A great feast (with kosher option) follows the overdue duel. The Grave Digger’s meager stock of food is depleted. The revelry goes on until midnight.
A few of the more sensitive duelists notice a subtle difference between that night and all previous nights. After waking undisturbed, they realize that Rhetoric slept quietly, without barking once. Mid-morning, during the assembly of the public tribunal, this point is raised. Unfortunately it’s drowned out by the persistent drone of the Entomologist, whose pitch for a group lecture series (beginning with ‘Bugs of the Dueling Ground: Insects We See and Are Bitten By Every Day’) meets at first with indifference, then annoyance, then - if only to reclaim his silence - acceptance.
The Environmental Scientist calls the tribunal to order. As first point of business, two advocates are chosen, one for and one against the accused, with the Environmental Scientist acting as judge and the remaining duelists as jury (excluding his daughter the Employment Officer).
Arguments are made for and against the Grave Digger. The defense (Ergonomist) asks the jury to take into consideration the fact that there were no stockpiles of ammunition in the cabin, and that the .455 caliber of the Webley may in fact be so rare as to be difficult to purchase. The prosecutor (Environmental Lobbyist) lists the failures of the accused, especially in that he almost certainly manufactured the scarcity of the bullets only to prevent his daughter from going through with the duel.
It takes the jury under a minute to proclaim the guilt of the Grave Digger.
The Environmental Scientist takes off his reading glasses. The next step, he says carefully, is to determine a suitable punishment.
Hang the jerk! shouts the Expressman from the rear of the jury. The rest mutter in general agreement.
One consideration we should make, pipes the Ergonomist, is that as a Grave Digger he may be part of a later duel.
Grumbling.
The Ergonomist continues:
A few days ago, he says, as everybody knows, the Etymologist cracked secret to the particular succession of people that come to the grounds. Namely, they come in order of their occupation, arranged alphabetically. With this rule discovered, we could scientifically determine who had been the very last duelist. (Here he points to the Employment Officer.) Which of course gave rise to our outrage at the hidden insiderism and whatnot. What I’m getting at, in a round-about kind of way, is that the Grave Digger may be a duelist whose duel isn’t yet due.
Shuffling.
In which case the question becomes: is it proper for a group of duelists to kill a future duelist outside of a duel?
Everyone is very quiet.
Just hang him already! cries the Expressman.
All in favor of hanging the Grave Digger? asks the Environmental Scientist.
Most of the jury raises their hands.
And the nays?
Only a few.
Good, the Environmental Scientist sighs, happy to be done with the business if nothing else. Should we form a subcommittee to carry out the lynching?
They do, and a long strand of nylon rope is thrown over one of the lower branches of the great oak, noose at one end, now over the head and around the neck of the Grave Digger, who stands wobbling atop the Shaker table. The Evangelist consoles him with passages from the Bible on eternal life, etc.
Grave Digger, announces the subcommittee appointed executioner (Executioner), prepare yourself for death.
You’re all the ones to blame here! shouts the Grave Digger. Ingrates! I stood side to side with the caretaker when he was overcome by the nativists! It was in my right to take his place! Maybe I didn’t do no good, but I tried my damndest! You’re hands are dirty with the blood of an innocent man!
The Executioner kicks away the table. The Grave Digger drops. Deep gurgling as he struggles for breath, writhing with his hands behind his back.
His daughter faints. Suddenly Rhetoric’s ears perk.
As everyone watches the victim in his last throes – the rope breaks, a crack shoots from afar, and the Grace Digger falls to the ground. There’s a cry. The Entertainer points east to the forest. From the dark woods emerges Stetson, rifle across his shoulder, sack in another, dressed in tattered rags. As he walks others emerge – a whole hoard of shaggy nativists, half-naked, sinewy men with paint and tattoos and piercings covering their pale, mud-caked bodies.
As the duelists stand awe-struck in a circle about the half-hanged man, Stetson strides toward them. Just paces away, he throws the sack at the feet of the Environmental Scientist. It tumbles and its contents spill: from inside roll hundreds of fresh .455 caliber cartridges.
Stetson sweeps his eyes across the numerous. He speaks.
Let's resume the duel.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
First Duelist Assembly (Day 2)
Speeches Regarding to the first order of business, or
Arguments For and Against the End to Rhetoric
"Rhetoric Is All-Pervasive and Relentless In Its Drive to Keep Us from Having A Good Night's Sleep, and Should Therefore Die," by the Enologist
Friends, I don't pretend to know much. I'm just a simple Enologist. But even I know that men and women need sleep. It's one of the few true necessities in life. Unfortunately, all of us currently have an obstacle to this prime need. That obstacle is Rhetoric. It barks every night, almost all night, regardless of our efforts to quiet it.
"Rhetoric Protects Us from Unspeakable Evil, and Should Therefore Live," by the Estate Agent
I'll make this a quickie. After talking with the daughter of the man living in the cabin, it's come to be well known - even if it's not appreciated by some - that Rhetoric is just doing its job: protecting us from an evil that we can't imagine. I see some of you rolling your eyes. Well I believe her and I know a bunch of other do too, because I've talked to you in private. A lot of you. What happens if it's a band of rapists? I don't know, and I don't really want to find out. You know what'll help you with sleep? Taking naps during the day instead of playing chess all the time. Thanks.
Lots are cast. Result: Rhetoric lives.
Second order of business, or
Should we petition for the purchase of croquet equipment?
A speech is given by Entropologist. Fittingly, it's at first organized and compact, fraying as time goes by, until tapering off mid-sentence at some point forty minutes later, when the last person left (Engineer) stands up and walks to the creek for a bath.
All in favor? asks the Entropologist. Aye, he replies sadly.
Result: Petition for croquet equipment is a go.
The Ethologist arrives. He takes a small spot in a tent that's already filled to capacity.
The Grave Digger frets, looking to the grounds from his cabin window.
Arguments For and Against the End to Rhetoric
"Rhetoric Is All-Pervasive and Relentless In Its Drive to Keep Us from Having A Good Night's Sleep, and Should Therefore Die," by the Enologist
Friends, I don't pretend to know much. I'm just a simple Enologist. But even I know that men and women need sleep. It's one of the few true necessities in life. Unfortunately, all of us currently have an obstacle to this prime need. That obstacle is Rhetoric. It barks every night, almost all night, regardless of our efforts to quiet it.
"Rhetoric Protects Us from Unspeakable Evil, and Should Therefore Live," by the Estate Agent
I'll make this a quickie. After talking with the daughter of the man living in the cabin, it's come to be well known - even if it's not appreciated by some - that Rhetoric is just doing its job: protecting us from an evil that we can't imagine. I see some of you rolling your eyes. Well I believe her and I know a bunch of other do too, because I've talked to you in private. A lot of you. What happens if it's a band of rapists? I don't know, and I don't really want to find out. You know what'll help you with sleep? Taking naps during the day instead of playing chess all the time. Thanks.
Lots are cast. Result: Rhetoric lives.
Second order of business, or
Should we petition for the purchase of croquet equipment?
A speech is given by Entropologist. Fittingly, it's at first organized and compact, fraying as time goes by, until tapering off mid-sentence at some point forty minutes later, when the last person left (Engineer) stands up and walks to the creek for a bath.
All in favor? asks the Entropologist. Aye, he replies sadly.
Result: Petition for croquet equipment is a go.
The Ethologist arrives. He takes a small spot in a tent that's already filled to capacity.
The Grave Digger frets, looking to the grounds from his cabin window.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
First Duelist Assembly
A new duelist arrived each day over the past fourteen days. Yet none dueled, and none died. All remain. They include, by order of appearance, the following:
Engineer
Engraver
Enologist
Entertainer
Entomologist
Entrepreneur
Entropologist
Environmental Lobbyist
Environmental Scientist
Epidemiologist
Ergonomist
Escort
Estate Agent
Esthetician
Today they live in a settlement described by its occupants as everything from a hilltop township (Entrepreneur) to an internment camp (Ergonomist). The muddy paths and beige canvas tents are reminiscent to some (Engineer, Entomologist, Environmental Scientist) of civil war campsites.
During the two weeks minor discoveries are made. The Engraver, for example, identifies the patterns worked into the brass pistol shells as hand-crafted, from several different people - not one man chosen exclusively for the task.
But this is the exception. Most of the interaction between the duelists is unimportant and easily overlooked; their conversations are predictable.
