells him this within minutes of their meeting.
Soft on evil-doers, says the Constable. That's the reason you lost my vote.
The Congressman asks him to explain. The Constable regurgitates the defense of death by drowning which he'd heard from a Pundit, a guest on a television program, whose book Death By Water was widely cited though never read, or very seldom read, and very certainly not read by the Constable, who restates the argument poorly.
That book was satirical, says the Congressman. I don't think anyone would advocate death by drowning for all criminals, petty or otherwise, or the rioters in the cities, or the strikers. Of course the Pundit doesn't mean that.
Of course he means it, and I mean it, too, the Constable says stiffly. Why write a book on it if you don't mean it?
Someone thought the starving Irish should eat their own babies. Do you think he meant that?
Now that's just crazy, says the Constable. (Though secretly he thinks it might not be a bad idea, given the circumstances.)
Suddenly it hits the Congressman. Stetson! he shouts.
Pepple turns.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Con Artist v. Congressman
Having felt the wake of a live bullet against his cheek, having heard the dull whine of the bullet pass his ear, the Con Artist begins to grow concerned over the matter of his mortality. He asks himself whether he's led a good life. It was as good as life as my character would allow, he concludes. To live off the means of a job one loves is noble and fortunate. If I can lure a man as smart as I into believing something he wouldn't otherwise believe, and benefit off his mistaken belief? Well, who wouldn't call that a talent? True, my talent runs against common morality. But think of the virtue shown in the face of this morality! I live well, I'm of pleasant demeanor - even to those that can't help me advance myself. Should I have cast my prowess aside just because, in the eyes of most, it fosters injustice? Does it foster injustice - or isn't there justice in the wittier man's gain? Not taken by force, mind you, but by guile! Is this wrong? Am I evil?
Am I evil? he asks Pepple.
Pepple drags the body of the Conductor (Symphony) to the crumbling pit of dry bone and skull, and throws him in, and piles the soil atop, until covered.
Am I evil? he asks the oak.
The oak waves its tall branches in the late spring breeze.
Am I evil? he asks the creek.
The creek burbles, water lapping in rhythmic pattern over the shore, the rocks, swirling in eddies, joining and rejoining.
Am I evil? he asks the road.
The road stretches forward and backward, connecting and reconnecting with a network of roads universal.
Am I evil? he asks the South Pointing Marmot.
The South Pointing Marmot points south.
Am I evil? he asks the shadowy marmot poking its head from tall rushes along the creek by the forest.
The marmot let's high-pitched whistle, then dashes away through the brush.
Am I evil? he asks the Congressman.
The Congressman uses his tie to wipe dust from the locking mechanism of the pistol he's chosen.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Con Artist v. Conductor (Symphony)
The workmen hammer away. Pepple sits in his adirondack chair, reading and smoking.
The Conductor (Symphony), or Conductor of Symphonies arrives.
This is a Dueling Clock, says the Con Artist.
Bull, says the Conductor of Symphonies.
Bull?
Bull.
The Con Artist scratches his chin. Bull, he repeats. Huh.
That's a non-magnetic compass, says the conductor. Shot by a bullet.
The Con Artist folds his arms.
Look at me, says the Conductor of Symphonies. Do you think this is my first duel? My second? My fifth? See my arm.
(He shows him his arm, scarred.)
I've been in nine duels, says the Conductor, from Pennsylvania to Prague, I've looked down the barrel of nine revolvers.
The Con Artist smiles. Well, he says happily, you can't expect a man not to try to get a bit of a leg up on the competition, can you?
The Conductor of Symphonies wipes his nose. He selects his pistol.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
The Conductor (Symphony), or Conductor of Symphonies arrives.
This is a Dueling Clock, says the Con Artist.
Bull, says the Conductor of Symphonies.
Bull?
Bull.
The Con Artist scratches his chin. Bull, he repeats. Huh.
That's a non-magnetic compass, says the conductor. Shot by a bullet.
The Con Artist folds his arms.
Look at me, says the Conductor of Symphonies. Do you think this is my first duel? My second? My fifth? See my arm.
(He shows him his arm, scarred.)
I've been in nine duels, says the Conductor, from Pennsylvania to Prague, I've looked down the barrel of nine revolvers.
The Con Artist smiles. Well, he says happily, you can't expect a man not to try to get a bit of a leg up on the competition, can you?
The Conductor of Symphonies wipes his nose. He selects his pistol.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Con Artist v. Conductor (Train)
The workman, assiduous in the construction of the new caretaker's cabin from the old, hideous shack, reach a point where a stranger - in this case, the Conductor (Train), or Conductor of Trains - wouldn't be able to tell whether they were
(Though, in fact, as the reader knows, the answer is a).)
Flashback to previous day, post-duel:
Directly after the bullet ricocheted off the cuttlefish-adorned facade of the brass panel of the Compasssmith's South Pointing Marmot, affixed to the Con Artist's chest for means of protection against bullets, two noises were heard.
Noise heard upon ricochet:
PING!
Second noise: death groan of Concierge:
Aauuaghhghhhhhhh.....
A bit later, in an attempt to replace the panel, the Con Artist finds that it doesn't snap back into place as it did so easily the previous day. Instead, because of the large dent in the cuttlefish's head, one side of the panel sticks out noticeably.
Return to the moment of the entry of the Conductor of Trains:
What in hot hell is this? the Conductor of Trains asks. He looks down at the South Pointing Marmot.
The Con Artist plays amazement. You haven't heard of the Dueling Clock? he cries.
The Conductor of Trains mumbles.
Oh, says the Con Artist, surely you have. No self-respecting, high-class duelist would ever duel without one.
The Dueling Clock?
The Dueling Clock!
The Conductor of Train nods slightly. Hm, yes, he murmurs, I think I have read about this....
Of course you've read about it, reassures the Con Artist. It's the device that ended the fashion of seconds. Why have seconds - why have a judge - when you have the Dueling Clock? When the bell rings once, the marmot turns, and when the marmot turns twice - a bell at each twelve - on the second twelve - pop! Both pistols off.
The Dueling Clock.
The Dueling Clock!
Huh, says the Conductor of Trains. I never thought it'd be this small, I suppose.
Small but priceless. Even if it is slightly damaged.
The Conductor of Trains looks at the hole in the side. He shakes his head in pity. Well, he says, I suppose it's bound to happen every so often.
You've got that right, smiles the Con Artist. He waves his hands over the pistols. Shall we? he asks.
They raise their guns. The Conductor (Trains) keeps his eyes welded to the Dueling Clock. A gun goes off.
a) building a contained, orderly cabin from the planks of an open, malformed shack,
b) building a ramshackle, malformed shack from the planks of a contained, orderly cabin, or
c) building two structures - one contained and orderly, the other ramshackle and malformed - to stand side-by-side.
(Though, in fact, as the reader knows, the answer is a).)
Flashback to previous day, post-duel:
Directly after the bullet ricocheted off the cuttlefish-adorned facade of the brass panel of the Compasssmith's South Pointing Marmot, affixed to the Con Artist's chest for means of protection against bullets, two noises were heard.
Noise heard upon ricochet:
PING!
Second noise: death groan of Concierge:
Aauuaghhghhhhhhh.....
A bit later, in an attempt to replace the panel, the Con Artist finds that it doesn't snap back into place as it did so easily the previous day. Instead, because of the large dent in the cuttlefish's head, one side of the panel sticks out noticeably.
Return to the moment of the entry of the Conductor of Trains:
What in hot hell is this? the Conductor of Trains asks. He looks down at the South Pointing Marmot.
The Con Artist plays amazement. You haven't heard of the Dueling Clock? he cries.
The Conductor of Trains mumbles.
Oh, says the Con Artist, surely you have. No self-respecting, high-class duelist would ever duel without one.
The Dueling Clock?
The Dueling Clock!
The Conductor of Train nods slightly. Hm, yes, he murmurs, I think I have read about this....
Of course you've read about it, reassures the Con Artist. It's the device that ended the fashion of seconds. Why have seconds - why have a judge - when you have the Dueling Clock? When the bell rings once, the marmot turns, and when the marmot turns twice - a bell at each twelve - on the second twelve - pop! Both pistols off.
The Dueling Clock.
The Dueling Clock!
Huh, says the Conductor of Trains. I never thought it'd be this small, I suppose.
Small but priceless. Even if it is slightly damaged.
The Conductor of Trains looks at the hole in the side. He shakes his head in pity. Well, he says, I suppose it's bound to happen every so often.
You've got that right, smiles the Con Artist. He waves his hands over the pistols. Shall we? he asks.
