Assassin v. Assessor

The Assassin pats down the Artist's coat. He pulls out a cigar. Squeezes it gently. Holds it up half an inch from his nose. Bites off the end, spits, and lights it with matches from the Artist's shirt pocket. Cigar clenched between his teeth, he drags the Art Director and the Art Therapist to the corpses by the northern fence. He drags the body of the Artist to a spot to southwest, close to where the road bridges the creek.

Then he returns to the oak. He drops the matches on the table beside pistols and the basket. Then he leans back and waits.

The Assessor walks from the road. She's a short-haired, severe woman in a coarse, straw colored wool turtleneck, dark jeans, drab flats.

He watches as she approaches.

Hi, she says curtly. Before we start I want you to know that this little get-together's put a crimp in my day.

The Assassin nods.

Not just a little crimp. I know you're not to blame but c'mon. It's tax time. And I'm the only county assessor with her head outside her ass. So. Enough said, she says.

She looks him over. Who are you?

I work in risk management, he says.

Good for you, she says.

Have you assessed this area?

Depending on who you ask? This area officially falls either under the jurisdiction of about like five municipalities/agencies. And that doesn't even include the three tribal counsels, each with their own claim.

Really.

And you know there's an old missile silo literally feet from here?

I didn't.

Oh yeah. So then you bring in the Feds, too. You know, from any tax law standpoint? This land? Forget about it. Much less from an assessor's. I don't even care who owns the title, okay? Whatever.

They continue talking about land assessment until the Assassin finishes his cigar. He drops it, grinds it out with the toe of his black oxford wing-tip. He gestures toward the pistols. The Assessor chooses hers, the Assassin his.

The take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Artist v. Assassin

The Artist returns to the oak. He looks in the basket and examines the list. Then with the pencil he writes "l'Violeur du Art". He returns the list and the pencil and takes another cigar from his coat and lights it and walks the field.

After awhile the Assassin arrives. He's a well-groomed man in a dark blue suit, a dark blue overcoat. Hair dark, combed back and to the left. This is all that can be said of him without giving away his cover.

The Artist sees him from afar. He raises his cigar in greeting. The Assassin nods, waves once.

When the Artist reaches the Assassin they greet each other cordially. They comment on the rural setting, which they both find relaxing. The Assassin asks about the two bodies - the bodies of the Art Director and Art Therapist - that lay sprawled in grotesque posture on the field several yards away.

That one was a very pleasant girl, the Artist says. I can't say I met the young man.

Have you vacationed at the Cape? asks the Assassin.

The Artist says he had, many times, and it enjoyed himself very much.

You see, says the Artist, I have friends whose house is by the shore. In the summer months, when the city becomes warm, we travel to the Cape.

I think I met you there once. Do you know the [redacted] family?

Very much, yes. Lovely people.

Well I worked for Mr. [redacted] under the [redacted] Administration.

Ah. Pardon, I think I may be confusing families. You mean the [redacted] of [redacted], whose eldest daughter is club-footed?

Yes. And you mean the [redacted] of [redacted], whose youngest son is a closeted homosexual?

Yes.

Ah.

Seems so.

Because those families are far from similar.

Furthest from the same.

The two families couldn't be more different.

I agree.

Though both are hospitable.

And generous with their time.

Just that one supports the arts and the other extra-territorial assassination.

The Artist extends his hand.

In any regard, it is a pleasure to meet you, Mr.?

Redacted.

They shake. Not long after they take the field, stand ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.