They have two main points of concern, namely:
1. The lack of dueling.
2. The quality of care provided by the Grave Digger and his obese daughter, the Employment Officer.
With regard to point of concern, the second:
Though the father and daughter, through exchange of the Krugerrands recovered, provided camping equipment, accouterments of all variety, and fair rations of fresh and canned food - the latter prepared thrice daily by the daughter - it in no way lives up to the combined standard of living expected from the growing number of professionals contained within the dueling grounds. The very fact that they are contained - not by force, but by a grudging sense of duty to the unspoken rules and an innate feeling of mutual competitiveness - also hinders efforts, in that they lack the liberty to purchase or seek the purchase of unnecessary items. The Entropologist, for example, would not let go of his desire to set up and organize a croquet tournament; this being impossible due to the lack of croquet equipment.
Thus resentment built. Blame was aimed squarely at the Grave Digger, whose promise of better provisions was believed to be as suspect as his sincerity in locating bullets to match the .455 caliber of two Webley revolvers. It didn't help that neither he nor his daughter reigned in Rhetoric, whose nightly vigil of the grounds - being the stalwart dog that he was - was enthusiastic to the extreme, full of mad barking and snarling often until daybreak.
With animosity growing in pitch with each new addition, with each passing day, in-fighting broke out within the camp. Duelists began forming petty alliances based largely on occupational lines: scientists congregated with scientists; artists with artists; businesspeople with businesspeople; and the escort with all and no one, each man vying for her attention regardless of his self-perceived station. She alone, it seemed, was content.
With regard to point of concern, the first:
Here two sides form. One half of the duelists believe that dueling should start immediately upon supply of ammunition, continuing throughout day and night until the duels are settled equally. The second believes that the duels should be spaced out in time. These sides aren't based along lines of occupation, but temperament.
Thus people argue and complain.
It's the Environmental Lobbyist (of all people) who finally rallies everyone together. In secret, he proposes the First Duelist Assembly. At the appointed time (noon, after lunch), the duelists quietly assemble apart from the Grave Digger and his daughter. After an hour, just before the Ethnologist arrives, they unanimously decide to hold a Second Duelist Assembly tomorrow.
The first order of business:
The delivery of speeches on whether or not to end Rhetoric.
The second order of business:
Petition for the purchase of croquet equipment.
Engineer
Engraver
Enologist
Entertainer
Entomologist
Entrepreneur
Entropologist
Environmental Lobbyist
Environmental Scientist
Epidemiologist
Ergonomist
Escort
Estate Agent
Esthetician
Today they live in a settlement described by its occupants as everything from a hilltop township (Entrepreneur) to an internment camp (Ergonomist). The muddy paths and beige canvas tents are reminiscent to some (Engineer, Entomologist, Environmental Scientist) of civil war campsites.
During the two weeks minor discoveries are made. The Engraver, for example, identifies the patterns worked into the brass pistol shells as hand-crafted, from several different people - not one man chosen exclusively for the task.
But this is the exception. Most of the interaction between the duelists is unimportant and easily overlooked; their conversations are predictable.
They have two main points of concern, namely:
1. The lack of dueling.
2. The quality of care provided by the Grave Digger and his obese daughter, the Employment Officer.
With regard to point of concern, the second:
Though the father and daughter, through exchange of the Krugerrands recovered, provided camping equipment, accouterments of all variety, and fair rations of fresh and canned food - the latter prepared thrice daily by the daughter - it in no way lives up to the combined standard of living expected from the growing number of professionals contained within the dueling grounds. The very fact that they are contained - not by force, but by a grudging sense of duty to the unspoken rules and an innate feeling of mutual competitiveness - also hinders efforts, in that they lack the liberty to purchase or seek the purchase of unnecessary items. The Entropologist, for example, would not let go of his desire to set up and organize a croquet tournament; this being impossible due to the lack of croquet equipment.
Thus resentment built. Blame was aimed squarely at the Grave Digger, whose promise of better provisions was believed to be as suspect as his sincerity in locating bullets to match the .455 caliber of two Webley revolvers. It didn't help that neither he nor his daughter reigned in Rhetoric, whose nightly vigil of the grounds - being the stalwart dog that he was - was enthusiastic to the extreme, full of mad barking and snarling often until daybreak.
With animosity growing in pitch with each new addition, with each passing day, in-fighting broke out within the camp. Duelists began forming petty alliances based largely on occupational lines: scientists congregated with scientists; artists with artists; businesspeople with businesspeople; and the escort with all and no one, each man vying for her attention regardless of his self-perceived station. She alone, it seemed, was content.
With regard to point of concern, the first:
Here two sides form. One half of the duelists believe that dueling should start immediately upon supply of ammunition, continuing throughout day and night until the duels are settled equally. The second believes that the duels should be spaced out in time. These sides aren't based along lines of occupation, but temperament.
Thus people argue and complain.
It's the Environmental Lobbyist (of all people) who finally rallies everyone together. In secret, he proposes the First Duelist Assembly. At the appointed time (noon, after lunch), the duelists quietly assemble apart from the Grave Digger and his daughter. After an hour, just before the Ethnologist arrives, they unanimously decide to hold a Second Duelist Assembly tomorrow.
The first order of business:
The delivery of speeches on whether or not to end Rhetoric.
The second order of business:
Petition for the purchase of croquet equipment.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
(Employment Officer v. Engine Driver) v. Engineer
Rhetoric is the scourge of woodland creatures. He barks all night, keeping the Engine Driver in a weary state of panic, unsure of who or what might be near. His sense of danger is heightened by lights from within Stetson's cabin to the north, the scurry of black figures blocking the light.
The barking stops at daybreak. The Engine Driver raises his tired eyes to the sky. It's clear, as pure as a lens.
The Employment Officer and her father the Grave Digger emerge from the cabin. They walk past the bean field - beans now sprouting - to the oak. They pass the Engine Driver. They walk to the most western cairn by the creek. There, under the most western rock, they discover the pouch of gold Krugerrands earlier hidden by the Detective.
Excitement hits father and daughter, enough to cause the daughter to buckle under wheezing bout of exhaustion. The pouch is concealed before the Engine Driver arrives, asking about the commotion.
Nothing, says the Grave Digger.
Nothing, seconds his daughter.
What about the duel?
The duel, the Grave Digger says, isn't possible.
The Engine Driver asks why.
The Grave Digger explains that only four bullets are left for the two guns. It's fine if you duel, but what's keeping you safe from the people what the dog barks at each night?
What does the dog eat?
They turn to the dog, lying nearby. He is thin.
You can shoot her, he says, pointing to his daughter, but you'll only have two bullets. Then what'll you fight the next day with?
The Engine Driver brushes each of his thick mustaches with petulant strokes. No, no, no, he says. He explains that this goes against the Unspoken Rules of the duel. One must fight the challenger.
We're already late, he says. What if another challenger comes?
Just then, then Engineer arrives. He waves from the oak.
Now?
The Grave Digger frowns. You'll wait. I need to find bullets.
And we? What should we do? What should we eat?
Wait. Just wait. We'll provide everything.
He shoves past the Engine Driver and to the cabin. Later, he starts his truck left idle by the road and drives to town.
The barking stops at daybreak. The Engine Driver raises his tired eyes to the sky. It's clear, as pure as a lens.
The Employment Officer and her father the Grave Digger emerge from the cabin. They walk past the bean field - beans now sprouting - to the oak. They pass the Engine Driver. They walk to the most western cairn by the creek. There, under the most western rock, they discover the pouch of gold Krugerrands earlier hidden by the Detective.
Excitement hits father and daughter, enough to cause the daughter to buckle under wheezing bout of exhaustion. The pouch is concealed before the Engine Driver arrives, asking about the commotion.
Nothing, says the Grave Digger.
Nothing, seconds his daughter.
What about the duel?
The duel, the Grave Digger says, isn't possible.
The Engine Driver asks why.
The Grave Digger explains that only four bullets are left for the two guns. It's fine if you duel, but what's keeping you safe from the people what the dog barks at each night?
What does the dog eat?
They turn to the dog, lying nearby. He is thin.
You can shoot her, he says, pointing to his daughter, but you'll only have two bullets. Then what'll you fight the next day with?
The Engine Driver brushes each of his thick mustaches with petulant strokes. No, no, no, he says. He explains that this goes against the Unspoken Rules of the duel. One must fight the challenger.
We're already late, he says. What if another challenger comes?
Just then, then Engineer arrives. He waves from the oak.
Now?
The Grave Digger frowns. You'll wait. I need to find bullets.
