Demolitionist v. Dental Assistant

Lacking much direction after the duel - and being the type of man in constant need for direction, or an outlet for his thoughts; being an extrovert, in other words - the Demolitionist saunters north to chat with Pepple, who sits in the shade of his shack, reading.

The only thing different about Pepple since the Curator's visit is the addition of a panama hat (previously the Curator's) that sits at a jaunty angle over his agreeably trimmed scalp. That and the number of books - now four - that lie in a neat stack beside his Adirondack chair. The books are hard-bound, aged, and worn. Their titles are difficult to read from the angle of the Demolitionist's view. The top seems clearly a volume on esoteric interpretation, the Tree of Life pressed in gilt on the leather cover.

Pepple interrupts his reading to chat for a few minutes. He reveals the nature of the aerial.

Just for curiosity's sake, asks the Demolitionist, where do you get the power for the radio?

He's right to be curious. No power lines run from the road. The roof's without solar panels. No generator fires.

Pepple dog-ears his book, stands, and leads the Demolitionist to the side of his cabin, from which a black cable runs. The cable's of an old make, easily decades old, from the dawn of the electrical age: a thick layer vulcanized rubber melted into coarse hemp insulates twined copper wire. The Demolitionists tugs the cable lightly. It lifts from the grass, leading in the direction of the nearby well.

It's from down there? he asks Pepple, turning.

Pepple nods and returns to his seat, finished with conversation. The Demolitionist looks back and forth between the cable and the well, then at Pepple. Puzzled, he leaves for the oak.

That evening, as the sky darkens, he sees the flicker of light from Pepple's cabin - then a dim luminescence from the south window. Inside, Pepple tilts his head, listening closely to the signal on the AM band. He scribbles phrases on a pad.

The next day the Dental Assistant arrives. She's a pretty young woman not yet in her thirties. A few seconds of conversation reveals her to be phlegmatic to the extreme. Her actions are marked, her reactions gauged. Her preparations are extensive, clinical. She's the first to question whether the heads of their bullet should be sanitized prior to the duel.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.