They raise their guns. The Conductor (Trains) keeps his eyes welded to the Dueling Clock. A gun goes off.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Con Artist v. Concierge
You seem like a pretty shrewd guy, says the Con Artist, his hand resting on the Compasssmaker’s South Pointing Marmot. How much do you think we could get for this? Pepple shrugs. He grabs the Compasssmith’s corpse under its arms and drags it off to the grave up north.
When he walks back the Con Artist, using a pen knife, pops open the thick south panel of the box beneath the bronze marmot. The two men look inside. They see a labyrinth of gears, locked together in seemingly chaotic fashion, but somehow combined, serving purpose—and alive. Any motion, even the natural tremor of the Con Artist’s hands, causes the gears to flutter and breathe. From deep within they hear (just behind the drone of crickets) the hum of tiny gyroscopes. A swift motion causes a flurry of spinning and wheeling. And yet, apart from the hum of the gyroscopes, the gears make no sound. The Con Artist replaces the panel. It locks into place.
Listen, says the Con Artist, I read that contract up there. I know that while this might not be mine, it sure isn’t yours. But we both know how it could be yours.
Pepple doesn’t take his eyes off the marmot. The Con Artist rubs his nose.
You want it, the Con Artist says, don’t you?
Pepple does want it. He frowns.
Tell you what, he smiles, how about we cut a small deal wherein you help me, and I help you bring home this little jewel? Easy as cake.
Pepple frowns.
Just be a matter of making my way out of here. Getting someone to take my place. Or maybe just walking, I don’t know. I heard what the Compasssmith said, how many duels he fought, and who fought before him. So let’s just cut the shit and start dealing.
Pepple considers.
From the edge of the forest, not far, the two men hear a high-pitched whistle. They turn. Nothing.
Pepple look the Con Artist in the eye. He walks off.
Gone, the Con Artist pops out the solid-brass south panel of the box and inserts it inside his shirt, over his heart.
The Concierge arrives, fresh and well-groomed. He approaches the oak, slicks his hair to the right, gently smoothes his waistcoat, and extends his hand to the Con Artist. Very little time passes before he, with a slight Toulousian accent, informs the Con Artist of a murderer who has, since last week, been on the loose.
I saw him, sir, with these very two eyes, from the upper window of a local hotel, says the Concierge. A tall man, provincial, with a beard, together with a tiny little fat man—like the character of Sancho Panza, but with a face of a goat. The tall man shot another man in white, and—before anything else, I called the police.
The Con Artist tells him he was wise to do so.
The Chief of Police picked up the phone. He told me, Sir, right away will I investigate. Perhaps he has made the arrest already.
Perhaps, says the Con Artist. But the two of us have a duel to attend.
As the Concierge takes the field, the Con Artist turns and lightly adjust the brass panel beneath his shirt.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Compasssmith v. Con Artist
The Compasssmith walks across the field and watches the workmen. They seem to disappear within their work as the Compasssmith approaches, either behind quickly erected walls or within rust-spotted toolboxes. In this way, by happenstance, their faces are continuously kept from view.
Pepple sits in his adorondack chair, smoking and reading. Though the Compasssmith's presence is obvious, neither he nor the workmen acknowledge it. They continue working, and reading. Finally, after several minutes of silence, the Compasssmith asks the title of Pepple's book.
Pepple's silent for a moment as he finishes the paragraph, then gently inserts a slender yarrow stick between the pages, closes the book, and turns to the Compasssmith. The Approach to Al-Mu'tasim, he says plainly.
Overview of The Approach to Al-Mu'tasim and its creation, by Allen B. Ruch:
Written by a lawyer from Bombay, this is an unusual novel that combines Islamic mysticism and allegory with a strange sort of detective story. Originally a cheaply published book in Bombay, the popularity of the work brought almost immediate fame to its author. In essence, it is the story of a law student in Bombay who surprisingly commits a murder, and is subsequently drawn into the lower strata of Indian society. There he becomes obsessed with finding a "perfect man," Al-Mu'tasim, by analyzing the imprint he leaves in others. This book -- the original version -- is extremely rare, and has never been reprinted beyond the original 4,000 copies.
So a who-dunnit, then, nods the Compasssmith.
Pepple gives a perfunctory smile. He returns to the book.
The Compasssmith rocks on the soles of his feet, hands in his pockets. He watches the workers work. He feels the cool breeze against his back. Then, though feeling awful over the deaths he's caused and wanting nothing more than to talk - not of the deaths, but of anything but the deaths, to take his mind from the guilt - he makes to leave. I'm taking off to wait by the oak, he tells everyone. No one responds. He returns to the oak.
That's the point, buddy, says the Con Artist later, at the oak. - that's the point. If you want something in life, you've got to either take it or make it. Now this thing here - this beautiful piece of machinery - I think the others were leading you wrong. This has gotta be original. Did you ever read about anything like this?
The Compasssmith admits he hasn't.
Neither have I, says the Con Artist. And my friend let me tell you right upfront: I'm a very well-read man. If I haven't read it, chances are it's new.
The Con Artists looks again at the South Pointing Marmot.
Pfft, he laughs. Just look at it. Brilliant!
The Compasssmith isn't quiet convinced, but he's certainly flattered.
You know the only way to know for sure? asks the Con Artist. You've got to ask that weird caretaker. You said he's a big reader, too, right? Maybe he has an encyclopedia in that shack, who knows?
The Compasssmith regards the idea. He thinks its pretty good one. So the Con Artist tells him to march over to the cabin and ask Pepple.
I think I will, says the Compasssmith.
Great! says the Con Artist.
When the Compasssmith is gone, the Con Artist puts six blank shell casings in one pistol. The Compasssmith returns. He seems resigned.
He said that the idea's been around since the Yellow Emperor Huang Di.
And he showed you that in writing, asks the Con Artist.
Encyclopedia Brittanica Eleventh Edition.
Well, says the Con Artist, handing him the pistol loaded with blanks, I hope you have better luck in the duel.
They raise their guns, one gun goes off.
Pepple sits in his adorondack chair, smoking and reading. Though the Compasssmith's presence is obvious, neither he nor the workmen acknowledge it. They continue working, and reading. Finally, after several minutes of silence, the Compasssmith asks the title of Pepple's book.
Pepple's silent for a moment as he finishes the paragraph, then gently inserts a slender yarrow stick between the pages, closes the book, and turns to the Compasssmith. The Approach to Al-Mu'tasim, he says plainly.
Overview of The Approach to Al-Mu'tasim and its creation, by Allen B. Ruch:
Written by a lawyer from Bombay, this is an unusual novel that combines Islamic mysticism and allegory with a strange sort of detective story. Originally a cheaply published book in Bombay, the popularity of the work brought almost immediate fame to its author. In essence, it is the story of a law student in Bombay who surprisingly commits a murder, and is subsequently drawn into the lower strata of Indian society. There he becomes obsessed with finding a "perfect man," Al-Mu'tasim, by analyzing the imprint he leaves in others. This book -- the original version -- is extremely rare, and has never been reprinted beyond the original 4,000 copies.
So a who-dunnit, then, nods the Compasssmith.
Pepple gives a perfunctory smile. He returns to the book.
The Compasssmith rocks on the soles of his feet, hands in his pockets. He watches the workers work. He feels the cool breeze against his back. Then, though feeling awful over the deaths he's caused and wanting nothing more than to talk - not of the deaths, but of anything but the deaths, to take his mind from the guilt - he makes to leave. I'm taking off to wait by the oak, he tells everyone. No one responds. He returns to the oak.
That's the point, buddy, says the Con Artist later, at the oak. - that's the point. If you want something in life, you've got to either take it or make it. Now this thing here - this beautiful piece of machinery - I think the others were leading you wrong. This has gotta be original. Did you ever read about anything like this?
The Compasssmith admits he hasn't.
Neither have I, says the Con Artist. And my friend let me tell you right upfront: I'm a very well-read man. If I haven't read it, chances are it's new.
The Con Artists looks again at the South Pointing Marmot.
Pfft, he laughs. Just look at it. Brilliant!
The Compasssmith isn't quiet convinced, but he's certainly flattered.
You know the only way to know for sure? asks the Con Artist. You've got to ask that weird caretaker. You said he's a big reader, too, right? Maybe he has an encyclopedia in that shack, who knows?
The Compasssmith regards the idea. He thinks its pretty good one. So the Con Artist tells him to march over to the cabin and ask Pepple.
I think I will, says the Compasssmith.
Great! says the Con Artist.
When the Compasssmith is gone, the Con Artist puts six blank shell casings in one pistol. The Compasssmith returns. He seems resigned.
He said that the idea's been around since the Yellow Emperor Huang Di.
And he showed you that in writing, asks the Con Artist.
Encyclopedia Brittanica Eleventh Edition.
Well, says the Con Artist, handing him the pistol loaded with blanks, I hope you have better luck in the duel.