And we? What should we do? What should we eat?
Wait. Just wait. We'll provide everything.
He shoves past the Engine Driver and to the cabin. Later, he starts his truck left idle by the road and drives to town.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Employment Officer v. Engine Driver
After catching her breath, soaked head to foot, the Employment Officer and Embalmer fought - and the Employment Officer won.
Her concern isn't one of ammunition scarcity, but of drying off. Or at least of getting out of the rain.
She walks north to Stetson's cabin and bangs on the door. The Grave Digger releases the crude latch and looks outside, careful to open just far enough to keep out the rain. He looks down on a miserable sight: the Employment Officer - her make-up running in streaks down the contours of her puffy face, flat dark hair pressed against the sides of her face and neck, blouse soaked, making apparent the outline of a gargantuan bra. He cries out.
My daughter!
Pee-paw!
The door opens, the Employment Officer enters, and thus begins a tearful reunion.
This is where you've been?
I'm sorry I left you, sugar lumps. I just couldn't bare to be without work, seeing you starve on your government salary.
Oh pee-paw!
Oh honey dough!
They embrace.
I'm all wet from the rain, and I killed a man.
Don't you ever speak of that! We'll get you clean and set.... We'll find a way.
When the Engine Driver arrives, he sees no one. He waits.
Her concern isn't one of ammunition scarcity, but of drying off. Or at least of getting out of the rain.
She walks north to Stetson's cabin and bangs on the door. The Grave Digger releases the crude latch and looks outside, careful to open just far enough to keep out the rain. He looks down on a miserable sight: the Employment Officer - her make-up running in streaks down the contours of her puffy face, flat dark hair pressed against the sides of her face and neck, blouse soaked, making apparent the outline of a gargantuan bra. He cries out.
My daughter!
Pee-paw!
The door opens, the Employment Officer enters, and thus begins a tearful reunion.
This is where you've been?
I'm sorry I left you, sugar lumps. I just couldn't bare to be without work, seeing you starve on your government salary.
Oh pee-paw!
Oh honey dough!
They embrace.
I'm all wet from the rain, and I killed a man.
Don't you ever speak of that! We'll get you clean and set.... We'll find a way.
When the Engine Driver arrives, he sees no one. He waits.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Embalmer v. Employment Officer
The Grave Digger tells the Embalmer that he's at a loss. He spent the previous night looking again through Stetson's cabin. No bullets were found, or anything relating to their manufacture. He checked the books on his shelves. Apart from one out-of-print manual on simple machine maintenance, all were fictional or on topics of esoteric knowledge. He tried the radio, but didn't understand how to interpret it.
We have four bullets left.
The Grave Digger shakes his head. Reluctantly, he suggests finding another means of dueling.
Like what?
Well... the Grave Digger says tentatively, I was thinking - knife fights.
The Embalmer balks.
Now just hear me out. I can get two buck knives from the warehouse depot. We'll keep 'em sharp. Winner's the one that doesn't bleed to death.
Out of the question.
Well excuse me for thinking outside the box, he says bitterly. He walks back to the cabin.
That evening the schnauzer barks like mad again. It drives the Grave Digger from the cabin, holding a weak flashlight for guidance in the semi-darkness of the quarter moon. He makes it to the oak, where the Embalmer sits awake, armed with both pistols.
Every night that dog's been barking, the Embalmer whispers. Tonight I heard voices from there. Sounds.
The Grave Digger flicks off the light. The schnauzer's barks let up momentarily. Just enough to hear the plaintive call of a loon.
That's no loon, the Grave Digger says. The Embalmer can hear the fear in his voice. It's them.
It only has two bullets left, says the Embalmer as he hands the Grave Digger one of the guns. But that should be enough.
You can't harm them! There're too many. The Grave Digger pushes the pistol back. He looks around nervously, flicks on the flashlight, and makes his way quickly to the cabin.
After an hour, the schnauzer returns to the oak.
The Employment Officer, a triple-chinned bureaucrat in an oversize blouse, stops three times to catch her breathe before settling down in the grass under the shade of the oak. Rain threatens, then breaks. The Embalmer tries hurrying her onto the field, but she demurs over and over.
Need to catch my wind, she says in a throaty drawl.
We have four bullets left.
The Grave Digger shakes his head. Reluctantly, he suggests finding another means of dueling.
Like what?
Well... the Grave Digger says tentatively, I was thinking - knife fights.
The Embalmer balks.
Now just hear me out. I can get two buck knives from the warehouse depot. We'll keep 'em sharp. Winner's the one that doesn't bleed to death.
Out of the question.
Well excuse me for thinking outside the box, he says bitterly. He walks back to the cabin.
That evening the schnauzer barks like mad again. It drives the Grave Digger from the cabin, holding a weak flashlight for guidance in the semi-darkness of the quarter moon. He makes it to the oak, where the Embalmer sits awake, armed with both pistols.
Every night that dog's been barking, the Embalmer whispers. Tonight I heard voices from there. Sounds.
The Grave Digger flicks off the light. The schnauzer's barks let up momentarily. Just enough to hear the plaintive call of a loon.
That's no loon, the Grave Digger says. The Embalmer can hear the fear in his voice. It's them.
It only has two bullets left, says the Embalmer as he hands the Grave Digger one of the guns. But that should be enough.
You can't harm them! There're too many. The Grave Digger pushes the pistol back. He looks around nervously, flicks on the flashlight, and makes his way quickly to the cabin.
After an hour, the schnauzer returns to the oak.
The Employment Officer, a triple-chinned bureaucrat in an oversize blouse, stops three times to catch her breathe before settling down in the grass under the shade of the oak. Rain threatens, then breaks. The Embalmer tries hurrying her onto the field, but she demurs over and over.
Need to catch my wind, she says in a throaty drawl.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Embalmer v. Embriologist
The Embalmer tags along as the Grave Digger prepares the burial of the Electrician. The two men, possibly by some unspoken occupational connection, develop a quick camaraderie.
At least he went quickly, the Embalmer says.
The Grave Digger, flipping through the Electrician's overstuffed wallet, looks up. Never seen one linger, he realizes.
The schnauzer lies nearby, gnawing on a stick he found by the edge of the forest.
They talk. At some point during the course of conversation the Embalmer mentions the shortage of bullets. The Grave Digger walks to the oak and inspects the guns. Three cartridges are chambered in each pistol. A few empty casings litter the area around the table. He looks in the forest dweller's dusty satchel and sees more empties of the same caliber.
We can't go on without ammunition, states the Embalmer. It's not like we can change weapons; it's duel by pistol; it's part of the unspoken rules.
None up in the cabin either, murmurs the Grave Digger.
The Embrilogist arrives on time the following morning. Dark clouds hang over the sky. She walks to the oak. The schnauzer gallops up to meet her, sniffing her hand, before walking off. She meets the Embalmer.
At least he went quickly, the Embalmer says.
The Grave Digger, flipping through the Electrician's overstuffed wallet, looks up. Never seen one linger, he realizes.
The schnauzer lies nearby, gnawing on a stick he found by the edge of the forest.
They talk. At some point during the course of conversation the Embalmer mentions the shortage of bullets. The Grave Digger walks to the oak and inspects the guns. Three cartridges are chambered in each pistol. A few empty casings litter the area around the table. He looks in the forest dweller's dusty satchel and sees more empties of the same caliber.
We can't go on without ammunition, states the Embalmer. It's not like we can change weapons; it's duel by pistol; it's part of the unspoken rules.
None up in the cabin either, murmurs the Grave Digger.
The Embrilogist arrives on time the following morning. Dark clouds hang over the sky. She walks to the oak. The schnauzer gallops up to meet her, sniffing her hand, before walking off. She meets the Embalmer.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Electrician v. Embalmer
That night the schnauzer, let out of the cabin by the Grave Keeper, barks wildly into the forest. It keeps the Electrician up for most of the night.
He's bleary-eyed and rumpled when the Embalmer arrives.
The Embalmer inspects the pistols. Neither chamber's full, he says.
They look in the drawer under the table, but the drawer's empty.
He's bleary-eyed and rumpled when the Embalmer arrives.
The Embalmer inspects the pistols. Neither chamber's full, he says.
They look in the drawer under the table, but the drawer's empty.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Electrician v. Elevator Mechanic
The Electrician digs out the dip under his lip, spits out the detritus left, and repacks a fresh wad. He turns to the Grave Digger, who watches from nearby.
