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.