They raise their guns, one gun goes off.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Compasssmith v. Computer Programmer
The Compasssmith wakes to hammering. He looks north. Across the field he sees two men at work on the caretakers' hideous shack. The two men are dressed in overalls. They wear tool belts. Pepple sits in a low adirondack chair nearby, reading. The morning is crisp and clear and bright.
Their work is the plank-by-plank creation of a new shack using all the materials of the previous shack.
Whereas the old shack was of a redundant, asymetrical, hideous nature, the new shack already has signs of being less a shack than a hut or cabin thanks to precise lays, a raised foundation, and the economic use of supplies; it seems smaller, better.
The field around them is light green with rows of budding corn. In the far distance the Farmer drives his tractor, tilling the corn against weeds.
Altogether, it's a fine bucolic scene.
The Computer Programmer is shy even by the standards of computer programmers. She's dressed in drab clothes, in a plain sweatshirt, and an unflattering ankle-length flower print skirt that makes her already narrow hips seem infinitely narrow, nearly one-dimensional. It seems less a skirt, in other words, than a tube of fabric pinched atop between invisible thumb and forefinger, and from out of the bottom the nervous shuffle of sneakers. She wears her hair over her face.
Each question the Compasssmith poses is met with the same answer.
CS: Did it take you long to get here?
CP: I don't know.
CS: Is the city still shut down, and the towns?
CP: I - I don't know.
CS: Were there more deaths? More riots?
CP: I just don't know.
So they stand. They wait. Finally, that evening, when the workers leave, and
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Their work is the plank-by-plank creation of a new shack using all the materials of the previous shack.
Whereas the old shack was of a redundant, asymetrical, hideous nature, the new shack already has signs of being less a shack than a hut or cabin thanks to precise lays, a raised foundation, and the economic use of supplies; it seems smaller, better.
The field around them is light green with rows of budding corn. In the far distance the Farmer drives his tractor, tilling the corn against weeds.
Altogether, it's a fine bucolic scene.
The Computer Programmer is shy even by the standards of computer programmers. She's dressed in drab clothes, in a plain sweatshirt, and an unflattering ankle-length flower print skirt that makes her already narrow hips seem infinitely narrow, nearly one-dimensional. It seems less a skirt, in other words, than a tube of fabric pinched atop between invisible thumb and forefinger, and from out of the bottom the nervous shuffle of sneakers. She wears her hair over her face.
Each question the Compasssmith poses is met with the same answer.
CS: Did it take you long to get here?
CP: I don't know.
CS: Is the city still shut down, and the towns?
CP: I - I don't know.
CS: Were there more deaths? More riots?
CP: I just don't know.
So they stand. They wait. Finally, that evening, when the workers leave, and
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Compasssmith v. Composer
The body of the College President is stripped of jewelry, of which there is a good amount. The Compasssmith watches. He asks whether her possessions will be returned to her family. Pepple takes a long drag from the cigarette dangling from his mouth and blows smoke through his nose.
By contract, he says, it's mine.
This causes consternation on the part of the Compasssmith. He feels he should have left his South Pointing Marmot back at his workshop.
Why does every compasssmith have the exact same fear? asks Pepple, fingering through the College President's purse. Always fear that the world will suddenly demagnetize, putting them out of work.
It seemed like a reasonable fear at the time, admits the Compasssmith.
Pepple takes out a folded set of bills from her purse. He pockets the money.
If it's not on you when you fall, he clarifies, it's not subject to my immediate possession.
The Compasssmith nods.
When the composer arrives, he wakes the Compasssmith, who lies sleeping in the shadow of his machine. The Compasssmith starts.
Shh, hisses the Composer. Listen.
The Compasssmith listens. He doesn't hear anything particular.
The crickets. An atonal loop, the Composer whispers.
The two men listen to the crickets - which, admittedly, the Compasssmith hadn't heard previous to the Composer's command - for several minutes. One tone, one pitch - though with flickers of intensity, as some crickets ended their call, and others began.
Gentle Terpsichore - eternal, ubiquitous, the Composer sighs, his eyes shut.
Several yards a way a small finch alights, skewers several crickets, shakes them down its throat, then cocks its head - and flies away.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
By contract, he says, it's mine.
This causes consternation on the part of the Compasssmith. He feels he should have left his South Pointing Marmot back at his workshop.
Why does every compasssmith have the exact same fear? asks Pepple, fingering through the College President's purse. Always fear that the world will suddenly demagnetize, putting them out of work.
It seemed like a reasonable fear at the time, admits the Compasssmith.
Pepple takes out a folded set of bills from her purse. He pockets the money.
If it's not on you when you fall, he clarifies, it's not subject to my immediate possession.
The Compasssmith nods.
When the composer arrives, he wakes the Compasssmith, who lies sleeping in the shadow of his machine. The Compasssmith starts.
Shh, hisses the Composer. Listen.
The Compasssmith listens. He doesn't hear anything particular.
The crickets. An atonal loop, the Composer whispers.
The two men listen to the crickets - which, admittedly, the Compasssmith hadn't heard previous to the Composer's command - for several minutes. One tone, one pitch - though with flickers of intensity, as some crickets ended their call, and others began.
Gentle Terpsichore - eternal, ubiquitous, the Composer sighs, his eyes shut.
Several yards a way a small finch alights, skewers several crickets, shakes them down its throat, then cocks its head - and flies away.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
College President v. Compasssmith
The College President volunteers to bury the Comedian. He had said thing to her just before the duel, whispered under his breath, that were - even from the mouth of a comedian - exceptionally disturbing and sexist.Then, at the end, he stopped to thank me for instituting a college initiative to encourage the cultivation free-range, organic chicken, she says, shoveling dirt over the Comedian's bloodless face. What a terrible person, she murmurs. Pepple smokes.
Pepple leaves and the Compasssmith arrives. He arrives carrying a small contraption. It's a box upon which sits the bronze statue of a large rodent. Though the contraption changes direction, the statue corrects itself, always reclaiming its previous position.
This is my invention, says the Compasssmith: a non-magnetic compass. Whichever way you turn it, he demonstrates, the marmot always points its paw south.
The College President examines the invention. It includes highly detailed, hand-worked brass friezes along the sides of the square base. To the north is carved a tortoise standing on the back of a snake, to the east a laughing dragon, to the south a stylized cuttlefish, to the west the depiction of men at work in a steel foundry, apropos of the Detroit murals by Diego Rivera.
Exceptional craftsmanship, she notes.
It came to me in a flash one day. I suddenly thought: where would I be if, for some reason, the earth became demagnetized. I'd be out of a job. This threw me into a deep depression. I couldn't sleep for days. Finally, in a dream, I realized that with the right combination of gears and a pre-established south, you don't need magnetism at all. The next day I started on the project. Thirty years, hundreds of thousands of dollars, and three wives later, here I am: proud inventor of The South Pointing Marmot.
It's impressive, but I don't think you're the first to invent this, she says.
Oh, I am, he says sincerely. Don't let the charm of its simplicity throw you in doubt: however useless now, I'm the first human in history with this idea.
The College President sighs. The Compasssmith fidgets. But - then who? he asks.
The College President explains.
The Compasssmith is, to say the least, crestfallen.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
College President v. Comedian
The Comedian's a bald, gaunt-faced, bearded scarecrow of a man, dressed in a black jacket, black pants, black shoes, and small round sunglasses. He smokes continuously, and whines for over two hours on a myriad of topics.
The Comedian's opinions, a selection of topics elucidating:
Abortion. I believe that life begins when the child can shuffle and deal a deck of cards. That's where I draw the line. Terminate the child before he or she can deal a deck of cards and it's a lawful abortion; after and it's murder.
Life. Life is one big minefield and the only place that isn't a minefield is the place they make the mines.
War. I'm against the use of military force except as a first resort.
Violence on Television. I believe that there is nowhere near enough violence on television. For example, there's nothing wrong with the Montel Williams Show that Ed Gein and a Troy-Bilt Chipper-Vac couldn't fix. Observe how a single burst from a flamethrower adds viewer interest to this dreary commercial:
"Gee, I used to think that all denture gels were the same. That's before I discovered new--FWOOOSH! "OH MY GOD I'M ON FIRE OH JESUS HELP ME OH CHRIST AAAAAGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!"
The College president suspects plagiarism.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
The Comedian's opinions, a selection of topics elucidating:
Abortion. I believe that life begins when the child can shuffle and deal a deck of cards. That's where I draw the line. Terminate the child before he or she can deal a deck of cards and it's a lawful abortion; after and it's murder.
Life. Life is one big minefield and the only place that isn't a minefield is the place they make the mines.
War. I'm against the use of military force except as a first resort.
