Auditor v. Author

The Auditor returns to the oak. From her purse she pulls a trade paperback. She opens it and reads, huddled against the wind.

Suddenly the weather changes. The breeze warms. The snow melts in unreal fashion, the water absorbed. The grass brightens and the oak buds gloss and tender leaves. The overcast dissipates. The warm sun shines. The forest teams with activity. The birds trill and chirp. A fox races along the fence to the north. The corpses take the smell of perfume. And flowers - every variety of tulip, crocus, narcissus, daffodil, hyacinth - burst forth and blossom around the base of the oak, around her, the Auditor, in supernatural splendor.

Startled from her reading, she drops the book. She watches as I walk from the road.

Dressed in collared shirt and jacket, sweater, jeans, I walk with my hands in my pockets, head down.

Hey, I say.

Hello, she says.

I evoke two wicker chairs, cushioned, sitting side by side, on either side of the rosewood table. Then I change the Auditor clothing to befit the weather. A light patterned blouse, pressed jeans, hair pulled back.

Have a seat, I say. I sit. She sits, nervous, astonished.

Who are you? she asks.

I lean back and sigh. I cross my legs.

Listen, I apologize for the ostentation. I probably shouldn't have done it this way. The entrance. Honestly, I'm not sure it's the right tack. It seems like it might be a nice change of pace. Not particularly funny. A bit? Grandiose. Maybe. Hopefully a bit entertaining. Plus I'm a big fan of spring. I don't know.

Which is to say, I say, I'm the Author.

Of what?

I explain. Then I suddenly wonder whether my inclusion was a mistake.

Maybe my inclusion was a mistake, I say.

What?

Huh.

My God, she says.

What, you expected a god who knows what he's doing?

She holds her head in her hands.

I bolster her confidence and acceptance.

She takes a deep breath and looks up, at me, in the eye. Okay, she says.

So listen, I need your help, I tell her.

What do you need me for?

I'm impatient.

Can't you do anything I can do on your own?

I could, sure, and will - but using you lets me veil my intentions.

She looks down.

Anyway, I need you to audit this world I've created. It's a little sloppy. It could use some tidying up, some regulation.

All right, she says looking around. I think I can do that.

Fantastic, I say. In exchange, I'll exempt you from dueling all together. To sort through this mess.

That sounds fair. Though I don't think I have a choice, she says.

No you don't. But I can make it seem like you do.

She shakes her head. She's a tough girl, a capital creation.

I imbue her with full knowledge of everything that's been written in this series up till this word that I'm typing now - and more, till the end of this particular passage. Anything she needs to get her job accomplished is provided.

I'll get started, she says.

Good, I say. We'll leave off any dueling until tomorrow.

She smiles and begins her task.

I sit back in my wicker chair and begin to think up her work.

Audiologist v. Auditor

The Audiologist, remembering the retainer she gave the Attorney, now finds herself in need of another attorney to seek a claim on the sum remaining on the retainer left with her first attorney. She can see her retainer, the $2,500, stuffed clumsily in the Attorney's jacket pocket, open to the air, bills flipping softly in the breeze. The thought that she may need to find the same sum to give a new attorney to reclaim the sum she left her old attorney - the Attorney - frustrates her. (Gnashing of the teeth.) Yet when she sees a petite form walking slowly yet purposefully from the road she waves and smiles.

The petite form belongs to the Auditor, a woman of professional, youthful, just-less-than-exceptional beauty.

When they meet, they shake politely. The Auditor presents her business card. The Audiologist takes it gladly, then - on looking on the card - asks the Auditor if she might recommend an attorney.

What's the issue, if you don't me asking? asks the Auditor.

The Audiologist explains.

At about this time the snow stops falling. The breeze picks up slightly.

Well, the Auditor says after some thought, I think I have a solution that might benefit everybody.

Wonderful, says the Audiologist.

But I should run it by my attorney first, she says. To avoid possible litigation, if my advice turns out wrong. Which it's certainly not. But you never know.

(The Auditor is a model of prudence.)

The Audiologist thanks her for all her help. Then she moves to the guns on the table.

They select their guns, they walk to the field, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.