Astrophysicist v. Athlete

The Astrophysicist tools his wheelchair under the oak. Heavy drops make loud thumps on his black umbrella. He holds there a second. He looks south toward the creek.

Fuck it, he says, throwing his umbrella aside. I'm ending it all.

He jams the joystick forward.

The wheelchair jostles over the roots, then violently over the uneven turf, whizzing at top speed. (10mph.) Aimed headlong toward the slight decline before the stones.

The Athlete watches from beneath one of the poplars that line the road. She sees the Astrophysicist - a curious little silhouette - pop and rumble onward across the horizon. She watches as, without much ceremony, the chair lunges forward, out of sight, into the creek.

The Athlete immediately jumps to action. She bolts from the poplar and runs across the field. Soon she stands over the wreckage.

The Astrophysicist lies with his leg pinned under the overturned carriage. He raises his head, eyes lolling, from over a flat stone. The Athlete rushes down, lifts the wheelchair, pushes his leg free and helps raise him to his feet.

Shockingly, she finds he can stand without help. He looks at her, blinking, eyes just now taking focus.

Who are you? he asks.

She introduces herself. I can't believe this. You can walk. It's a miracle. Look!

The Astrophysicist takes a few tentative steps along the tiny bank. He looks back for her approval. She claps her hands enthusiastically. He smiles brightly. Hah! he says. I say!

They make their way to the oak. There, she discovers that his memory's been blanked.

Nothing? she asks.

Absolute zilch, he says.

She strokes his head. Poor thing, she says.

Yes, well, he says, blushing, right-o and all that, what?

He clears his throat.

But here I am fairly blathering on the subject of - well, that's to say, myself, when all efforts should be dedicated to the expression of charitable feelings toward the long-locked savior before me!

Who?

Well - you.

Oh.

Yes. Thoroughly capital salvage. Not unlike Circe's brace-up of old what's-his-name.... Nautical personage, in any event.

Thank you, she says.

Now what is it we've assembled for again?

The Athlete explains.

By Jove, I'm in the soup again.

The Athlete says they should start picking out pistols.

You wouldn't rather settle this over a hot-blooded game of droughts, would you?

She offers him a gun. He takes it, and she takes the second. They walk out to the field.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Astronomer v. Astrophysicist

The Astronomer sits on the torn chest of the fallen Astronaut and waits until dark.

The moon rises and the sun falls and the stars show.

Hey! says the Astronomer. Look at Venus!

The Astronomer spends an ungodly time looking at Venus.

What's that over there? It's the moon!

The Astronomer affectionately regards the moon for what seems like forever, but what's actually just over an hour.

Then the Astronomer's lifts his head, sees something, and jumps to his feet.

Pleiades!

The Astronomer stands, head back, staring up at Pleiades.

When he wakes the next morning he can't move his head out of an upward-gazing position. At least not without causing severe neck pain.

This might be the worst pre-duel ailment a guy could suffer, he says. But at least it's not raining.

It starts to rain.

The Astrophysicist trundles in on an all-terrain wheelchair. This is strange given that he seems perfectly healthy. Hale, even. He holds a black umbrella over his head.

Hello there! the Astronomer gurgles.

Fuck off! says the Astrophysicist.

Excuse me?

I said sod the fuck off, you cunt!

Hey, listen, guy -

No, you listen, guy - I'm right angry because I just learned one of my postgrads very well fucked what could have been the greatest discovery since the multiple universe theory, and I'm not back at the uni to see to the flaying of that miserable twat!

The Astronomer chuckles. I know all about that, he says.

Few years back a student of mine leaned against a nine-foot stone Aztec lunar calendar, knocking it off it's mount, sending it rolling down and out the lab, down the stairs, out the street, and onto the highway. A mile later it shattered to bits, to powder - gone! A millennia old - gone! Dust! Also killed a couple of road workers.

The Astrophysicist laughs. It's a horrible mocking laugh.

You stupid git, you worthless rubbage-person. Mine wasn't some soft science bullshit, no loss of materiel. I thought I'd achieved a comprehensive mathematically based cosmography, the Theory of Everything, the TOE - all boiled down to one elegant equation! But it's shit because of his error! Gone! Years of work - gone! Dust!

The Astrophysicist looks at the Astronomer, then looks up. What the fuck are you looking at, anyway?

Neck pain.

You are an ass, aren't you?

You know, a nice guy would let me borrow his umbrella.

Like fuck he would. It's time to shoot. And I'm picking the best fucking pistol. If you don't like it, you can try wrestling it from crippled hands.

Fine.

The Astrophysicist negotiates his wheelchair over the roots of the oak to the table. He picks his gun and drives out to the field. The Astronomer pats the table until he feels a pistol, takes it, and follows the Astrophysicist. They take their places on the field.

The Astronomer tries lower his head. Stabbing pain. No go. O Pleiades please guide this my bullet, he prays.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.