Violence on Television. I believe that there is nowhere near enough violence on television. For example, there's nothing wrong with the Montel Williams Show that Ed Gein and a Troy-Bilt Chipper-Vac couldn't fix. Observe how a single burst from a flamethrower adds viewer interest to this dreary commercial:
"Gee, I used to think that all denture gels were the same. That's before I discovered new--FWOOOSH! "OH MY GOD I'M ON FIRE OH JESUS HELP ME OH CHRIST AAAAAGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!"
The College president suspects plagiarism.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
College President v. Columnist
After dispatching the Coach, the College President lights a cigarette. She offers one to Pepple. He accepts, and they stand smoking together for awhile before the College President clears her throat.
You haven't shot anyone recently, have you? she asks.
Pepple exhales. He frowns. The smoke in silence for awhile longer.
I'm looking forward to hiring help, he says finally. And renovating my home.
She wishes him good luck. He thanks her for the cigarette. He drags off the body of the Coach, removes his wedding ring, his gold watch, and buries him.
The College President recognizes the Columnist. She introduces herself. The Columnists asks if the college's heard any word from the Chancellor.
No, answers the College President, but no one's surprised by the disappearance. We take a new one once every three years.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
You haven't shot anyone recently, have you? she asks.
Pepple exhales. He frowns. The smoke in silence for awhile longer.
I'm looking forward to hiring help, he says finally. And renovating my home.
She wishes him good luck. He thanks her for the cigarette. He drags off the body of the Coach, removes his wedding ring, his gold watch, and buries him.
The College President recognizes the Columnist. She introduces herself. The Columnists asks if the college's heard any word from the Chancellor.
No, answers the College President, but no one's surprised by the disappearance. We take a new one once every three years.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Coach v. College President
If the Coach had any hope of finding a partner with whom to ally and, together, intimidate Pepple, his hope is dashed at the sight of the College President. She floats onto the field wearing a powder blue pant suit, chin high. She places him immediately.
Don't tell me, she says. Men's esoteric bat-and-ball coach.
This is true.
Esoteric bat-and-ball sports the Coach coaches, alphabetically: Brännboll, Blind Cricket, Catchy Shubby, Gilli-Danda, Kilikiti, Lapta, Oina, Old Cat, Pesäpallo, Rounders.
You also gave that gave that charmingly anachronistic lecture on the causal link between the spread of cricket and the defeat of tribal barbarism.
Also true.
Yet whereas the faculty, all gathered for supper and an evening of light talks on sport, had taken the Coach's lecture as a witty, straight-faced parody, it was delivered by the Coach with all sincerity. It was, he believed, the crowning work of his life, a work which he secretly believed might lead to a minor teaching position. For it to have ended with cheers and bellowing laughter was, suffice it so say, a bit of a let down.
He tells her about the hotel. The shot. The death. He tells all, stopping short of his plan to confront the caretaker. She listens. When done, she nods.
And the hotel - it's nearby? she asks. He points to the west. They look, but the view's blocked by the line of poplars along the dirt road that runs the west border.
If everything you say is true - and there's no reason for me to doubt your witness to the overtly symbolic death of a clown by a shabby groundskeeper - I'd first suggest we confront the groundskeeper in question, armed.
What joy! The Coach rushes to tell her that this was his plan, too - yet felt odd mentioning it, somehow. But now --
Well, she qualifies, just because I proposed the solution doesn't mean we should act on it. The first instinct's always the most irrational. However necessary, as they often lead to the second. The second usually being much more rational, and in the end better for all parties involved. Even more so the third. What we need now, she concludes, is to dialogue.
They dialogue for several hours.
In the end the College President resolves to draft a letter of inquiry to the National Hotel Board. The Coach, for reasons he can't explain, agrees that this is the best solution.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Don't tell me, she says. Men's esoteric bat-and-ball coach.
This is true.
Esoteric bat-and-ball sports the Coach coaches, alphabetically: Brännboll, Blind Cricket, Catchy Shubby, Gilli-Danda, Kilikiti, Lapta, Oina, Old Cat, Pesäpallo, Rounders.
You also gave that gave that charmingly anachronistic lecture on the causal link between the spread of cricket and the defeat of tribal barbarism.
Also true.
Yet whereas the faculty, all gathered for supper and an evening of light talks on sport, had taken the Coach's lecture as a witty, straight-faced parody, it was delivered by the Coach with all sincerity. It was, he believed, the crowning work of his life, a work which he secretly believed might lead to a minor teaching position. For it to have ended with cheers and bellowing laughter was, suffice it so say, a bit of a let down.
He tells her about the hotel. The shot. The death. He tells all, stopping short of his plan to confront the caretaker. She listens. When done, she nods.
And the hotel - it's nearby? she asks. He points to the west. They look, but the view's blocked by the line of poplars along the dirt road that runs the west border.
If everything you say is true - and there's no reason for me to doubt your witness to the overtly symbolic death of a clown by a shabby groundskeeper - I'd first suggest we confront the groundskeeper in question, armed.
What joy! The Coach rushes to tell her that this was his plan, too - yet felt odd mentioning it, somehow. But now --
Well, she qualifies, just because I proposed the solution doesn't mean we should act on it. The first instinct's always the most irrational. However necessary, as they often lead to the second. The second usually being much more rational, and in the end better for all parties involved. Even more so the third. What we need now, she concludes, is to dialogue.
They dialogue for several hours.
In the end the College President resolves to draft a letter of inquiry to the National Hotel Board. The Coach, for reasons he can't explain, agrees that this is the best solution.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Coach v. Cobbler
With time to collect his thoughts and play back the events that led to the death of the Clown, the Coach grows more baffled. He doesn't sleep that night, but thinks back to the garden, the puff of white gardenia, the long and difficult task of dragging the Clown's body back to the grounds, and - most baffling of all - the caretaker's unexpected celebrity among the hotel's female guests.
It strikes the Coach suddenly - very early in the morning - that the Clown's death was unnecessary. That there was never an attempt to bring the him back to the dueling ground by reason, or force. There only a shot, a puff of white gardenia, and instant death.
There are unspoken rules to any duel, obviously, but what severe punishment!
And it wasn't as if the Clown had lied, either; he had been expected. The Coach stood over Pepple as he methodically searched every pocket of the Clown's white linen suit. He saw him take a fine ivory envelope from an inside pocket, open the envelope, and expose a simple, handwritten invitation. The letterhead wasn't in print; instead it showed a detailed engraving of the hotel's unmistakable facade. The text of the invitation - done in twisting and self-meeting calligraphic script - was too stylized to read quickly; Pepple returned it to its envelope almost immediately, then tucked it into the torn front pocket of his plaid shirt.
The Coach wishes he'd spoken then. He hadn't, not knowing what to say to a man who, an hour before, had shot a clown dead. He thinks he may now. He thinks on this until daybreak. Twice he makes to the hideous shack to the north. Twice he returns to the oak. Soon it's midmorning. Soon the Cobbler arrives.
The Cobbler's a pudgy little man. He wears a corduroy frock-coat, and over his lip a push broom mustache. A life of service has touched his voice with constant tremor, his gestures with obsequious delicacy. He arrives and introduces himself.
The Coach had expected someone more intimidating. What did he expect to do, he asks himself, looking over at the hideous shack. That another man and I might confront the caretaker? Demand an explanation?
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
It strikes the Coach suddenly - very early in the morning - that the Clown's death was unnecessary. That there was never an attempt to bring the him back to the dueling ground by reason, or force. There only a shot, a puff of white gardenia, and instant death.
There are unspoken rules to any duel, obviously, but what severe punishment!
And it wasn't as if the Clown had lied, either; he had been expected. The Coach stood over Pepple as he methodically searched every pocket of the Clown's white linen suit. He saw him take a fine ivory envelope from an inside pocket, open the envelope, and expose a simple, handwritten invitation. The letterhead wasn't in print; instead it showed a detailed engraving of the hotel's unmistakable facade. The text of the invitation - done in twisting and self-meeting calligraphic script - was too stylized to read quickly; Pepple returned it to its envelope almost immediately, then tucked it into the torn front pocket of his plaid shirt.
The Coach wishes he'd spoken then. He hadn't, not knowing what to say to a man who, an hour before, had shot a clown dead. He thinks he may now. He thinks on this until daybreak. Twice he makes to the hideous shack to the north. Twice he returns to the oak. Soon it's midmorning. Soon the Cobbler arrives.
The Cobbler's a pudgy little man. He wears a corduroy frock-coat, and over his lip a push broom mustache. A life of service has touched his voice with constant tremor, his gestures with obsequious delicacy. He arrives and introduces himself.
The Coach had expected someone more intimidating. What did he expect to do, he asks himself, looking over at the hideous shack. That another man and I might confront the caretaker? Demand an explanation?