Trying to quit smoking, he explains.
The Grave Digger drags away the body of the Electrical Engineer.
That afternoon the Electrician heads to the cairns by the creek with a pistol and a pocket full of bullets. He stands ten paces away and fires. A small rock on top of the eastern cairn flies off with a crack, leaving a whisp of dust. He swivels and snaps off another shot. The rock atop the center cairn darts off. He swivels again - and hits a third rock atop the western cairn.
This process repeats until all the shells in his pocket are gone. The only cartridges left are the six in the remaining pistol, and four in the drawer.
The next day the Elevator Mechanic arrives. He's a lout of a man with a trimmed goateee. He wears stained jeans and a t-shirt.
My gun's missing a round, he says, inspecting the pistol he chose.
Don't worry about it, the Electrician says. I'll probably kill you the second we open fire.
Trying to quit smoking, he explains.
The Grave Digger drags away the body of the Electrical Engineer.
That afternoon the Electrician heads to the cairns by the creek with a pistol and a pocket full of bullets. He stands ten paces away and fires. A small rock on top of the eastern cairn flies off with a crack, leaving a whisp of dust. He swivels and snaps off another shot. The rock atop the center cairn darts off. He swivels again - and hits a third rock atop the western cairn.
This process repeats until all the shells in his pocket are gone. The only cartridges left are the six in the remaining pistol, and four in the drawer.
The next day the Elevator Mechanic arrives. He's a lout of a man with a trimmed goateee. He wears stained jeans and a t-shirt.
My gun's missing a round, he says, inspecting the pistol he chose.
Don't worry about it, the Electrician says. I'll probably kill you the second we open fire.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Electrical Engineer v. Electrician
He kneels and checks the wire.
It just wasn't made to withstand the elements, says the Electrical Engineer. Plastic holds up better than rubberized cloth insulation, but even that wears down with long-term exposure to the sun.
He stands.
It's fine now, but won't be within a year or two.
The Grave Digger and the Electrical Engineer loiter in the shade behind Stetson's cabin, beneath the radio tower. That - the tower - was what attracted the Electrical Engineer in the first place. Then, on making friends with the Grave Digger, his attention turned to the antique radio inside the cabin. And later, the antique wire between the cabin and the well.
They follow the wire to the well.
Description of the well:
The exterior is square in shape - 3' x 3' x 1 1/2' - and built of hand-hewn, worn timber. The interior walls are lined with very fine, polished concrete, slightly age-worn. There's a timber lid with a rough iron ring nailed in the center. This, propped by one side of the well, covers a great engine, modified - through makeshift means - into a crude pump: a rubber tube runs down the well, flows into an aluminum canister, and another tube flops out. Eroded earth marks the soil around the outlet tube. Weeds thrive around the well, now mostly hidden beneath the tall stalks of surrounding corn.
The antique wire runs over the timber and down the side.
The two men peer over the lip. The grey concrete darkens as the well deepens - till it meets the black of the abyss. No reflection of light, no indication of a bottom. Yet there are - as the Electrical Engineer notices on squatting - distinctly carved hand holds against the north side of square, leading down.
The Grave Digger, working on a bit of inspiration, drops a pebble. Two long seconds pass before they hear a plunk.
The Electrical Engineer turns to the Grave Digger. The Grave Digger shrugs.
The next day the Electrician arrives. He wears the light blue jumpsuit of his trade, and a pocket of dip packed under his lip.
It just wasn't made to withstand the elements, says the Electrical Engineer. Plastic holds up better than rubberized cloth insulation, but even that wears down with long-term exposure to the sun.
He stands.
It's fine now, but won't be within a year or two.
The Grave Digger and the Electrical Engineer loiter in the shade behind Stetson's cabin, beneath the radio tower. That - the tower - was what attracted the Electrical Engineer in the first place. Then, on making friends with the Grave Digger, his attention turned to the antique radio inside the cabin. And later, the antique wire between the cabin and the well.
They follow the wire to the well.
Description of the well:
The exterior is square in shape - 3' x 3' x 1 1/2' - and built of hand-hewn, worn timber. The interior walls are lined with very fine, polished concrete, slightly age-worn. There's a timber lid with a rough iron ring nailed in the center. This, propped by one side of the well, covers a great engine, modified - through makeshift means - into a crude pump: a rubber tube runs down the well, flows into an aluminum canister, and another tube flops out. Eroded earth marks the soil around the outlet tube. Weeds thrive around the well, now mostly hidden beneath the tall stalks of surrounding corn.
The antique wire runs over the timber and down the side.
The two men peer over the lip. The grey concrete darkens as the well deepens - till it meets the black of the abyss. No reflection of light, no indication of a bottom. Yet there are - as the Electrical Engineer notices on squatting - distinctly carved hand holds against the north side of square, leading down.
The Grave Digger, working on a bit of inspiration, drops a pebble. Two long seconds pass before they hear a plunk.
The Electrical Engineer turns to the Grave Digger. The Grave Digger shrugs.
The next day the Electrician arrives. He wears the light blue jumpsuit of his trade, and a pocket of dip packed under his lip.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Editor v. Electrical Engineer
The Editor shouts and curses. After working ten hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year without break for the past fifteen years, being disconnected from his magazine is brutally painful.
Why the hell don't you get reception? he shouts at his cell phone.
He chucks it against the tree. He pouts for a second. Then rushes up to the trunk to recover the mess of wiring and plastic. He frantically tries mashing everything back together. Finally, saddened, he drops the heap on the table.
Bah!
He scratches his forehead. Looks around.
Not a bad place to retire, he says finally, crossing his arms. A man could spend a lot of quiet time shooting crows up here.
The Grave Digger walks to the grounds bury the body of the Economist. The schnauzer walks beside him.
What's with the no headstones? You people don't identify bodies?
The Grave Digger looks puzzled.
It's not a complaint, but it is.
He wipes his nose, then reaches up to an undefined spot 100 feet in the air.
I want a monument -- in the old tradition. I'm talking about an obelisk. Black! And I want you to help me make that happen, old timer. You and me.
I'm 37.
We're best friends now. Like Romulus and Rhemus. Brothers? Yeah, brothers. Twins!
The Grave Digger grunts.
Thaddaboy, spoken like a man. Joking about the obelisk, but tell me: what's the gravy on his stake? Don't hold back, I want it all. In twenty words or less.
The Grave Digger fills him in.
Huh, says the Editor. Now I know why she was so eager for me to send a crew here. I would have, too, if not for cut backs. And lack of an address. You know where they found her signal? Bounced off the ionosphere! Couldn't trace it, thought it was a telecommunications relay off Tongo Tongo.
The Grave Digger starts digging.
So you going to give him a headstone? I'll find him a headstone.
He does: he fetches a rock from the cairn by the creek.
The two men work for a long while together. The Grave Digger relents to a headstone for the Economist. Without a name - What did he say his name was? Ed? Burl? the Editor asks himself, brow in a knot. - they can only offer a simple cross.
The next day, when the Electrical Engineer arrives, the Editor's picked out the biggest rock from the creek. He's in the process of rolling it to the burial ground.
Why the hell don't you get reception? he shouts at his cell phone.
He chucks it against the tree. He pouts for a second. Then rushes up to the trunk to recover the mess of wiring and plastic. He frantically tries mashing everything back together. Finally, saddened, he drops the heap on the table.
Bah!
He scratches his forehead. Looks around.
Not a bad place to retire, he says finally, crossing his arms. A man could spend a lot of quiet time shooting crows up here.
The Grave Digger walks to the grounds bury the body of the Economist. The schnauzer walks beside him.
What's with the no headstones? You people don't identify bodies?
The Grave Digger looks puzzled.
It's not a complaint, but it is.
He wipes his nose, then reaches up to an undefined spot 100 feet in the air.
I want a monument -- in the old tradition. I'm talking about an obelisk. Black! And I want you to help me make that happen, old timer. You and me.
I'm 37.
We're best friends now. Like Romulus and Rhemus. Brothers? Yeah, brothers. Twins!
The Grave Digger grunts.
Thaddaboy, spoken like a man. Joking about the obelisk, but tell me: what's the gravy on his stake? Don't hold back, I want it all. In twenty words or less.
The Grave Digger fills him in.
Huh, says the Editor. Now I know why she was so eager for me to send a crew here. I would have, too, if not for cut backs. And lack of an address. You know where they found her signal? Bounced off the ionosphere! Couldn't trace it, thought it was a telecommunications relay off Tongo Tongo.
