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.