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Clown v. Coach
Immediately after the duel, the Clown tosses aside his huge bouquet of flowers. He runs for the creek to the west. There he kneels down and checks his reflection to see whether he's dead. He kneels there, looking at his reflection, for over an hour. After confirming that he is, in fact, not dead, the Clown falls asleep. He wakes late the next morning and, after stripping naked and bathing in the frigid water, sets out west.
The Coach arrives just as the Clown is leaving. In passing, the Clown offers a vacant, simple smile. The Coach stops and follows. He asks the Clown whether he's come to the right place, showing him the invitation to the duel. The Clown takes the telegraph and regards it uncomprehendingly, flipping it over and over. All questions asked of the Clown come to nothing or nonsense - except the last. The Coach asks whether the Clown is a duelist.
Oh yes! says the Clown, but I think I've grown tired of it and so I'm moving up and onward.
Up and onward where? asks the Coach - still following the Clown, now hiking rocky former pastureland, making for a small river, and beyond the river, a hill.
I have an invitation at the hotel, the Clown replies happily. He bounds ahead, leaving the Coach stranded, without a partner to duel.
Yet not minutes after the Coach loses sight of the Clown - just after he nimbly crosses a long narrow trunk over the mountain river and strolls into the scrub against the valley climb - after a few minutes of bewildered rest, the Coach hears footsteps. From behind a bush appears Pepple, carrying a ancient, well-polished rifle with telescopic sight. He regards the Coach, nods, and moves past. The Coach watches, and follows. They two men cross the fallen trunk across the river (the Coach nearly falling into the water), and begin hiking up the hill. The foliage harsh, the earth craggy. Yet Pepple moves quickly, and the Coach behind him. Finally they reach a point where the trees - all pines mostly - are dense, and a manicured path appears. They take the path upward through the pines. The path twists. Pepple walks faster and the Coach nearly jogs (he's a shorter man, thick and a bit out of shape) just to keep up.
Finally, the pines open. The two men find themselves at the bottom of an elaborate, terraced garden. Topiary animals (dogs, elephants, horses, lions) and topiary creatures (mythical, legendary, fictional, historic) line a highly refined, arabesque pattern of pathways, up tiled stairs, around gentle fountains, under flowering trees, all leading inexorably higher - to the tremendous, white columned, neoclassical hotel looming above.
At first the garden seems empty until the Clown steps from behind a potted gardenia bush, his arms full of flowers. If he sees Pepple and the Coach he doesn't register them. He continues picking, making his way up toward the hotel. From high, the Coach spots a few guests - all dressed in black tie - looking down intently upon the Clown, but silently.
Pepple takes a stance and raises the rifle, steadying his arm against a nearby pine. He aims at the Clown. Takes a deep breath. As the Clown raises his hand to wave at the hotel guests, Pepple squeezes the trigger. The Clown crumples, gardenias bursting in a shower of ivory. The Coach gasps, his knees buckle. The guests look with curious delight, searching for whence the shot was fired. A pretty young woman in a spring dress spots Pepple. She quietly gets the attention of others and points. They watch as Pepple walks into the garden, followed by the horrified Coach, to carry off the body of the Clown.
The Coach, seeing the women above look at Pepple - filthy, lanky, bearded Pepple - with adoration, the men with solemnity, is thrown into tremendous confusion. As the guests whisper approvingly (he hears the whispers as he works to help Pepple drag off the corpse, even from so far away) it's all unintelligible, and they leave.
They carry the Clown's heavy body down the valley, across the river, across the road, and to the grave. Pepple buries the body as the Coach, resting against the oak, watches Pepple.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Clockmaker v. Clown
The Clockmaker explains the Clerk's peculiar problem to the Clown. The Clown seems less interested in the Clerk's problem than his own. Having collected a massive bouquet of wild flowers on the long walk from the town, sneezing more and more the closer he reached the field, he has no place to put them after death.Suppose you live, says the Clockmaker.
Then I can hold them, answers the Clown, sniffling. But if I die, he says after loud sneeze, they'll all fall with me and scatter and wilt.
The Clockmaker sees no use in explaining that the Clown's flowers will wilt regardless. Even if he did, it would be between a series of ever-narrowing periods of silence before sneezes. They both arm themselves and take to the field. The clown holds his flowers in one hand, pistol in the other. He sneezes.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Clerk v. Clockmaker
Whereas before the Clerk was obsessed with the similarities between the situation he finds himself in and the short piece he wrote several months prior, his obsession now shifts to the differences.
He's shocked to think, for example, that the situation continues beyond the outline of the situation he sketched. That's to say, that a world exists which perpetuates a repetition of the single pattern he drew. He learned from the Civil Servant that there was a duel that lead to their duel, and a duel before that, and so on, to a point beyond the memory of anyone involved in the chain of duels. From this he was able to extrapolate (being a quick witted man) a universe of duels, and from this universe of duels envision a single duel between a banker and a bank robber. One that may have mirrored his imagined duel exactly. And this unsettles him.
But what unsettles him most is the action by which his duel was resolved: by coin toss.
And the question: is that method of resolution similar or different in the duel I inhabit?
He asks the Clockmaker. The Clockmaker, a Deist in spirit, suggests the Clerk free himself from little worries and find comfort in the mechanics of a system that imitates the universe:
If we start at twelve, states the Clockmaker, we next hit one. And then at one, two. And from two, three. Eventually we rejoin twelve. Yet from within this twelve lies the division of twelve into sixty parts. We proceed along the sixty at a faster pace, and the full count of sixty is equal to one of the twelve. Beneath the sixty lie a further and faster sixty that compose one sixtieth of the sixty. And beneath this further, faster sixty a set of one hundred, which the French call one thing and we call another.
No offense intended, but how on earth could anyone find comfort in that? asks the Clerk.
As if nothing had been any more obvious, the Clockmaker answers: It repeats.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Civil Servant v. Clerk
The Civil Servant tries in vain to understand. The Clerk repeats:
I wrote all this. Well, not all this exactly, but I wrote something a lot like this while I was at work. That's what I'm trying to say. It's like what I wrote is coming to life. It wasn't you and me. Instead it was two other people, a Banker and a Bank Robber.
The Civil Servant purses his lips sympathetically. He doesn't understand. The Clerk sees that he doesn't understand. He repeats:
The same basic entry: two people meet, they talk for awhile, and then they duel.
The Civil Servant asks the Clerk if he works as a Copywriter. The Clerk replies in the negative. I'm a clerk, and I write at work, he says.
Memos?
And plays. Sometimes short stuff.
So you're a Writer, a Playwright.
I work as a clerk.
You write memos.
I write memos and plays.
At work?
I don't really do much work at work.
You work at home?
No, at the office. I write in the office, at work, when I should be working.
Why not write at home?
I have a wife and dog.
And you wrote this?
Right. At work.
I don't understand.
It isn't that the Civil Servant's stupid; we all peer into the world of others and ask,
How is this?
Yet it is!
And it's a blessing that we can't understand.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
I wrote all this. Well, not all this exactly, but I wrote something a lot like this while I was at work. That's what I'm trying to say. It's like what I wrote is coming to life. It wasn't you and me. Instead it was two other people, a Banker and a Bank Robber.
The Civil Servant purses his lips sympathetically. He doesn't understand. The Clerk sees that he doesn't understand. He repeats:
The same basic entry: two people meet, they talk for awhile, and then they duel.
The Civil Servant asks the Clerk if he works as a Copywriter. The Clerk replies in the negative. I'm a clerk, and I write at work, he says.
Memos?
And plays. Sometimes short stuff.
So you're a Writer, a Playwright.
I work as a clerk.
You write memos.
I write memos and plays.
At work?
I don't really do much work at work.
You work at home?
No, at the office. I write in the office, at work, when I should be working.
Why not write at home?
I have a wife and dog.
And you wrote this?
Right. At work.
I don't understand.
It isn't that the Civil Servant's stupid; we all peer into the world of others and ask,
How is this?
Yet it is!
And it's a blessing that we can't understand.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Civil Servant v. Clarinetist
Growling stomach. Stroll stroll stroll. Pass mass grave. Stroll stroll stroll. Stroll through field. Stroll stop. Admire flower. Stroll stroll stroll. Knock on Pepple's door. Rap rap rap. Wait wait - What? asks Pepple.
Expression of hunger. Query regarding inventory, comestible variety thereof. Promise of remuneration implicit.
Vague & noncommittal response.
Promise of remuneration explicit.
Pause.
Pause pause pause. Thinking.
Close door. Wait wait wait. Open door. Biscuit. Hard tack. Hard tack?
Definition:
hardtack |ˈhärdˌtak|
noun
hard dry bread or biscuit, esp. as rations for sailors.
Thinly displeased appreciation given in exchange for hard tack. Also, seventeen dollars. Awkward post-exchange discourse. Excuse from Pepple. Muffled goodbyes. Close door.
