Bookseller v. Botanist

Standing under the tree, having spent the last several hours planning for a major burial of the dead, the Bookseller turns to watch a small balding man runs from the forest, past the line where a eastern fence once stood but - do to all the post being torn out to feed the pyre - no longer stands, and up to the oak. He's sweating profusely. This is the Botanist.

The Botanist says a quick hello then takes the guns from the table and offers the Bookseller his choice.

What's the hurry?

Just choose.

The Bookseller asks why. The Botanist turns to face the forest, then turns back, then thrusts the guns forward, pressing into the Bookseller's gut. Let's go, he says. Hurry up!

The Bookseller, who'd expected time to discuss his overarching plan, is a bit put off. He decides not to chose.

Not until you tell me why you feel so rushed to duel.

Goddammit, says the Botanist. We're late! We're late for the duel!

The Bookseller looks down at his wrist. He taps the top of his digital watch. Sure enough, as the LCD display flickers grey on pale, he sees that time's nearly up. He hadn't noticed.

Where were you? asks the Bookseller.

I'm sorry - I just can't help field study when the opportunity for field study arises. Look, I picked some wild spearmint. The Botanist pulls one gun under his arm, and with his free hand pulls a mangled clump of spearmint from his jean pocket.

The Bookseller choses the gun under the Botanist's arm. The Botanist pockets the watercress. They quickly take to the field. Stand ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.