Analyst v. Animal Trainer

The Analyst sleeps off his hangover. He wakes, surveys his setting, then drags the body of the Anesthesiologist to the line of bodies along the northern border. Crows alight in the plowed field beyond the wire fence. He looks at them, they look at him. He turns and walks back to the oak.

The Animal Trainer reaches the oak.

She has tight thin lips, calm brown eyes. Dressed in boots, jeans, a red checkered blouse, buckskin jacket. Her long straight gray hair is parted perfectly down the center of her scalp. The Analyst hears a noise, then sees a marmot arrive, not far back, shambling through the grass. The marmot stops beside the Animal Trainer and sits, hands crossed, regarding the Analyst philosophically.

This is my marmot, says the Animal Trainer.

What's its name? asks the Analyst.

Norman Mailer, says the Animal Trainer. He's the world's most talented marmot.

The Animal Trainer explains that, apart from performing in movies like Everett Everyman, Hot Copper II: Cop It Like It's Hot, and SWINGO!.

Now I recognize him, says the Analyst. I love SWINGO!.

I also, she says, spent years training him to whistle at the first sign of evil.

Does he whistle often? asks the Analyst.

No, says the Animal Trainer. But you'd have to expect a marmot's understanding of good and evil to be tenuous at best. Or he's just being difficult. I don't know.

The two take to the field, fifteen paces apart. The marmot sits patiently, hands crossed, watching them from beneath the oak.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Anesthesiologist v. Analyst

The Anesthesiologist grows bored waiting.

He uses the wet newspaper to cover his hands while dragging the bodies of the Accountant, the Acrobat, the Actor, the Actuary, the Administrator, the Advocate, the Aerospace Engineer, the Agent, the Agronomist, the Air Traffic Controller, the Alchemist and the Ambassador across the field to the north, where the the field met weeds and old wire fencing. He positions the bodies side by side, tucks a twenty dollar bill from the Ambassador's bill fold in the pocket of each corpse, and keeps the remainder ($73). He takes all the clothes, the affects and drops them all in a pile at the end of the row of dead. Brushing off the haze of suspended fruit flies, he relocates the pears to an anonymous spot before the timber fence. Here he also deposits the timber, the packing material, the Accountant's bloodied newspaper. He walks to the creek and cleans his hands in the frigid water then returns to the oak.

He waits, bored, for a long while. He looks down at his watch. He sighs impatiently.

The Analyst walks from the road to the west. Where have you been, asks the Anesthesiologist. Who are you to ask me, asks the Analyst. The Analyst is young, irritable, terribly hung over.

You're late to the duel, says the Anesthesiologist. That should benefit me in some way. It's only fair.

Can I just lie down for a second? asks the Analyst. Just for an hour or so. The Analyst lies down on the field. The Anesthesiologist nudges him in the ribs. The Anesthesiologist tells him to get up. The Analyst gets up.

I shoot first, says the Anesthesiologist. Who are you to change the rules, asks the Analyst. You have no authority here.

Well then get on the field, says the Anesthesiologist. The Analyst walks to the field. The Anesthesiologist races to get the guns, gives a gun to the Analyst and stands fifteen paces away.

My God, it's just a duel, says the Analyst.

You know, I like to keep active, okay? says the Anesthesiologist.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.