Stroll stroll stroll. Nibble nibble nibble. Stroll stroll stroll. Pass mass grave. Stroll stroll nibble. Nibble stroll stroll. Stroll nibble nibble. Arrival at oak.
Thirst after consumption.
Arrival of Clarinetist. Awkward pre-duel discourse. Pre-duel preparations.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Expression of hunger. Query regarding inventory, comestible variety thereof. Promise of remuneration implicit.
Vague & noncommittal response.
Promise of remuneration explicit.
Pause.
Pause pause pause. Thinking.
Close door. Wait wait wait. Open door. Biscuit. Hard tack. Hard tack?
Definition:
hardtack |ˈhärdˌtak|
noun
hard dry bread or biscuit, esp. as rations for sailors.
Thinly displeased appreciation given in exchange for hard tack. Also, seventeen dollars. Awkward post-exchange discourse. Excuse from Pepple. Muffled goodbyes. Close door.
Stroll stroll stroll. Nibble nibble nibble. Stroll stroll stroll. Pass mass grave. Stroll stroll nibble. Nibble stroll stroll. Stroll nibble nibble. Arrival at oak.
Thirst after consumption.
Arrival of Clarinetist. Awkward pre-duel discourse. Pre-duel preparations.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Civil Servant v. Civil Engineer
The Civil Servant's one of those rare people in whom everyone confides. Whether it's his girth (ample), his disposition (sanguine), or his smile (wide, simple, disarming), he's built a small world - rising the tortuous path upward through the ranks of municipal bureaucracy - largely on this gift alone. Certainly not on his capacity for hard work (negligible).
Pepple confides while shoving soil atop the Circuit Preacher. His sister left him last night, taking her sickly boy, headed east into the forest. They left, and - Pepple says with unwavering certainty - won't return. The Civil Servant suggests that he leave and search the forest, but Pepple doesn't respond. He continues shoveling.
The Civil Engineer and the Civil Servant know each other. When they greet, they greet as comrades: a nod, a hand shake.
Whereas the incompetent Civil Servant rose the ranks on his charm, the truly adept Civil Servant swirls trapped in an eddy of missed promotions and rebuffed advances because of he favors blueprints, the feel of cold steel girders over politics and people.
They are enemies, these two. Because the Civil Engineer resents the Civil Servant's advancement in light of his idiocy, and the Civil Servant is loathe to anyone who would hold his incapacitates against him in light of his natural charisma.
When they prepare for duel, unlike many others that came before, they do so in silence and with purpose. Theirs isn't a duel carried out as duty, but a duel in love of dueling. And for this, their duel is - when seen from afar - a beautiful matching.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Pepple confides while shoving soil atop the Circuit Preacher. His sister left him last night, taking her sickly boy, headed east into the forest. They left, and - Pepple says with unwavering certainty - won't return. The Civil Servant suggests that he leave and search the forest, but Pepple doesn't respond. He continues shoveling.
The Civil Engineer and the Civil Servant know each other. When they greet, they greet as comrades: a nod, a hand shake.
Whereas the incompetent Civil Servant rose the ranks on his charm, the truly adept Civil Servant swirls trapped in an eddy of missed promotions and rebuffed advances because of he favors blueprints, the feel of cold steel girders over politics and people.
They are enemies, these two. Because the Civil Engineer resents the Civil Servant's advancement in light of his idiocy, and the Civil Servant is loathe to anyone who would hold his incapacitates against him in light of his natural charisma.
When they prepare for duel, unlike many others that came before, they do so in silence and with purpose. Theirs isn't a duel carried out as duty, but a duel in love of dueling. And for this, their duel is - when seen from afar - a beautiful matching.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Circuit Preacher v. Civil Servant
That night the Circuit Preacher has a dream. It's in some ways similar to the Cardinal's Dream. In other ways it's different.
Points of similarity: the dueling grounds, the oak, the forest, the hideous shack.
Points of difference: in that there is no coquettish statue of the Virgin, no Archangel Michael, no booming directive.
The Circuit Preacher's Dream:
The Circuit Preacher stands. He stands quiet. The night wind sweeps across the forest. Clouds sweep across the sky. The moon darkens, and all goes black. Then the clouds sweep past and the moon brightens. It's then that he first notices Pepple, who stands in sharp silhouette by the north border, unmoving.
Suddenly the earth shakes. The Circuit Preacher reaches back to brace himself against the oak but the oak's gone - far behind him. Pepple stands calmly as the Preacher staggers from the tremor. Fear grips him. A fissure runs through the earth before him and darkness shows beneath. Darkness - then a flash of white. White from the gap, flashes of white - delicate bones as roots clawing up from the earth.
The Circuit Preacher falls back in terror. He pushes against the grass, but all for nothing - no distance comes between him and the skeletal hands that grasp awkwardly from the grave. Ten, forty, eighty, twelve hundred - the caps of skulls, the gaping sockets of their eyes as they peer from the darkness and rise.
Still Pepple stands unmoved. Not on human feet, the Circuit Preacher sees in terror - but cloven hooves.
In mute horror, the Circuit Preacher watches as the skeletons stand and regard themselves. They look at their hands, their legs, their caged torsos. They look at each other. Their hinged jaws open and close in silent wailing. All grasp and loll, the only sound in the valley the insectile clack of bone against bone.
A shrill whine. The skeletons turn. The Circuit Preacher turns. Pepple tunes a dusty violin.
Then music.
And the skeletons, as if lifted and moved by unseen strings, begin to twitch. They twitch, then swoon, then - like newborn calves - stumble to life. Now waggling the legs, now wriggling the thighs, now waving their arms, the rattle and clatter rises like thunder - all working together, beating time to the dance.
They swirl and spin now, faster and faster, as the Circuit Preacher presses himself into a ball, grasping at the frigid grass beneath him. He looks up and sees Pepple amidst them now, dancing and playing as they are. He also, the Preacher sees, stoops to grab the bones that the skeletons drop. So that if one dances too harshly and looses a hand, Pepple rushes over, grabs it, and shoves it back in place. The same with skulls, and arms, and leg bones, and anything else - he runs and runs back and forth between the swell of unreal dancers. Yet at no time - even with his baton away from the strings - does the violin stop its playing. In fact the music swells higher, backed by an unseen symphony from the east - from within the shadows of the forest to the east.
Now the Circuit Preacher wills himself to struggle to foot and run. He staggers wildly away, up to the top of the mound to the west. Here, for the first time, looking down on the scene from above, he sees what he missed below:
That the skeletons dance is far from chaotic - rather it's a massive, fractal waltz: a waltz in miniature, one skeleton spinning alone, and then in spinning in tandem with another, and these two both spinning with another couple, and the greater could spinning with two others on each side - and the entire mass of dancers dancing as one, together: spinning all in a tremendous glowing white wheel around the oak. And with Pepple in light activity, running to attach one bone, then the other - back and forth, from inside the ring, lit by the spectral moon.
The Circuit Preacher wakes with a start to the call of a rooster. Dawn.
He's in a state of blubbering prayer when the Civil Servant arrives. The wheel within the wheel, he laughs aloud. The Civil Servant sees his manic eyes, the tears that wash his face.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Choreographer v. Circuit Preacher
Pepple rummages through the hole in the oak. He stands atop the table dragged next to the trunk. The Choreographer watches him showing an expression of confusion and strange annoyance.
He regards the Beader's kitsune statuette, the Bellmaker's bellmaking instructions / deck of cards, the Archivist's List of the Dead, and the Basketweaver's Ch'mekelekeske woven basket. He takes the cards, jumps down from the table, pulls the table back from the oak, then restores it of its pistols. Cards in hand, he walks off, back to the hideous shack.
The sky clears and the Circuit Preacher arrives. He's a short, unobtrusive-looking man wearing a dark green polyester suit. The bow tie around his neck is tied tightly - so tight as to seem painful. In fact, he squirms and coughs and pulls at it constantly. Sweat beads along his brow beneath a shining wave of set and molded hair.
He introduces himself. She stares.
Don't suppose you're from here, then? he asks.
She blinks.
You from Russia?
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Lituanen, echt deutsch, she says plainly.
Even in Russia I'm led to believe they have word of the Good News of our Lord Jesus Christ, opens the Circuit Preacher. Even as far as the northern reaches of Russia, it's true.
She looks away, absently fingering the hem of her blouse.
Mistaking her incomprehension for atheistic snobbery, he gently recounts to her a sermon he gave to a congregation in a small town just south of the state border.
The Choreographer shakes her head.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
He regards the Beader's kitsune statuette, the Bellmaker's bellmaking instructions / deck of cards, the Archivist's List of the Dead, and the Basketweaver's Ch'mekelekeske woven basket. He takes the cards, jumps down from the table, pulls the table back from the oak, then restores it of its pistols. Cards in hand, he walks off, back to the hideous shack.
