Riot

It’s as if the past twenty days an unseen pressure had been exerted on an unseen trigger. And now, just past the point of egress the latch let slip, a spring set loose, the hammer sped tight – and shot unleashed.

They speed from a place behind the tents at dawn. Some through corn field, some through bean patch, and some along the path directly, they make to the cabin, armed with the two pistols, stones, sticks, croquet mallets, spikes, tent poles, nylon rope. The Enologist, driven by some primal madness by the communal onrush, lets loose a war whoop even as he adjusts his clumsy bifocals in mid-stride behind the Epidemiologist.

Upon their descent a flight of hurled stones, croquet balls, and a kitsune statuette proceeds before them, thundering in a wave against the lain timber walls, the statuette and a two pound stone exploding through the south window. Then, as those that looped around through the cornfield to the east make their way, the east window is smashed. And also the west as those missiles from the bean field are hurled. There’s a great clamor of shouting and calls and cries, a terrible rancor and arms raised above the duelists heads in blind outrage. Until the Environmental Scientist steps forth with a pistol in one hand, a crude torch in the other, out from a small group that led the assault, at which point the crowd quiets.

From inside the cabin they hear the terrified sobbing of the Employment Officer.

Good morning, opens the Environmental Scientist. We were hoping you might have a free minute or two.

They hear shuffling. The Grave Digger’s head peeks out from under the windowsill, looking through the broken pane.

I might, he answers.

Great. We’d like to open a dialogue between our two parties.

What parties?

Well… we’re a mob. This is a riot.

Oh, says the Grave Digger.

Do you mind coming out with your arms behind your head? You and your daughter?

The Grave Digger thinks. I’d prefer not to, he says.

The Environmental Scientist meets in a huddle with several of the other duelists. The Estate Agent and Engineer give whispered counsel, others adding points here and there. Finally the Environmental Scientists nods and turns back to face the cabin.

Hate to say it, but if you don’t vacate the premises we’ll burn down the cabin.

Smoke you out, shouts the Estate Agent.

Nice use of parlance, notes the Environmental Scientist. The Estate Agent nods.

The cabin door opens. The Grave Digger and his daughter the Employment Officer step out with their hands behind their head. Both are in their sleeping clothes, the Employment Officer in a frightful pink nightie that rises mid-way above her ham hock thighs. The two survey the wide ring of duelists – all 19, even the diminutive linen-suited Evangelist, who circle the cabin – with trepidation. The Employment Officer’s cheeks run damp with tears, her thin lower lip sucked back in an obnoxious exaggeration of fear.

With the Environmental Scientist and the Engineer pinning them under the aim of their pistols, the Etymologist runs from behind and ties the writes of each in turn with short strands of nylon rope.

Now whaddya plan on doing with us? says the Grave Digger.

The Environmental Scientist turns to his lieutenants. First, he says, let’s see if we can’t organize a small group to ransack the cabin.

The Estate Agent, Engineer, and Expressman enter the cabin. They begin overturning furniture, throwing any objects that aren’t nailed down – books, radio equipment, cooking utensils – out the door and windows.

We ain’t got nothing, the Grave Digger cries.

The Esthetician hands the Environmental Scientist a few wrinkled sheets of foolscap. He thanks her, shuffles the pages, and puts on a pair of reading glasses that hitherto had been dangling from his broad neck. After quickly examining the paper, he reads a very brief manifesto that ends with a short list of demands, including (but not limited to) the option to quit from the duel altogether and return home.

But I bought you the croquet set, dinn I?

The sorriest croquet set I’ve ever seen, says the Entropologist from his spot in the bean patch. It didn’t even come with hoops.

What about my food? asks the Employment Officer.

We kept telling you that not everyone likes noodle casserole, explains the Entertainer. Especially when you make it three nights a week.

And I’m kosher! cries the Escort.

And she’s kosher, repeats the Entertainer.

So what do you plan on doing then, asks the Grave Digger wildly. Carry on by yourselves? Each to his will?

Actually, says the Environmental Scientist, we’ve voted to give governing authority to a provisional caretaker until the rightful caretaker returns.

Who’s leading?

The Environmental Scientist takes off his glasses. Well, he says, I am.

The Estate Agent comes out of the cabin with a pouch. She’s followed by her two companions. Inside the pouch she pulls a single gold coin.

No ammunition?

The Estate Agent shakes her head.

I told you they don’t make the caliber no more, the Grave Digger pleads.

Colleagues, why don’t we all gather around for an impromptu chat.

The duelists gather around the tied father and daughter.

Now I remember that a majority wanted to proceed with a kangaroo court to determine the guilt and punishment of our captives here. I know we decided against calling it that, but I can’t remember the other term –

Tribunal! someone shouts from the crowd.

Oh that’s right, brightens the Environmental Scientist, a tribunal. Anyway, before we do that –

Hang ‘em! someone shouts.

The Environmental Scientist raises his hand for peace. Anyway, he continues, before that let’s hold a vote on how we should go about recommencing the duel, this being our top priority. How many think that now with the Employment Officer under arrest, we should hold a duel – regardless of the fact that we only have four bullets.

Most people raise their hands.

And against?

A few vote against.

Yeas have it, then.

My daughter! cries the Grave Digger.

Well then. Let’s retire to the dueling grounds, smiles the Environmental Scientist.

The Employment Officer is untied. She’s given the choice of the two pistols, reluctantly chooses one, and stands on her mark. The other’s given to the Engine Driver, pale with fear. The crowd moves back. Some stand, some sit in the grass.

At your marks, calls the Entrepreneur (committee-appointed dueling official).

The duel be damned! the Grave Digger shouts.

Now march. They march.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

The Engine Driver falls dead. Everyone claps politely.

Better late than never, whispers the Engraver to the Exterminator, who just seconds ago arrived from the road. The Exterminator blinks.