Autopsy Surgeon v. Aviator

The moment the bullet tears my flesh and I expire, falling, crumbling to a mass of flesh and bone on the field, the setting reverts from lush, flowering spring to cold, muddy winter. Instantly. In the clap of the pistols.

The Autopsy Surgeon stands, mouth open. He rushes back to the oak, terrified.

From afar he hears a light drone. Not quite a drone - a din. Then the din grows into a drone. At which point the Autopsy Surgeon fears the worst: loss of sanity, apocalypse, terrorist attack. All three, brought on by toxic gas from a crop duster? What else could explain the meeting he just had? The instant scenery?

He peeks from above his lapel (he's crouching now, his bald narrow head tucked into his jacket, tortoise-like) and sees, sure enough, flying in from the south, a crop duster. His head retracts. He shakes. His bowels loosen.

But it's not a crop duster, just an old biplane - a Sopwith Camel - that dips and swerves in the crosswind as it makes its landing approach. It sinks precariously, nearly clipping the dead pines in the marsh, hefts up, crosses the creek, touches down harsh on the field once, twice - then twists and rises again. Heaves up, slowing, then falls - then rises - jumping the northern fence. Engine sputtering, its wheels hit the plowed field, kicking thick wet soil. A diagonal skid, left wing clips the ground, rotor catches the earth - and the plane flips, overturns. A massive thud. Engine wheezes, coughs, sighs to a stop.

A young man falls from the open cockpit, flight goggles crooked, fur-lined leather jacket askew, white silk oil-stained scarf dangling from his neck. He staggers from the field, climbs over the fence, and weaves his way to the oak.

Hello, says the Aviator.

The Autopsy Surgeon, who'd watched the crash - yet still wasn't convinced he hadn't gone mad due to toxic gas - nods.

The Aviator falls over.

The Autopsy Surgeon, after some time, gets up and - after cleaning himself with the Aviator's silk scarf, which he then burns by the creek using one of the Artist's matches - examines the Aviator. He doesn't see any broken bones.

After a long while the Aviator wakes. Hi, he says. How long was I out for?

The Autopsy Surgeon doesn't know. He checks his watch. The Aviator explains that he's been flying without sleep for three days.

I'm practicing for a new world record. First fully organic flight across the Atlantic. Because I built my plane entirely of wood, hemp, and recycled newspaper, and it runs on a mixture of canola oil and potato vodka. I even won sponsorship from Ginkgo Corp.

He shows the patch on the sleeve of his jacket: there, the unmistakable green leaf logo. In the distance, the logo shows prominantly on the plane's rudder.

What are you going to do now? the Autopsy Surgeon asks, motioning toward the wreck.

Oh, it's nothing - I've crashed that plane I don't know how many times, says the Aviator. It's a stinker to land.

The Autopsy Surgeon thinks of telling the Aviator about everything that's happened to him over the past day, but decides (as a way to demur making the decision on whether to tell anyone of his encounter) that they should get on with the duel.

They choose pistols, take the field. They stand ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Author v. Autopsy Surgeon

Only a truly degenerate author writes himself in as a character in his own work. Don't you think?

The Auditor sighs. She sits at a large desk I've provided her with, papers strewn across the top. She looks up. I guess, she says.

What do you mean? It's a yes or no question.

I don't know, she says. If you say so.

Listen, I didn't invent you to be my yes-woman. Yes or no?

She puts down her pen. With all respect, you created me to audit your work. And that's what I'm trying to do. But it's hard to do when you ask me questions all the time. That aren't audit-related.

Then take a break.

We're on a deadline, she says.

She's right. It's getting late and we are on a deadline.

Just tell me. Do you think I'm a degenerate?

You're my creator! I don't know. Some might argue that it's a novel concept that you're doing.

But not you.

You made me honest above all else. Honest and polite. Why are you asking me a question you know I can't answer without going against my nature?

I made you too contentious.

Well maybe you did, she says. She returns to her work.

I manifest a squash court and play squash for an hour or so against the Athlete, who I reanimate, now technically a Zombie Athlete. Then I think I'm starting to go too over-the-top and make the squash court disappear and the Athlete fall in a lifeless heap.

Done? I ask.

Almost, she says.

Which did you think was the worst entry?

They're all very nice in their own way.

Jesus. It's like pulling teeth with you.

She shushes me. I sit in my wicker chair.

A few minutes pass.

Okay, she says, I'm done. It's the best I can do with just under a day's notice. She hands me a smartly assembled report. I read it over.

This is good, I say.

Thanks.

I didn't realize I mentioned the Assassin's gold tie clip until Assessor v. Astronaut. Do you think I gave away his cover? Should that be redacted?

I could give my advice, but I'd have to consult my attorney first.

Well played, I say. She smiles slightly.

I'll make corrections based on this report, I tell her. You've done a good job.

She smiles and nods and says it was nothing.

Now to your reward.

I place the report on the rosewood table and turn day to night. Our focus above, with one hand I brush a space between the constellations. I take her hand and guide her up to the heavens, transforming her as we climb. At the edge of the sphere I set her, finally, in the stars, in the gap between Orion and Taurus, as a new constellation: Doreen, the Auditor: the vague aspect of a woman, seated, carefully surveying text.

I fall back to earth, pull back the veil of night, and usher in the Autopsy Surgeon, a timid, balding man in middle age, the bottoms of his trousers rolled.

Grab your gun, I tell him. Let's make this quick.

And I don't get time to talk? he asks quietly.

Indeed there will be time, I say, to wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

I give him a gun and take the other. We walk out to the field, standing ten paces apart.

We raise our guns. Our guns go off.