The sky clears and the Circuit Preacher arrives. He's a short, unobtrusive-looking man wearing a dark green polyester suit. The bow tie around his neck is tied tightly - so tight as to seem painful. In fact, he squirms and coughs and pulls at it constantly. Sweat beads along his brow beneath a shining wave of set and molded hair.
He introduces himself. She stares.
Don't suppose you're from here, then? he asks.
She blinks.
You from Russia?
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Lituanen, echt deutsch, she says plainly.
Even in Russia I'm led to believe they have word of the Good News of our Lord Jesus Christ, opens the Circuit Preacher. Even as far as the northern reaches of Russia, it's true.
She looks away, absently fingering the hem of her blouse.
Mistaking her incomprehension for atheistic snobbery, he gently recounts to her a sermon he gave to a congregation in a small town just south of the state border.
Son of man, the Lord tells him, set thy face toward the mountains of Israel and prophecy against them - and say, Ye mountains of Israel, hear the word of the Lord God: Behold, I, even I, will bring a sword upon you, and I will destroy your high places. In all your dwellingplaces the cities shall be laid waste, and the high places shall be desolatye; and your idols may be broken and cease, and your images may be cut down, and your works may be abolished.
The Choreographer shakes her head.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Chiropodist v. Choreographer
The Chiropodist doesn't speak English. The Choreographer doesn't speak English. Neither speak English. And neither speak a common language.
While the Choreographer understands that the Chiropodist is in a state of shock, the cause of this shock isn't traced to the Chiropodist's witness of the Chimney Sweep's accidental death.
After several hours of nonverbal comforting on the part of the Choreographer (a kind if teutonically stiff woman), the Chiropodist wipes her eyes and begins to replay the scene. She speaks throughout, using exaggerated hand gestures, and frequent pointing - to reference the oak, the guns, the place of death, and the burial.
The Choreographer doesn't understand.
The Chiropodist stops and begins again. Then again, and again. And again. And again and again. She continues repeating the same sequence, each time slightly different - a slight turn of the hand, a slight shift in the series of events - but each time roughly identical. And again. And for the tenth time.
Still the Choreographer doesn't understand.
And for the fortieth time.
Still the Choreographer doesn't understand.
At some point the Chiropodist decides that nothing in gesture can make the Choreographer understand. And yet the Chiropodist continues. She replays the event over. Now with an almost a sickness of movement: a ritualized motion, a catechismic circularity, an oriental numeration. Again, again, again.
Still the Choreographer doesn't understand. And she grows bored. Oed' und leer das Meer, she sighs.
Eventually the Chiropodist hits on an idea. She stands, grabs her umbrella and takes the pistols. She hands her umbrella off to the Choreographer and leads her onto the field. Acting the role of the Chimney Sweep, the Chiropodist stands ten paces away and raises her gun. The Choreographer reflexively lowers the umbrella. The Chiropodist advances. She lifts the umbrella, and raises the Choreographer's arm. The Choreographer's pistol presses against the Chiropodist's chest.
Then the Choreographer understands.
Her gun goes off.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Chimney Sweep v. Chiropodist
Minutes after the Chief Mate falls, Pepple drags off his body. And then body of the Chief of Police. He takes the Chief's handgun and his badge, his wedding ring and the money in his front pocket. He takes a gold pendant tied on a leather cord around the Chief Mate's neck. Then he buries the two duelists. The Chimney Sweep watches.
Soon after, it begins to rain. It rains hard for a long time. Then softens, and continues raining softly all night.
The Chiropodist arrives beneath a yellow umbrella. She's a tiny woman. Very petite. Simply dressed, but spackled with cosmetics. She walks up to the Chimney Sweep and hands him a telegram. She does not speak English well.
Yes, says the Chimney Sweep.
She points to the telegram. Yes, he says. He points to the ground, then to the pistols, then to the dueling field. She looks confused. She looks at her telegram, then at the pistols, then at the dueling field.
The Chimney Sweep pantomimes a duel. (No help.)
Eventually, he leads her out to the field. She stands holding her yellow umbrella and a revolver. He stands ten paces away. He raises his gun. She lowers the umbrella over her face in fright. He walks over, lifts her umbrella, and raises her hand that holds the revolver. He points the revolver at his chest.
Her gun goes off.
Soon after, it begins to rain. It rains hard for a long time. Then softens, and continues raining softly all night.
The Chiropodist arrives beneath a yellow umbrella. She's a tiny woman. Very petite. Simply dressed, but spackled with cosmetics. She walks up to the Chimney Sweep and hands him a telegram. She does not speak English well.
Yes, says the Chimney Sweep.
She points to the telegram. Yes, he says. He points to the ground, then to the pistols, then to the dueling field. She looks confused. She looks at her telegram, then at the pistols, then at the dueling field.
The Chimney Sweep pantomimes a duel. (No help.)
Eventually, he leads her out to the field. She stands holding her yellow umbrella and a revolver. He stands ten paces away. He raises his gun. She lowers the umbrella over her face in fright. He walks over, lifts her umbrella, and raises her hand that holds the revolver. He points the revolver at his chest.
Her gun goes off.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Chief Mate v. Chimney Sweep
The Chief of Police lays sprawled in the grass, lifeless eyes open to the morning sun.
The Chimney Sweep paces. The Chief Mate sits with his back to the trunk of the oak.
The Farmer sows his field, up and down the field in the diesel tractor. The murder of crows, once fat on the bodies of the dead, alight in the freshly turned soil, pecking for seeds and worms.
The Chimney Sweep brushes his long, shaggy hair. He's in his mid-30s, medium build, fit. He wears a green shirt-sleeved polo, beige slacks, white sneakers.
A professional friend of mind had a dream, he says abruptly. He stops pacing. He looks over nervously, and speaks.
He dreamt that a riot of men were chained into service, all working together as a road gang. And a fat man in a suit came and set them free - all of them - by unlocking one lock in the middle. They leapt up and threw down their hammers and ran home to their families. Then the fat man went up to my friend and said, put all trust in the Unspoken Union. He said, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
The Chimney Sweep paces. The Chief Mate sits with his back to the trunk of the oak.
The Farmer sows his field, up and down the field in the diesel tractor. The murder of crows, once fat on the bodies of the dead, alight in the freshly turned soil, pecking for seeds and worms.
The Chimney Sweep brushes his long, shaggy hair. He's in his mid-30s, medium build, fit. He wears a green shirt-sleeved polo, beige slacks, white sneakers.
A professional friend of mind had a dream, he says abruptly. He stops pacing. He looks over nervously, and speaks.
He dreamt that a riot of men were chained into service, all working together as a road gang. And a fat man in a suit came and set them free - all of them - by unlocking one lock in the middle. They leapt up and threw down their hammers and ran home to their families. Then the fat man went up to my friend and said, put all trust in the Unspoken Union. He said, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Chief of Police v. Chief Mate
We were running a load of coffee and cocoa from out of Abidjane. An man paid passage in gold - gold ingots molded in the shape of a woman's finger - and another to buy the papers of our boatswain, who died of dengue fever off the coast of Padang. Where or what he did before he wouldn't say. But he had totems with him - a Nippon bronze, an inlaid mask, a nail fetish, a dog with iron hammered into its neck, face, and more. A strange collection, picked purposefully the world over, held in a mahoganny trunk. At night he threw yarrow sticks; with them and a book of Chinese symbols he said he could trace the future. After he threw the yarrows in a way that predicted we'd be hit with a storm in open water crossing the Atlantic (right to the date and time) the crew believed him.
The Chief of Police nods.
He told me, continues the Chief Mate, that I'd find myself in a field with a tree and that's the place I'd die. He said he'd be close by when it happened, and he'd see me but I wouldn't see him.
The Chief thinks that the man described may be the murderer. The Chief Mate is certain its not.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Chemist v. Chief of Police
There's been a murder reported, announces the Chief of Police.
The Chemist fidgets with a daisy he's set in the button hole of his lapel. He plucks the daisy's petals one by one.
Have you been party to anything out of the ordinary? the Chief asks. Over the past few days?
The Chemist shakes his head. He takes the daisy from his lapel, rips it into shreds and lets it fall.
No, huh? says the Chief.
No, says the Chemist.
Damn, he spits. I'm not having much luck with this case. Especially with the deputy's time taken up organizing a militia to guard the silos at the grain coop. Nothing's breaking.
The Chemist asks if anyone's given a description of the murderer.
The Chief describes the suspect thusly: A drifter. Tall, lanky, filthy. Patchy beard, slope-shouldered, insolent regard of outsiders. Autodidact, crafty, aloof.
