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.

Ambassador v. Anesthesiologist

The Ambassador wipes the pistols to the side of the rosewood table. He empties his pockets. He lays everything out. A silver bill clip (containing $313) engraved with the initials B.O.J., a silver-inlaid pen knife, a set of keys with a silver boat anchor keychain.

He stretches against the tree, lunging, hands before him, palms to the trunk, head down, pressing, releasing. He stretches his legs, he stretches his arms. He decides to jog. He jogs a triangular route from the oak to the eastern fence to the creek, back and forth from the far creek to the oak. He does this 100 times or so.

The Anesthesiologist arrives and watches the Ambassador jog. The Anesthesiologist is a heavyset bald man. He wears a fine open-collared shirt beneath a casual brown corduroy jacket. His gut sags over his pressed chinos. He walks in scuffed Italian leather shoes.

The Anesthesiologist bores quickly. He whistles, motioning. The Ambassador stops before him, jogging in place.

Sir, you'll have to wait, says the Ambassador. Sir, I'd rather not wait, says the Anesthesiologist.

The Ambassador lays a sweaty hand on the Anesthesiologist's shoulder. Before we engage, says the Ambassador, I'll need to warm up physically. I'll also need to jog away the terrible thoughts that arose after killing that strange young man laying there with arms splayed. He gestures toward the body of the Aerospace Engineer with his chin. Then salutes. He continues his jog.

The Anesthesiologist steals sixty dollars from the Ambassador's bill clip.

100 laps or so later, the Ambassador stops before the Anesthesiologist again. There are deep sweat stains under his arms and down his chest and around his groin. What a jog, he says.

I'll pay you twenty dollars for your pen knife, says the Anesthesiologist. I'm sorry but it was a gift from my mother, says the Ambassador. Fourty, says the Anesthesiologist. I'm sorry, I could never part with it, says the Ambassador. Sixty, says the Anesthesiologist. Done, says the Ambassador, snatching the bills. The Anesthesiologist takes the silver-inlaid pen knife from the table. Well this is a piece of shit, says the Anesthesiologist. He throws it on the ground and grinds it into the dirt with his scuffed Italian leather shoe.

Sir, have I mentioned that I'm an ambassador? asks the Ambassador.

Really? You look like a piece of shit, the Anesthesiologist says.

And I sincerely apologize for that, says the Ambassador.

They take their places on the field, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.