Businessman v. Caligrapher

One digs and the other picks through the heap of dead, and regards things found within the heap of dead. Trading off, back and forth. So now one picks and the other digs. Or one digs and the other picks. Or - at times when neither work, but both sit at rest on the dull grass - neither pick nor dig. Which occurs in periods. At times in periods of longer frequency, at times in periods of shorter frequency; at times for hours, at times for seconds. And the five minute break between each period, whose breaks are indeterminate - dictated by caprice, or fatigue, or neither.

And their hands and clothes are made putrid. And they recoil at the smell of a flipped body. Recoil at the sight of the white squirming mound of maggots digging cavernous from inside, pushing up from the under the skin, budding from the under the skin of the arms and breast and face, that fall from the skin to the earth, that wriggle over the earth under next body, and next. But the strength of desire, the will to knowledge, the deep curiosity and wanting - here the Bishop's mitre (soiled, crushed), there the Ambassador's silver pen knife (caked with ash, dust) - overwhelms and subsumes, and so all is regarded, and in their bottomless inventory collected. And the recoiling lessens degree by infintesimal degree, so that by days end they recoil markedly less than at the start of the day. And less, going forward.

There exists space between the oak and the dead. And from that space the Businessman refrains, and from that space the hired refrain. Unless for airing of concerns on the part of the Businessman, or barking on the part of the Businessman, or threats made by the Businessman, or harassment from the Businessman, or spying on the part of the Businessman, wherein the Businessman will walk the space between the oak and dead, and walk close to the dead - but still at a distance from the dead - and air concerns, or bark, or threaten, or harass, or spy from that distance, upon the hired. The hired only enter the space when pulling a fresh body from the field of battle. And this space is known and kept, and the rules of passing over the space, and the rights to pass over the space are kept, yet kept unsaid. And both parties - both the party of the first part and the party of the second part - understand, intuitively, the necessity for this space, and in space is in this way keep. And they regard this space as good.

Especially the Businessman, who's gotten a bit freaked out with all this.

It's not my usual business, he tells the Caligrapher. She nods.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Businessman v. Cabinet Maker

Throughout the night the Businessman watches across the grounds, past the fence, across the field, where light seeps from cracks in the hideous shack, and singing or chanting can be heard at times, then silence, with occasional shouting, and - near midnight - laughter.

That morning he wakes, surveys the pillaged pile of dead by the old pyre, and waits, frustrated. He waits by the north fence until mid-morning.

No one comes. Another hour. No one comes.

In anger - anger compounded by the shame of yesterday's profane indecency, more anger at waiting - he steps over the fence and marches across the weedy earth to the shack, the shack next to the motor, connected to the well.

He strikes his fist against the door. Again, and again. From inside the shuffling of feet. Then an reddened eye peeking from a slat. The lifting of a bolt. And the fat man stands before, unshaved and shirtless, the Bishop's blood- and mud-stained cassock draped carelessly over his meaty left shoulder.

The fat man grunts. The Businessman begins shouting. The fat man slams the door. The Businessman hits his hand against the door, shaking the shack. The fat man opens the door. Now dressed in the Bookseller's plaid jacket (several sizes too small), holding a rusted shovel. He pushes his way past the Businessman, slams the door behind him.

The Businessman yells as he walks beside the fat man. The fat man sidles the fence, walks a few paces - now just feet from the twisted, decomposing, maggot-infested bodies - and begins digging.

Do it out of plain sight, you understand me? shouts the Businessman. Or the contract's off!

The fat man continues digging.

When the Cabinet Maker arrives the Businessman stands dour, back to the oak, re-reading the contract.

The two men talk. The Businessman explains. The Cabinet Maker - a lanky, honest looking tradesman - is skeptical, but says nothing.

As they speak, the thin man steps from the shack and staggers still drunk over the field, over the fence to join the fat man. The fat man stops his work and talks. And the thin man talks. This at the time when the Businessman and Cabinet Maker talk. And in this way the two groups of two men mirror each other exactly - one thin, the other fat; one certain, the other skeptical - save for cleanliness and conversation.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Businessman v. Cab Driver

When the thin man arrives for work - stepping to the ground from the northern fence carefully, almost skeptically - he slowly lopes, then squats on his haunches over the Broker. Within minutes he strips him of everything, even of things with little to no material value: house keys, a ball of crumpled receipts, dental floss.

After the search he fishes around his pocket, pulls out a greasy pen knife. The blade's spotted with rust. Prying open the Broker's mouth, he looks inside, then (using the Broker's chin as a fulcrum) pops out three gold fillings. He holds them in his hand, stirring, watching the shine. He looks up at the Businessman and smiles. A black and spotted smile. The Businessman walks off. The Broker pockets the fillings, stands, and begins stripping the body.

By the time the Cab Driver arrives the fat man and the haggard woman and the filthy boy all stand against the northern fence, watching with eager interest as the thin man pokes his way through the swollen corpses by the pyre.

What's going over there? asks the Cab Driver.

The Businessman explains. He explains that that man and his family are the new caretakers. He shows him the contract for their work. He explains their payment, and the service they render.

