Animal Trainer v. Animator

Here Norman! calls the Animal Trainer. Norman!

The Animal Trainer walks along the edge of the creek, calling for her marmot. After an hour of searching she returns to the oak. The Animator stands under the oak by a bottle of expensive imported beer, a shallow dish.

I think we've met, says the Animator. We both worked on SWINGO!

They shake hands. The Animator is pale, willowy, faintly attractive. She wears a slim black pea coat, a mute orange scarf.

The Animator asks about Norman Mailer. The Animal Trainer explains.

Do you expect to recapture him? asks the Animator.

He's frightened and stubborn, says the Animal Trainer. He's my best pupil. I can only hope he gets thirsty for beer.

It is by far his favorite beverage, says the Animator.

The Animal Trainer uncorks the bottle of beer and pours a healthy portion into the shallow dish. Here Norman! she calls. Beer Norman!

I would have never worked on SWINGO! if I'd known it would have had such a devastating effect on people, the Animator says. This puts me in the minority. I don't care how beautiful or brilliant that film was. I just feel I should say that to you.

It brought more exposure to Norman than I would have wanted, the Animal Trainer says, for all the wrong reasons. Still, she says, it realigned my consciousness in, I think, a beneficial way.

I disagree, though this puts me in the minority, says the Animator.

They spend time choosing their pistols. Eventually, they step out to the field, fifteen paces apart.

In the far distance an almost imperceptible sound, a whistle. The Animal Trainer's eyes widen.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

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.