The Grave Digger starts digging.
So you going to give him a headstone? I'll find him a headstone.
He does: he fetches a rock from the cairn by the creek.
The two men work for a long while together. The Grave Digger relents to a headstone for the Economist. Without a name - What did he say his name was? Ed? Burl? the Editor asks himself, brow in a knot. - they can only offer a simple cross.
The next day, when the Electrical Engineer arrives, the Editor's picked out the biggest rock from the creek. He's in the process of rolling it to the burial ground.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Economist v. Editor
After winning the duel, the Economist quietly stands over the burial of the Ecologist, then retires to the base of the oak.
It's there that he sees the dusty leather pouch of the forest dweller, and carefully inspects the inside of the bag. Each of the items he lays out on the table. Of special fascination is the marble bust of the plain-looking woman, dressed in homespun 19th-century garb, and the bullet cartridges.
Removing two of the primed cartridges, he reloads both pistols. He examines the hot, used shells just discarded and sees that they - like the other empty shells in the primitive's satchel - are decorated with light, ornately patterned etching. Similar, he notes, to the patterns of a certain indigenous baskets.
Curious, he finds and opens the small drawer under the circular tabletop. Four cartridges roll clumsily into view. He examines all four. Each show similar markings to the cartridges and empty shells from the satchel.
He calls out to the Grave Digger.
Where was this satchel found?
The Grave Digger thrusts his shovel into the loose earth and walks to the oak. He nods at items on the table.
Found alls that on the body of a nativist. Another one shot him a few days ago. He was threatening, spying.
Even so, voices the Economist softly, I think the death may have lead us to a scarcity.
He look down, watching the cartridges roll in his fleshy palm.
How many have come before me? How many duels have you seen?
The Grave Digger swallows. He looks off. He can't remember the number off hand, he can't remember their faces. It's been a month now, maybe more.
Tens, dozens, hundreds?
Dozens, dozens on dozens.
And where have the bullets come from for each duel? I didn't bring bullets. The caretaker?
No. Never him. Never me either. We never brought none.
Someone did. I have a feeling it was the primitives to the east. They've maintained a pre-industrial cottage industry, a cycle of manufacture. Last night I heard the dog barking into the forest. Why they insist on secrecy, on replenishing the ammunition by night, is a mystery. But it explains why the man who was killed was lurking by the border, and why he had these in his pouch.
I was there, says the Grave Digger fearfully, pinching each word. He points. Up in the woods.
So have I, says the Economist sympathetically.
The Grave Digger walks off.
That night, again, the dog barks at the border of the forest.
The Editor's a thin, severe man with a keen eye and a quick tongue. He wears a sweat-stained blue Oxford tucked into a pair of khaki slacks.
Where is she? he spits. Where's my Correspondent?
The Economist tells him he has no clue to whom the Editor refers.
Called from here, I'm sure of it. Just like she described.
The Editor takes a look around again, then squares up.
Just like she said: right from the movie. Right from Swingo!. Tree, creek, cabin, woods, hill. Right from Swingo!.
It's there that he sees the dusty leather pouch of the forest dweller, and carefully inspects the inside of the bag. Each of the items he lays out on the table. Of special fascination is the marble bust of the plain-looking woman, dressed in homespun 19th-century garb, and the bullet cartridges.
Removing two of the primed cartridges, he reloads both pistols. He examines the hot, used shells just discarded and sees that they - like the other empty shells in the primitive's satchel - are decorated with light, ornately patterned etching. Similar, he notes, to the patterns of a certain indigenous baskets.
Curious, he finds and opens the small drawer under the circular tabletop. Four cartridges roll clumsily into view. He examines all four. Each show similar markings to the cartridges and empty shells from the satchel.
He calls out to the Grave Digger.
Where was this satchel found?
The Grave Digger thrusts his shovel into the loose earth and walks to the oak. He nods at items on the table.
Found alls that on the body of a nativist. Another one shot him a few days ago. He was threatening, spying.
Even so, voices the Economist softly, I think the death may have lead us to a scarcity.
He look down, watching the cartridges roll in his fleshy palm.
How many have come before me? How many duels have you seen?
The Grave Digger swallows. He looks off. He can't remember the number off hand, he can't remember their faces. It's been a month now, maybe more.
Tens, dozens, hundreds?
Dozens, dozens on dozens.
And where have the bullets come from for each duel? I didn't bring bullets. The caretaker?
No. Never him. Never me either. We never brought none.
Someone did. I have a feeling it was the primitives to the east. They've maintained a pre-industrial cottage industry, a cycle of manufacture. Last night I heard the dog barking into the forest. Why they insist on secrecy, on replenishing the ammunition by night, is a mystery. But it explains why the man who was killed was lurking by the border, and why he had these in his pouch.
I was there, says the Grave Digger fearfully, pinching each word. He points. Up in the woods.
So have I, says the Economist sympathetically.
The Grave Digger walks off.
That night, again, the dog barks at the border of the forest.
The Editor's a thin, severe man with a keen eye and a quick tongue. He wears a sweat-stained blue Oxford tucked into a pair of khaki slacks.
Where is she? he spits. Where's my Correspondent?
The Economist tells him he has no clue to whom the Editor refers.
Called from here, I'm sure of it. Just like she described.
The Editor takes a look around again, then squares up.
Just like she said: right from the movie. Right from Swingo!. Tree, creek, cabin, woods, hill. Right from Swingo!.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Ecologist v. Economist
It wasn't the rationalization given by the Drill Instructor that brightened the Ecologist's mood, but the fact that the Drill Sergeant sought to rationalize - regardless of his oversimplified and (to the mind of the Ecologist) laughable reasoning. It brightened his mood because it seemed to prove a long-held belief proposed by his academic colleague, the Philosopher (Continental): namely, that all actions (including his) are necessarily unconscious biological reactions to stimuli, and not open to choice, regardless of the feeling that we are subject to chose, itself an illusion.
Thus, at the time, the Ecologist felt more detached from matters of good and evil.
Except now, post-duel, he doesn't; he feels tremendous guilt and grief on looking at the splayed body of the Drill Sergeant beneath him, and the schnauzer nuzzling the Drill Sergeant's hand, as if to coax a pat.
This is rotten, he says.
The Grave Digger buries the body and begins straightening the tumult he caused to Stetson's cabin. The schnauzer, after the burial, sits on the Drill Sergeant's grave. Then, later, joins the Grave Digger. After cleaning the cabin and righting the furniture, the Grave Digger takes residence.
The next day when the Ecologist and Economist meet they, knowing each other in passing from their time at the university, discuss the one thing that happily separates them from unfortunate aspects of reality: their fields of study.
I wrote a paper, says the Ecologist, on the natural reforestation of abandoned farmland and its effect on large mammal populations. It took place in this region. With almost unrestricted private funding we hired a team of townies to act as porters. They carried the observational equipment, the kits used to build electronic monitoring stations throughout the woodlands. We came under attack twice, each time losing a few dozen porters - but more tragically, the wife of my good friend, the group's Ethnologist. But the data we collected - before the stations were found and taken down - showed what I'd expected: an exponential increase in the population. Deer, fox, wolves, bears - in profusion.
As luck would have it, the Economist also did research in the area as a student:
It was just a simple market study, but it played on some historic curiosities: the origin of current day intra-tribal trading amongst anarcho-primitive forest communalists. All communities are intrinsically - often religiously - shy to trade with other communities, especially of different socialist ideological bents (Noyesians, for example, would rather die than exchange with New Harmonists), and of course the ritual patterns of warfare and revenge killings, but they will under certain material conditions. Usually if both parties' receive a mutual, favorably interpreted omen, and if the necessities of each are high enough, and if armed raiding is strategically inadvisable. Some tribes are different than others, of course: some never trade; some have, over years, ritualized the event, leading to regular market gatherings reminiscent of the standard extra-tribal rendezvous, held in different mountain glades each summer season. But these are usually among the more southern tribes, near the coal mining regions. We documented three communities over two years, all in the hills and forests to the east. Facinating people, in a way, however morally reprehensible.
The Ecologist agrees.
Imagine living without order, part of a pack. Regardless of whether I agree with them or not, it's not difficult to see why colleagues started the petition to reclassify the communalists as a particular sub-human species. They way they act, they might as well be studied as animals.
My last lecture, in fact, touched on that topic exacly: I used them as an example of a culture without a stable division of labor.
