Archivist v. Art Director

When the Art Director - an eager looking man in his early 30s in striped green slacks, pink shirt, silk tie and an expensive suit jacket - when the Art Director arrives from the road the Archivist walks briskly to meet him, occasionally tripping on field stones, holding his broken glasses in place. They meet. The Art Director regards him with ironic distance.

What do you do? asks the Archivist.

The Art Director seems a bit uneasy at being asked. He shrugs. Well, he says, I was a painter. Now I'm writing this comic novel.

Really? A cartoonist?

Well, says the Art Director, I mean - yeah. But not professionally.

What do you do for work?

The Art Director looks off. I'm a creative. I work in advertising, he says.

Advertising? No, says the Archivist. What do you do? Do you have a card?

Is this a duel or an audit?

The Archivist persists.

Here. The Art Director hands the Archivist his card. Senior Assistant Creative Director. That's the official title. I'm an art director.

Perfect, says the Archivist. He takes out his heavily redacted list of the dead. As the two walk to the oak, the Archivist explains his work. He shows the Art Director his list. The Art Director, after they choose their pistols, accompanies the Archivist to the line of corpses along the north fence.

Well, Jesus. I think that's - the actor that's been missing, says the Art Director, pointing to the Actor. He was in SWINGO!

Yes! cries the Archivist. My gosh. The Archivist uses this to arrange the names, sneezing throughout.

After they discuss and debate the possible occupations of the bodies, the list begins taking shape. When they do all they can, they take the field, fifteen paces apart.

If I die, says the Archivist, can you add me to the list?

Of course, says the Art Director, if you'll do the same for me.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Archivist v. Armorer

The Armorer's a thick sort of man. He wears a blackened leather smock, a track suit, a burly goatee. He meets the Archivist and they strike up a conversation.

What happened to your glasses?

Ah, says the Archivist, I broke them.

The Armorer doesn't smile. He scratches his neck. I used to work in mall security, he says. Then I got interested in different sorts of armor. Now I'm an armorer. I make and repair armor. Only bring it up because you never know who might need armor smithed, so I ask everybody.

Sorry, I don't have any armor.

Want to buy some?

Ah. No, sorry.

There's no harm in asking. Don't ask, you never know.

True. So. You must find your job rewarding.

Not really. There's less demand for Medieval armor than you'd think.

Oh?

But my wife is a nurse, so we're doing okay.

Good.

Yeah, she gets overtime.

But you like your work?

Sure. I wouldn't do anything else, even if my wife complains about it. The noise. Because my shop is in the den.

The Archivist smiles. He looks down at the rosewood table, which he's made into a makeshift desk.

What are you doing?

I'm - well, I'm drew up a scheme. It's a bit morose, actually, but not necessarily; just a game I play.

The Armorer walks over to the table and looks at notations on the back of a grocery list.

See, I've taken a tally of the bodies along the fence over there - the Archivist points across the field to the arrangement of corpses, crows hopping between the bodies - and I'm trying to put them in original order. By time of death.

The Armorer nods. Can I see how you did it? he asks.

Absolutely, absolutely, sure. Let's go look. But we should take the pistols, too.

The Armorer agrees. They choose their pistols, tuck them under their belts, and walk to the line of bodies by the fence. The crows fly off. They both go over the Archivist's list. He shows the Armorer the Archer, just dead but already stiff.

Did you kill her? he asks.

Ask me later, says the Archivist. He sneezes.

Who was she?

I don't know. Wild-eyed. Almost shot me with an arrow. An archer.

This sparks some connection.

Hm, says the Archivist, tapping a small golf pencil against his lip. Archer. I'm a rare book archivist at the university library. And you're -

An armorer, says the Armoror.

Well, says the Archivist. What about that? Alphabetical. But none of these recent dead look like they worked in arbitrage...

The Armorer coughs. He adjusts his pistol. The Archivist nods, placing the paper and pencil in his jacket pocket.

We should get to business, he says. The Armorer nods. He walks to the field of battle, the Archivist following close behind. They take their places, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Archer v. Archivist

The Archer walks to the fence bordering the forest to the east. With some effort she pries a loose piece of flat timber. She uses it as a makeshift spade, digs a shallow grave in the soft earth near the creek, and pulls the hound into the grave. She piles it with dirt, then stacks atop it smooth stones, building a short cairn.

She steps down to the creek and reclaims her bow. She cleans it with the Animator's scarf, restrings it, and returns to the oak.

A sweaty, short-sighted man struggles to sidle through the old wire fence toward the north. His generic sneakers catch the lower wire as he steps free, causing him to trip. He falls, losing his glasses. The Archer watches from the oak.

The Archivist, blinded, undoes his shoe laces, freeing himself from the fence. He stands crouching, one shoe off and one shoe on. Little little setback, he says, drawn.

The Archer lowers herself. Keeping her eyes on the Archivist, she slowly advances, step by soft step through the bright grass. She pulls an arrow from the quiver at her thigh and arms her bow.

The Archivist taps the ground with outstretched hands. He sees something brown and, regardless of the overpowering smell of rot and the dizzying buzz of flies, he - ingenuously - mistakes the thing before him. Maybe they're behind this log, he says. He touches the log. It's not a log, but the bloated blackened face of the Actuary. Skin peels from the bone. The Archivist's hand recoils.

The Archer stops, watching.

He wipes his hands on the grass by the fence, horrified. This is the worst Monday I've had in months, he says.

After wiping sufficiently, he makes another quick attempt to feel out the grass around him. Failing this, he sighs and sits back. He hears a muffled crack. Reaching back, he finds his glasses broken in two. Son of a gun, he says.

The Archer slowly raises her bow. She pulls the string back to her lips - pressing against her lip, the tip of her nose. She holds, releases. Just then the Archivist sneezes. The arrow silently passes, shaving a track of thick black hair on the back of his pasty neck. The Archer frowns, perplexed. She looks with incredulity at her bow, her hands.

The Archivist rubs his nose with the back of his hand. He tries putting his broken glasses on his face, each side tucked under each ear. He sneezes again, louder. His glasses fly off.

The Archer laughs. The Archivist looks up. Who's there? he asks.

What's keeping me from killing you now, before the duel? she asks.

The rules of the duel? he ventures.

No, I've cast those rules off, she says. To keep myself alive.

Either way, you should give me a fair shot, he says, holding the left lens to his left eye, looking over at the Archer.

But I hold every advantage.

The Archivist realizes he doesn't have a chance. There's no argument he can use to block her from killing him with a bow an arrow.

Suddenly, as if lowered by a winch from the above...

[Deus Ex Machina.]

They choose their pistols, take their places on the field.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.