Copywriter v. Correctional Officer

The rain that falls that night dampens the ripening stench of the corpses on the edge of the ground, left unmoved by the Copywriter. The wind wafts the occasional musty, dank putrescence by the ground near the base, but mostly the smell is of rain and grass and pine. He sits cross-legged, huddled under the black umbrella left leaning against the oak, the South Pointing Marmot on his lap. Falling in and out of sleep, his head droops. One last glance to his left shows a flicker of lamplight dancing dimly through the forest, flickering behind a curtain of trees.

He wakes sitting two feet from a marmot, sitting as he does, locking its impersonate eyes with his, unwavering. The rain stopped at some point during the night, and the haze of early morning clings to the ground, and the oak lets fall great drops in waves as the wind presses overhead. A tremendous stillness settles between the gusts. A woodpecker knocks in the distance, then stops. The Copywriter and the marmot regard each other with sleepy curiosity.

The Copywriter thinks of feeding the animal something. He doesn't have food. Instead, slowly, he reaches down for the South Pointing Marmot. He holds it by the base. With the care and consciousness of movement usually seen only during Japanese business card exchanges, he slowly presents the compass, setting it before his companion. It doesn't flinch during the offering, but watches with interest. As situated, the bronze marmot points south - directly at the true marmot. The true marmot, mirroring the bronze marmot, raises its front paw and touches the paw of its doppelganger. It leans forward and sniffs a bit, then leans back again. The two remain upright, holding hands, for several seconds. Finally, just as the stench of the corpses returns, the true marmot falls on all fours, turns, and shuffles off through the high grass. The South Pointing Marmot continues pointing south.

If you don't do what you signed, says the Correctional Officer, you're in the wrong, and that's that.

She's a terrifyingly brutish woman. Short, muscled, obese; an overflowing mound of flesh and ironed, bleachblond hair.

The two decide to - or the Correctional Officer proclaims that they will and the Copywriter agrees that they might as well - confront the caretaker at his cabin to the north. They walk, and the Correctional Officer bangs her fist on the door. They hear the sound of footsteps. The door unlatches and opens and there stands Pepple, wearing the black clothes left by the Comedian. His face runs with a large scar down his left cheek. A bruise marks his forehead. He looks first at the Correctional Officer, then at the Copywriter.

The Correctional Officer holds up the contract. Just as she takes in a lung full of air to begin the planned berating, Pepple pushes past them, closes the door, picks up his shovel standing under the awning, against the cabin, and walks to the grounds. Caught by surprise, the Correctional Officer waddles behind him, and the Copywriter behind her. It takes only a few seconds for her to launch into the attack she'd prepared, now amended slightly to focus less on criticism for not doing what one should but criticism for not doing what one should promptly and without being told. The harangue drags on for just under an hour, with Pepple never objecting, but only dragging, digging, and burying the three bodies.

If the Copywriter hoped she'd stop after Pepple returned to his cabin, his hopes were dashed. She expresses her outrage and anger even as they stand ready to fire.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.