The Ecologist is about to extol the freedom he and the Economist have to chose their own paths - when he suddenly remembers the Drill Sergeant's act of rationalization. He's thrown into an unexpected spat of doubt.
Thus, at the time, the Ecologist felt more detached from matters of good and evil.
Except now, post-duel, he doesn't; he feels tremendous guilt and grief on looking at the splayed body of the Drill Sergeant beneath him, and the schnauzer nuzzling the Drill Sergeant's hand, as if to coax a pat.
This is rotten, he says.
The Grave Digger buries the body and begins straightening the tumult he caused to Stetson's cabin. The schnauzer, after the burial, sits on the Drill Sergeant's grave. Then, later, joins the Grave Digger. After cleaning the cabin and righting the furniture, the Grave Digger takes residence.
The next day when the Ecologist and Economist meet they, knowing each other in passing from their time at the university, discuss the one thing that happily separates them from unfortunate aspects of reality: their fields of study.
I wrote a paper, says the Ecologist, on the natural reforestation of abandoned farmland and its effect on large mammal populations. It took place in this region. With almost unrestricted private funding we hired a team of townies to act as porters. They carried the observational equipment, the kits used to build electronic monitoring stations throughout the woodlands. We came under attack twice, each time losing a few dozen porters - but more tragically, the wife of my good friend, the group's Ethnologist. But the data we collected - before the stations were found and taken down - showed what I'd expected: an exponential increase in the population. Deer, fox, wolves, bears - in profusion.
As luck would have it, the Economist also did research in the area as a student:
It was just a simple market study, but it played on some historic curiosities: the origin of current day intra-tribal trading amongst anarcho-primitive forest communalists. All communities are intrinsically - often religiously - shy to trade with other communities, especially of different socialist ideological bents (Noyesians, for example, would rather die than exchange with New Harmonists), and of course the ritual patterns of warfare and revenge killings, but they will under certain material conditions. Usually if both parties' receive a mutual, favorably interpreted omen, and if the necessities of each are high enough, and if armed raiding is strategically inadvisable. Some tribes are different than others, of course: some never trade; some have, over years, ritualized the event, leading to regular market gatherings reminiscent of the standard extra-tribal rendezvous, held in different mountain glades each summer season. But these are usually among the more southern tribes, near the coal mining regions. We documented three communities over two years, all in the hills and forests to the east. Facinating people, in a way, however morally reprehensible.
The Ecologist agrees.
Imagine living without order, part of a pack. Regardless of whether I agree with them or not, it's not difficult to see why colleagues started the petition to reclassify the communalists as a particular sub-human species. They way they act, they might as well be studied as animals.
My last lecture, in fact, touched on that topic exacly: I used them as an example of a culture without a stable division of labor.
The Ecologist is about to extol the freedom he and the Economist have to chose their own paths - when he suddenly remembers the Drill Sergeant's act of rationalization. He's thrown into an unexpected spat of doubt.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Drill Sergeant v. Ecologist
The Drill Sergeant doesn't bury the body of the forest dweller, but lays him beside the Dyer. As he walks to the cabin in search of a shovel he sees a haggard figure in the far distance, walking through the corn field east from the road. Only his head's exposed. His face barely peeks from beneath a frayed straw hat.
Still wary from the previous encounter, he pulls a pistol from under his belt. The schnauzer starts barking. Yet the man walks on, pushing through the rows of burnt, water-starved, neck-high corn. The Drill Sergeant steps behind the south wall of the cabin, partly hiding from sight.
Finally the man steps from the corn. The Drill Sergeant turns the corner, pistol aimed at the man's chest. The dog stops barking.
I'm no enemy, says the man. He slowly reaches up and takes off his hat. It's the Grave Digger. A bandage runs over his left eye. He looks at the Drill Sergeant, then the dog.
After explaining who his is and his function - and proving it by naming the location of the shovel, left laying behind tall weeds against the east wall of the cabin - the Drill Sergeant lowers his gun. The dog lays in the shade of the cabin, panting from the oppressive, windless heat.
How many duels you won?
The Drill Sergeant answers. Two. The Grave Digger nods. He looks down at the dog with dispassionate eyes. He looks over at the cabin, torn asunder, looted. It's then that the Drill Sergeant smells the atmosphere of stale liquor and cheap cigar around the man. He stiffens.
Where were you the last two days? he asks curtly. It's summer. Bodies rot as fast as they drop.
The Grave Digger shakes his head. The Drill Sergeant narrows his eyes, licks his parched lips.
I shot a forest dweller -- a nativist lurking at the perimeter.
This is the first news that perks the Grave Digger's interest, that snaps him from his torpor. He asks to be taken to see the body. He almost forgets to take the shovel.
When they reach the body the Grave Digger lowers himself slowly, with cautious movement from the still-painful wounds and bruises, onto one knee, scattering a swarm of flies. He looks at the face. He looks at the tattoos on the cheekbones, the crude ouroboros on the man's arm.
They were all masked when they took us, animal masks. They took us to the village, with a dog. I don't remember. We were knocked out. Not longhouses but timber with gabled roofs. Children playing. Women. They took him away. Separated us. Then they washed me head to foot. I was terrified. I struggled. You've heard the stories, you understand.
The Grave Digger stops. He pauses, then stands.
I don't recognize him, he says. I saw too many, or not enough.
We need to call a Forest Ranger, says the Drill Sergeant. We'll go together.
The Grave Digger shakes his head. They're a joke. And what's more, no one knows the patterns of jurisdiction up here. A professional Assessor couldn't draw lines between the stakes. Less than any other part of the wilderness.
We'll go anyway.
The Grave Digger looks the Drill Sergeant in the eye. You're not leaving the grounds, he says. You duel.
The Drill Sergeant thinks better of objecting. He walks back to the oak. The Grave Digger takes to burying the dead. Notably, he drags the forest dweller north to the red rock, where the earlier sacrificial boy was buried.
The day turns to night, and night to morning.
The Ecologist, a young, awkward man in khakis and a gold shirt, arrives alert yet quietly distressed, like a patient calling on a dentist for a tooth that can't be short of needing pulled.
You don't look proud to be here, son, the Drill Sergeant barks.
The Ecologist explains the loss of others at the university. And his studies. Then, as if only then waking to the Drill Sergeant's statement, asks what he should feel proud of.
This is an institution, states the Drill Instructor. The validity of it is obvious. It doesn't matter if you or I have ever heard of it. The importance of some things are so great as to never be known. Yet that doesn't dissuade good men from doing their duty. From duty comes a sense of pride. Good men are proud of the duty they do to strengthen the whole.
This speech causes the Ecologist's mood to brighten significantly. He accepts the duel with enthusiasm.
Still wary from the previous encounter, he pulls a pistol from under his belt. The schnauzer starts barking. Yet the man walks on, pushing through the rows of burnt, water-starved, neck-high corn. The Drill Sergeant steps behind the south wall of the cabin, partly hiding from sight.
Finally the man steps from the corn. The Drill Sergeant turns the corner, pistol aimed at the man's chest. The dog stops barking.
I'm no enemy, says the man. He slowly reaches up and takes off his hat. It's the Grave Digger. A bandage runs over his left eye. He looks at the Drill Sergeant, then the dog.
After explaining who his is and his function - and proving it by naming the location of the shovel, left laying behind tall weeds against the east wall of the cabin - the Drill Sergeant lowers his gun. The dog lays in the shade of the cabin, panting from the oppressive, windless heat.
How many duels you won?
The Drill Sergeant answers. Two. The Grave Digger nods. He looks down at the dog with dispassionate eyes. He looks over at the cabin, torn asunder, looted. It's then that the Drill Sergeant smells the atmosphere of stale liquor and cheap cigar around the man. He stiffens.
Where were you the last two days? he asks curtly. It's summer. Bodies rot as fast as they drop.
The Grave Digger shakes his head. The Drill Sergeant narrows his eyes, licks his parched lips.
I shot a forest dweller -- a nativist lurking at the perimeter.
This is the first news that perks the Grave Digger's interest, that snaps him from his torpor. He asks to be taken to see the body. He almost forgets to take the shovel.
When they reach the body the Grave Digger lowers himself slowly, with cautious movement from the still-painful wounds and bruises, onto one knee, scattering a swarm of flies. He looks at the face. He looks at the tattoos on the cheekbones, the crude ouroboros on the man's arm.
They were all masked when they took us, animal masks. They took us to the village, with a dog. I don't remember. We were knocked out. Not longhouses but timber with gabled roofs. Children playing. Women. They took him away. Separated us. Then they washed me head to foot. I was terrified. I struggled. You've heard the stories, you understand.