Pepple, in earshot of the above description, quits his work, gently drops his shovel and slinks back to the hideous shanty.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
The Chemist fidgets with a daisy he's set in the button hole of his lapel. He plucks the daisy's petals one by one.
Have you been party to anything out of the ordinary? the Chief asks. Over the past few days?
The Chemist shakes his head. He takes the daisy from his lapel, rips it into shreds and lets it fall.
No, huh? says the Chief.
No, says the Chemist.
Damn, he spits. I'm not having much luck with this case. Especially with the deputy's time taken up organizing a militia to guard the silos at the grain coop. Nothing's breaking.
The Chemist asks if anyone's given a description of the murderer.
The Chief describes the suspect thusly: A drifter. Tall, lanky, filthy. Patchy beard, slope-shouldered, insolent regard of outsiders. Autodidact, crafty, aloof.
Pepple, in earshot of the above description, quits his work, gently drops his shovel and slinks back to the hideous shanty.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Chemist v. Chicken Sexer
The Chess Master's quick death puts the Chemist in an excellent mood. He sings the opening of the famous Broadway musical:
April was the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
But then you came, yes then you came!
And now the sky is blue again!
And it's true. The sky above is, at that moment, blue.
But then the Chicken Sexer arrives, hobbling in on an inoperable club foot, and the sky turns overcast again.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
April was the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
But then you came, yes then you came!
And now the sky is blue again!
And it's true. The sky above is, at that moment, blue.
But then the Chicken Sexer arrives, hobbling in on an inoperable club foot, and the sky turns overcast again.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Chemist v. Chess Master
It rains.
Pepple, dressed in a long overcoat, drags Grubb’s mangled body from the shack and buries him feet from the well. The hideous woman staggers from the cabin and looks in the pit before Pepple starts filling it with dirt. Soon after, they both return to the shack.
Using the umbrella given to the Chamberlain by Pepple, the Chemist keeps semi-dry.
It stops raining.
The Chess Master arrives, places a wooden case on the table, pushes aside the pistols, and opens the case. It’s a chess board. What do you do for a living? the Chess Master asks the Chemist.
The Chemist answers. The Chess Master nods. He tells the Chemist he thought as much. When I first walked up, says the Chess Master, I thought to myself: here’s a guy with a little sophistication. Like me. Someone that isn’t necessarily good with his hands.
Oh, says the Chemist, I wouldn’t go that far.
The Chess Master proposes that instead of dueling each other with pistols, they agree to use a game of chess as a proxy duel, wherein the loser metes the penalty of defeat upon himself.
Of course I won’t agree to that, says the Chemist. Because you’re a Chess Master.
Who said I was a Chess Master?
It follows alphabetically. Come on—I’ve been reading Totentanzes since grade school. And this is as typical a scam as in any of them. If it’s not a Knight that convinces Death to play chess for his life, then it’s a Chemist being suckered into play by a Chess Master. Every time it ends the same way: the Chess Master wins. Well, not this time.
The Chess Master’s crestfallen.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Pepple, dressed in a long overcoat, drags Grubb’s mangled body from the shack and buries him feet from the well. The hideous woman staggers from the cabin and looks in the pit before Pepple starts filling it with dirt. Soon after, they both return to the shack.
Using the umbrella given to the Chamberlain by Pepple, the Chemist keeps semi-dry.
It stops raining.
The Chess Master arrives, places a wooden case on the table, pushes aside the pistols, and opens the case. It’s a chess board. What do you do for a living? the Chess Master asks the Chemist.
The Chemist answers. The Chess Master nods. He tells the Chemist he thought as much. When I first walked up, says the Chess Master, I thought to myself: here’s a guy with a little sophistication. Like me. Someone that isn’t necessarily good with his hands.
Oh, says the Chemist, I wouldn’t go that far.
The Chess Master proposes that instead of dueling each other with pistols, they agree to use a game of chess as a proxy duel, wherein the loser metes the penalty of defeat upon himself.
Of course I won’t agree to that, says the Chemist. Because you’re a Chess Master.
Who said I was a Chess Master?
It follows alphabetically. Come on—I’ve been reading Totentanzes since grade school. And this is as typical a scam as in any of them. If it’s not a Knight that convinces Death to play chess for his life, then it’s a Chemist being suckered into play by a Chess Master. Every time it ends the same way: the Chess Master wins. Well, not this time.
The Chess Master’s crestfallen.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Chef v. Chemist
The Chef looks around with casual disregard. He walks to Pepple and strikes up conversation. Pepple stands over the Cheerleader, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. What do you think of her? the Chef asks, gesturing to her body.
Pepple shakes his head.
The Chef asks for a cigarette and Pepple offers one from a pack in his front shirt pocket. Soon they’re both standing, smoking, and talking.
What sort of operation do you run up here? asks the Chef.
Pepple explains. The Chef asks what he regards as the best part of the job.
Well, Pepple says, wiping his hands off on the Cartwright’s trousers, I think in the variety of goods what comes to me day by day. Never do know what to expect when I put my hands in the pockets of these folk. Could be from tissue to treasure.
Pepple fishes around his pocket and pulls out a souvenir pen. Now this here’s a treasure, Pepple says. Not least for its kitsch value.
He hands the pen to the Chef. When tilted, the top falls from Mary in a poor reprint of Carracci’s Pietá. On the reverse a caption reads, “I’m nipples for Naples!”
The Chef agrees. Pepple tells him to keep it. The Chef does, and thanks him.
Pepple returns to work, and the Chef returns to the oak.
The Chemist is a short, thin, dark-haired man in black square-framed glasses. He’s dressed well, with a subtlety of taste that reaches leagues past what one would expect from a chemist. When he reaches the oak, he greets the Chef with a strong handshake and smile, and they begin talking about the darkening sky.
They agree that it’s going to rain.
They agree to duel before it begins to rain.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Pepple shakes his head.
The Chef asks for a cigarette and Pepple offers one from a pack in his front shirt pocket. Soon they’re both standing, smoking, and talking.
What sort of operation do you run up here? asks the Chef.
Pepple explains. The Chef asks what he regards as the best part of the job.
Well, Pepple says, wiping his hands off on the Cartwright’s trousers, I think in the variety of goods what comes to me day by day. Never do know what to expect when I put my hands in the pockets of these folk. Could be from tissue to treasure.
Pepple fishes around his pocket and pulls out a souvenir pen. Now this here’s a treasure, Pepple says. Not least for its kitsch value.
He hands the pen to the Chef. When tilted, the top falls from Mary in a poor reprint of Carracci’s Pietá. On the reverse a caption reads, “I’m nipples for Naples!”
The Chef agrees. Pepple tells him to keep it. The Chef does, and thanks him.
Pepple returns to work, and the Chef returns to the oak.
The Chemist is a short, thin, dark-haired man in black square-framed glasses. He’s dressed well, with a subtlety of taste that reaches leagues past what one would expect from a chemist. When he reaches the oak, he greets the Chef with a strong handshake and smile, and they begin talking about the darkening sky.
They agree that it’s going to rain.
They agree to duel before it begins to rain.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Cheerleader v. Chef
The second death comes as less of a shock to the Cheerleader, but the two combined seem almost overwhelming. It was duty at first. Now, she contends, it borders on incivility.
Listen here, shouts Pepple. Maybe you don’t understand how I make my living.
The Cheerleader tries to keep him from searching the body of the Cheesemaker.
What in the name does this ex-man need those articles what are remaining upon his person? Pepple demands. You expect I should come here and do all your filthy work with a smile and glad hand and thank you ma’am without recompense?
The Cheerleader stands, arms crossed. Pepple turns and spits.
He drags off the body of the Cheesemaker, flips through his wallet, removes his silver wedding band, and dumps his thin corpse in the ditch.
When the Chef arrives the Cheerleader tells him about her concern.
Honey, he tells her, If you didn’t kill the Cheesemaker, he would have killed you.
The Cheerleader nods.
It’s hard, but you just have to take the bad with the gouda.
There’s a long pause. It lasts for over an hour.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Listen here, shouts Pepple. Maybe you don’t understand how I make my living.
The Cheerleader tries to keep him from searching the body of the Cheesemaker.
What in the name does this ex-man need those articles what are remaining upon his person? Pepple demands. You expect I should come here and do all your filthy work with a smile and glad hand and thank you ma’am without recompense?
The Cheerleader stands, arms crossed. Pepple turns and spits.
He drags off the body of the Cheesemaker, flips through his wallet, removes his silver wedding band, and dumps his thin corpse in the ditch.
When the Chef arrives the Cheerleader tells him about her concern.
Honey, he tells her, If you didn’t kill the Cheesemaker, he would have killed you.
The Cheerleader nods.
It’s hard, but you just have to take the bad with the gouda.
There’s a long pause. It lasts for over an hour.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
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