The Cab Driver asks when they'll be digging the mass grave. The Businessman nods. Soon, he says, soon.

Well, says the Cab Driver, they're not the only ones made a killing on the people what come up here.

Until today, the Cab Driver - a forgettable man wearing all denim - operated a profitable small business, shuttling the majority of the duelists up from the nearby town through the small backroads - all dirt and gravel - past the turn-off to the old hotel, to the dueling ground. (What anybody says they work at that hotel or stay there they don't, cause no one has since they closed it back twenty years, he adds.) He's left his taxi business to fight.

To fight you, he clarifies.

The Businessman holds his chin up, looking down on the Cab Driver. We'll see, he says.

The Cab Driver's about to respond when something captures his eye. He watches as the thin man, knee pressed against the chest of naked corpse, moves his arm in a sawing motion. With his back hiding the action, the Cab Driver can't make out the man's purpose. He asks the Businessman.

The Businessman looks, sweat on his forehead. He turns back, obviously unfomfortable, stepping casually to block the Cab Driver's view of the action.

What what? he says. Man's doing his job. Knows his work.

The two men chose their guns. They take the field, standing ten paces apart.

As the Cab Driver redies himself, he looks back to the thin man. And it's then - just at that moment - that the thin man stands, hands hidden, holding something beneath the front of his overalls. The two men - both shaken - turn from each other quickly: the thin man runs to his kin by the fence, the Cab Driver takes his stance. While by the pyre the body of Broker lies naked and pale, save for a red hole in his waist.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Broker v. Businessman

The Broker repeats the Bookseller's plan (as appropriated by the Broker), with this addendum:

It won't work the way it is now.

The Businessman tilts his head, opens his mouth, then closes it. He widens his stance, adjusts his belt. He's a tall, heavy-set man, a former college athlete. He wears his hair slicked and back, long in the back, and moves with quick jerks. Well just talk to me now--what's the real problem? he asks.

The Broker explains. The Businessman bobs his head. Okay, he says. So neither of us leaves. Other people can, right? So what about that guy?

The Businessman lifts his head, motioning north. In the field, hammering down a plank laid diagonal across the east wall of his shack, stands the thin hick. His free hand clutches a small nest of irregular nails.

The Businessman and Broker walk to the north fence. The Broker presses his fingers to his mouth and whistles sharply. Then again. And again. Finally, the hick stops and turns. They meet his ovine gaze, all dull and sullen, with open expression, smiles and nods. Many entreaties to come closer before the hick looks about, chews a bit, then flips his hammer--gripping it at the head--and walks toward them.

The hick's dressed in denim overalls. Beneath his overalls cling two layers of unwashed, sweat-stained undershirt. His boots, immense, seem a few sizes too large. More, as he nears they notice his that his head seems disproportionate, too narrow when seen laterally. As if during infancy it'd been swaddled between the claws of an industrial vise.

He nears, closer, then steps close, uncomfortably close, within a foot. Too close for either of the other two men, who step back.

That your home? asks the Businessman.

The thin hick squints. He looks back. Then looks both men over. Then, slowly, starts laughing.

The Broker looks at the Businessman. The Businessman at the Broker. Then both at the hick. The hick continues laughing. They laugh too for a bit, then smile, then (done smiling) wait for him to stop. He does, eventually. When he stops, the Businessman starts his pitch. The pitch follows the idea proposed by the Broker, thought up by the Bookseller, agreed to by the Business Owner, up to a point. After the pitch, the Broker asks what he thinks. The hick, who gave the impression he'd been watching the movements of the Businessman more than listening, faces the Broker with sudden and vicious distain. Then looks back at the Businessman. He smiles at the Businessman.

You remind me of my brother, he says to the Businessman. He turns back to the Broker. And you remind me of that little faggot that's gets on TV some days, he says.

The Broker starts toward the hick. The Businessman pushes the Broker back, his girth between the two men. He waives them off, waves the insult off. Then whispers to the Broker, telling him to walk back toward the oak. At first the Broker refuses, insisting that the idea was his, but after minute the Broker relents and leaves.

The Businessman and the hick hash the details of the deal. Then the Businessman takes out a napkin--a crumpled napkin from a fast food restaurant--and on that napkin, using a bent knee, he writes out the terms of their agreement. Both parties sign. A brief exchange of money is made (bills counted, handed to the hick). Then the Businessman folds the contract and pockets it, they shake hands, and go their separate ways: the Businessman returns to the oak, the hick to his shack.

At the oak, the Broker asks what happened.

Deal's done, says the Businessman. We've got sanitation.

How much?

The Businessman takes out the contract and tosses it on the table by the guns. For shit, says the Businessman. Half the cash that mafioso lamp store owner had in his pockets for deposit, plus a claim on anything they find on the bodies, along with a pound of flesh.

The Broker figures he misheard.

No, the guy wanted it. I objected, but he intimated it was going to be a deal breaker, so--what the hell? The guy wants a pound of flesh from every new corpse, let him have it.

The Broker quietly touches his side, looking north, where the thin hick stands holding his claw hammer, looking south. Watching them, he realizes: the Broker and Businessman. Intent now, in a way. Waiting.

The Broker blinks.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.