The Grave Digger stops. He pauses, then stands.
I don't recognize him, he says. I saw too many, or not enough.
We need to call a Forest Ranger, says the Drill Sergeant. We'll go together.
The Grave Digger shakes his head. They're a joke. And what's more, no one knows the patterns of jurisdiction up here. A professional Assessor couldn't draw lines between the stakes. Less than any other part of the wilderness.
We'll go anyway.
The Grave Digger looks the Drill Sergeant in the eye. You're not leaving the grounds, he says. You duel.
The Drill Sergeant thinks better of objecting. He walks back to the oak. The Grave Digger takes to burying the dead. Notably, he drags the forest dweller north to the red rock, where the earlier sacrificial boy was buried.
The day turns to night, and night to morning.
The Ecologist, a young, awkward man in khakis and a gold shirt, arrives alert yet quietly distressed, like a patient calling on a dentist for a tooth that can't be short of needing pulled.
You don't look proud to be here, son, the Drill Sergeant barks.
The Ecologist explains the loss of others at the university. And his studies. Then, as if only then waking to the Drill Sergeant's statement, asks what he should feel proud of.
This is an institution, states the Drill Instructor. The validity of it is obvious. It doesn't matter if you or I have ever heard of it. The importance of some things are so great as to never be known. Yet that doesn't dissuade good men from doing their duty. From duty comes a sense of pride. Good men are proud of the duty they do to strengthen the whole.
This speech causes the Ecologist's mood to brighten significantly. He accepts the duel with enthusiasm.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Drill Sergeant v. Dyer
The Drill Sergeant pushes his way past the chaos of books, clothes, radio equipment, paper, and overturned furniture, and into Stetson's cabin. After an hour of straightening and searching, he finds a thin parcel containing carefully layered strips of pemmican. He steps from the cabin.
Two strips are thrown on the ground in front of the schnauzer, who gobbles them up. The Drill Sergeant takes a strip for himself. He re-wraps the parcel, tosses it back into the cabin, and, using the strip he saved, spends the rest of the afternoon teaching the schnauzer to salute.
The dog's a fast learner.
Later that night, as the Drill Sergeant bunks down beside the oak, and the dog close beside him, the schnauzer stands, ears perked high, looking in the direction of forest.
Enemy, boy?
The dog salutes.
Good damn, the Drill Sergeant whispers. He stands, holstering one pistol in his trouser, holding the other. He walks slowly in the direction of the forest. The schnauzer, alert and on point, walks a few paces ahead.
As they near close to the edge of the forest, the hair on the back of the schnauzer stands on end. It lowers his stance, growling deeply. Without warning the Drill Sergeant fires ahead, in the direction the dog faces. There's an anguished cry from behind the bush.
The dog lunges, fangs barred, into the woods. There's a great struggle, snapping of branches, barking - and wailing from an unseen man. The Drill Sergeant, unsure of the dog, unable to push into the pitch black envelope of branches and leaves, calls out for the animal. The struggle ends. The man stumbles off. The dog runs back to the Drill Sergeant.
From the dog's mouth the Drill Sergeant takes a torn, dusty leather satchel. Beads and simple decoration adorn the front, the band.
The Drill Sergeant opens the prize. In the light of the full moon he looks inside: a small light blue glass bottle, half full of bathtub gin; a handful of highly decorated, engraved .455 Webley brass shells; a pouch full twenty or thirty live .455 bullets, undecorated; a small marble bust of a nameless woman of plain appearance; an elk mask; and a crude, hand-printed pamphlet, in a language the Drill Sergeant doesn't recognize.
We'll find him tomorrow, he tells the dog.
The next morning, after eating the last of the pemmican, they walk into the forest, at the spot of confrontation the night before. Splotches of dry blood flower the ground. The schnauzer, excited by the memory, runs frantically around the spot, whining, pushing his way deeper into the forest, looking back at the Drill Sergeant as if pleading to be followed.
The Drill Sergeant, after a careful scan of the area for more objects, follows the dog. Not forty yards away, slumped over beneath the trunk of a great ash, sits an obscured figure of a man.
The Drill Sergeant and dog stand silently for a few seconds before advancing quickly, pistol out, pressed against the man's head.
The man's dead.
He's the same native that greeted the Distiller, but with two holes in his torso - one in his chest, one in his gut - and deep bite marks on his arms and legs. The only distinguishing mark, apart from the wounds, are the pattern and nature of the tribal tattoos that mark the the man's body: inked notches on his cheeks, a self-consuming snake on the upper right bicep, an obscure double-zodiac running vertically between his shoulder blades.
The Drill Sergeant drags the body from the forest to the grounds in time to meet the Dyer, a hearty young woman with a worried expression.
Two strips are thrown on the ground in front of the schnauzer, who gobbles them up. The Drill Sergeant takes a strip for himself. He re-wraps the parcel, tosses it back into the cabin, and, using the strip he saved, spends the rest of the afternoon teaching the schnauzer to salute.
The dog's a fast learner.
Later that night, as the Drill Sergeant bunks down beside the oak, and the dog close beside him, the schnauzer stands, ears perked high, looking in the direction of forest.
Enemy, boy?
The dog salutes.
Good damn, the Drill Sergeant whispers. He stands, holstering one pistol in his trouser, holding the other. He walks slowly in the direction of the forest. The schnauzer, alert and on point, walks a few paces ahead.
As they near close to the edge of the forest, the hair on the back of the schnauzer stands on end. It lowers his stance, growling deeply. Without warning the Drill Sergeant fires ahead, in the direction the dog faces. There's an anguished cry from behind the bush.
The dog lunges, fangs barred, into the woods. There's a great struggle, snapping of branches, barking - and wailing from an unseen man. The Drill Sergeant, unsure of the dog, unable to push into the pitch black envelope of branches and leaves, calls out for the animal. The struggle ends. The man stumbles off. The dog runs back to the Drill Sergeant.
From the dog's mouth the Drill Sergeant takes a torn, dusty leather satchel. Beads and simple decoration adorn the front, the band.
The Drill Sergeant opens the prize. In the light of the full moon he looks inside: a small light blue glass bottle, half full of bathtub gin; a handful of highly decorated, engraved .455 Webley brass shells; a pouch full twenty or thirty live .455 bullets, undecorated; a small marble bust of a nameless woman of plain appearance; an elk mask; and a crude, hand-printed pamphlet, in a language the Drill Sergeant doesn't recognize.
We'll find him tomorrow, he tells the dog.
The next morning, after eating the last of the pemmican, they walk into the forest, at the spot of confrontation the night before. Splotches of dry blood flower the ground. The schnauzer, excited by the memory, runs frantically around the spot, whining, pushing his way deeper into the forest, looking back at the Drill Sergeant as if pleading to be followed.
The Drill Sergeant, after a careful scan of the area for more objects, follows the dog. Not forty yards away, slumped over beneath the trunk of a great ash, sits an obscured figure of a man.
The Drill Sergeant and dog stand silently for a few seconds before advancing quickly, pistol out, pressed against the man's head.
The man's dead.
He's the same native that greeted the Distiller, but with two holes in his torso - one in his chest, one in his gut - and deep bite marks on his arms and legs. The only distinguishing mark, apart from the wounds, are the pattern and nature of the tribal tattoos that mark the the man's body: inked notches on his cheeks, a self-consuming snake on the upper right bicep, an obscure double-zodiac running vertically between his shoulder blades.
The Drill Sergeant drags the body from the forest to the grounds in time to meet the Dyer, a hearty young woman with a worried expression.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Drayman v. Drill Sargeant
Wake up you sniveling nancy!
The Drayman snaps awake. He'd been dozing in Stetson's chair. He looks up a thick-necked bull of a man, face red with sun and anger. The man tells him to get up. The Drayman stands.
You think you're man enough to stand across from me on the dueling ground? Disgrace. Look at yourself! Go ahead!
The Drayman looks down. What he sees isn't much different than what he's seen before: he's an unfit man in his early 30s, belly hanging like a sack of wet clothes, brown collared shirt untucked, third button missing, jam stain on his left lapel. He reeks of sweat, horse stables and gin. His shorts are unfashionably long, unattractively beige, irrevocably grease-spattered. Wiry black hair sheathes two pale, porcine calves, both devolving to plump feet, unclipped toes straining against the plastic thongs of Hawaiian patterned flip flops. He's neither a prime exhibit of communal success, nor one of independent free will. He's a shlub.
You know who would be a better opponent? That dog right there!
The Drill Sargeant points to the German schnauzer. It stands at perfect attention, legs slightly back, docked tail stiff and upright, ears alert, head in squared and straight, coat glossy.
The Drayman feels a pang of jealousy.
I bet you don't even have a goddamn job!
I do, he swallows. I'm Drayman for a licensed gin concern.
The Drill Sargeant narrows his eyes knowingly. Bullshit! You're a nativist bootlegger!
The Drayman makes to protest, but realizes that he's still wearing the red ribbon around his arm. He looks down.
Pathetic, hisses the Drill Instructor. How do you wake up in the morning?
Usually hung over.
Shut up!
The Drayman folds his hands sheepishly.
Tell me who's in charge around here!
The Drayman mentions the Grave Digger, but says he doubts whether he's in charge of much. He mentions the wounds, and the story of a kidnapping.
Bet they did it hopped up on blood and gin.
I don't know. Studies say it's a mistake to assume that all tribal communities'll fall unconditionally violent when exposed to gin.
The Drill Sargeant, with a fist curled up at his waist, lands a short blow to middle of the Drayman's gut.
Oof!
Now march your dimpled ass over to the oak, pick out your weapon. and try not to rub your idiocy onto this goddamn prince of a dog in passing!
The Drayman stumbles off. The dog watches him from the corner of his eye. After the Drayman's a few yards off, the Drill Sargeant leans over and inspects the schnauzer, from head to anus. He gives the animal two firm pats on the head in appreciation.
The Drayman snaps awake. He'd been dozing in Stetson's chair. He looks up a thick-necked bull of a man, face red with sun and anger. The man tells him to get up. The Drayman stands.
You think you're man enough to stand across from me on the dueling ground? Disgrace. Look at yourself! Go ahead!
The Drayman looks down. What he sees isn't much different than what he's seen before: he's an unfit man in his early 30s, belly hanging like a sack of wet clothes, brown collared shirt untucked, third button missing, jam stain on his left lapel. He reeks of sweat, horse stables and gin. His shorts are unfashionably long, unattractively beige, irrevocably grease-spattered. Wiry black hair sheathes two pale, porcine calves, both devolving to plump feet, unclipped toes straining against the plastic thongs of Hawaiian patterned flip flops. He's neither a prime exhibit of communal success, nor one of independent free will. He's a shlub.
You know who would be a better opponent? That dog right there!
The Drill Sargeant points to the German schnauzer. It stands at perfect attention, legs slightly back, docked tail stiff and upright, ears alert, head in squared and straight, coat glossy.
The Drayman feels a pang of jealousy.
I bet you don't even have a goddamn job!
I do, he swallows. I'm Drayman for a licensed gin concern.
The Drill Sargeant narrows his eyes knowingly. Bullshit! You're a nativist bootlegger!
The Drayman makes to protest, but realizes that he's still wearing the red ribbon around his arm. He looks down.
Pathetic, hisses the Drill Instructor. How do you wake up in the morning?
Usually hung over.
Shut up!
The Drayman folds his hands sheepishly.
Tell me who's in charge around here!
The Drayman mentions the Grave Digger, but says he doubts whether he's in charge of much. He mentions the wounds, and the story of a kidnapping.
Bet they did it hopped up on blood and gin.
I don't know. Studies say it's a mistake to assume that all tribal communities'll fall unconditionally violent when exposed to gin.
The Drill Sargeant, with a fist curled up at his waist, lands a short blow to middle of the Drayman's gut.
Oof!
Now march your dimpled ass over to the oak, pick out your weapon. and try not to rub your idiocy onto this goddamn prince of a dog in passing!
The Drayman stumbles off. The dog watches him from the corner of his eye. After the Drayman's a few yards off, the Drill Sargeant leans over and inspects the schnauzer, from head to anus. He gives the animal two firm pats on the head in appreciation.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Drayman v. Dressmaker
With the Grave Digger convalescing in Stetson's cabin, the Drayman drinks: he pours himself a liberal glass of gin and cold creek water, sits in the chair outisde Stetson's cabin, and falls asleep to the sound of bats whirling unseen above his head. The schnauzer falls asleep beside him.
He wakes, startled, to the sound of toppling furniture, thrown books, the crash of electronics. The dog bolts upright and barks.
Inside the cabin, the Grave Digger searches madly. The Drayman stands and watches from outside. He yawns.
What are you doing?
Looking for something.
Oh.
The Grave Digger continues his rampage.
Mind if I ask what you're looking for?
Yes.
Oh.
The Drayman considers the choices before him. Charactaristically, he takes the path of least resistence: he sits back down in the chair. He leans back, pulls his long billed cap over his eyes, and tries his best to fall back into gin-soaked sleep.
In this he is successful. Such is the genius of the Drayman.
When he wakes the next morning the Grave Digger's gone. The mess he made of the cabin is still there. It's terrible. Whether he found what he was looking for or not is a mystery.
When the Dressmaker arrives the Drayman's on his second glass of creek water and gin of the morning.
The schnauzer yawns.
He wakes, startled, to the sound of toppling furniture, thrown books, the crash of electronics. The dog bolts upright and barks.
Inside the cabin, the Grave Digger searches madly. The Drayman stands and watches from outside. He yawns.
What are you doing?
Looking for something.
Oh.
The Grave Digger continues his rampage.
Mind if I ask what you're looking for?
Yes.
Oh.
The Drayman considers the choices before him. Charactaristically, he takes the path of least resistence: he sits back down in the chair. He leans back, pulls his long billed cap over his eyes, and tries his best to fall back into gin-soaked sleep.
In this he is successful. Such is the genius of the Drayman.
When he wakes the next morning the Grave Digger's gone. The mess he made of the cabin is still there. It's terrible. Whether he found what he was looking for or not is a mystery.
When the Dressmaker arrives the Drayman's on his second glass of creek water and gin of the morning.
The schnauzer yawns.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Dramaturge v. Drayman
Barking's heard late that night. The next morning the Dramaturge finds the dog sniffing at something to the east. He walks over and spots the Grave Digger sprawled unconscious on the grass by the edge of the forest, his shirt ripped, his body bruised and lightly scarred, but otherwise intact. After having a mug of creek water dumped over his head, the Grave Digger wakes with an annoyed start.
This world doesn't need more hobos, says the Dramaturge severely.
The Grave Digger, too sore of mind and body to snarl, smacks his dry lips. He musters enough energy to sit up, pulling his legs into a crossed position, head slung low.
The schnauzer watches expressionless from a few feet away.
Get more water, mouths the Grave Digger.
The Dramaturge thinks of balking, but gets the distressed man his water from the creek. He drinks quickly, then leans back.
I'm no drunk, says the Grave Digger.
The Dramaturge asks what happened. The Grave Digger shakes his head in a disappointed way, as if trying to shaming a student out of recalcitrance.
I don't know what they did with him....
With who?
The Grave Digger pulls on the Dramaturge's sleeve. He looks up, eyes bloodshot. It's all a game of chess! he seethes.
The Dramaturge eventually helps the Grave Digger to his feet. He carries him to the cabin, where he's bedded.
The Drayman arrives the next monrning, greeted by the schnauzer and the Dramaturge, while the Grave Digger sleeps. The Drayman wears a band of red ribbon around his left arm, and smells of gin.
This world doesn't need more hobos, says the Dramaturge severely.
The Grave Digger, too sore of mind and body to snarl, smacks his dry lips. He musters enough energy to sit up, pulling his legs into a crossed position, head slung low.
The schnauzer watches expressionless from a few feet away.
Get more water, mouths the Grave Digger.
The Dramaturge thinks of balking, but gets the distressed man his water from the creek. He drinks quickly, then leans back.
I'm no drunk, says the Grave Digger.
The Dramaturge asks what happened. The Grave Digger shakes his head in a disappointed way, as if trying to shaming a student out of recalcitrance.
I don't know what they did with him....
With who?
The Grave Digger pulls on the Dramaturge's sleeve. He looks up, eyes bloodshot. It's all a game of chess! he seethes.
The Dramaturge eventually helps the Grave Digger to his feet. He carries him to the cabin, where he's bedded.
The Drayman arrives the next monrning, greeted by the schnauzer and the Dramaturge, while the Grave Digger sleeps. The Drayman wears a band of red ribbon around his left arm, and smells of gin.
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