—And that’s what the third assistant does.
—Gets stuff? Winds cord?
—There’s a special way to work it. It took me ten minutes to learn.
—What things do they get?
—I’m the center of action. I help block, handle the lenses, bring the lenses from the case. They can’t function without me. It’s why they pay me.
—Did you meet her?
—I meet everyone. I work with everyone.
—Did you meet her?
—I’ve met everyone.
—Even —
—Especially.
—her?
—Yes. Especially her. She was in front of me, always. She’s who I shot.
Description of revolver, the first:
Webley Mk. VI. Blackened gun steel, black. Small dents in barrel, locking mechanism.
—And that’s what the third assistant does.
—Gets stuff? Strokes cord?
—There’s a special way to work it. It took me ten minutes to learn.
—What things do they get?
—I’m the center of action. I help position, handle the zones, bring the zones to climax. They can’t function without me. It’s why they pay me.
—Did you meet him?
—I meet everyone. I work with everyone.
—Did you meet him?
—I’ve met everyone.
—Even —
—Especially.
—Him?
—Yes. Especially him. He was in front of me, always. He’s who I —.
Description of revolver, the second:
Webley Mk. VI. Blackened gun steel, black. Small dents in barrel, locking mechanism.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Showing posts with label call girl. Show all posts
Showing posts with label call girl. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Calligrapher v. Call Girl
They walk, eyes flitting from the distance to her plain frame to the ground and back, crossing the space from the heap to the corpse of the Businessmen. She stands by the table beneath the oak. The thin man smiles. One holds the left leg and one the right and they drag the corpse in this fashion. The thin man looks back as he walks.
The men take the corpse to a place not seen well from the oak, behind the pyre, and process it.
Finished - the fat man now wearing the Businessman's grey suit jacket, the thin man in the Bookseller's plaid jacket - they walk to the imagined border that marks the line before the space between the dead and the oak, and watch her. They watch, and speak softly. Glancing and speaking, softly.
The Calligrapher pretends to ignore them. She pretends to read the contract.
They advance. They advance at first tentatively, watching her. Then boldly. She takes a half-step back, trodding on a gnarled root from the base of the oak. They advance, and the thin man smiles.
Twenty paces from the oak, the Calligrapher lays the contract on the table, and takes up one of the pistols. The two men stop. They stop, watching.
Is there anything I can help you with? she asks.
The two men watch her.
She swallows. She musters all the command her voice will carry, then speaks. She tells them to finish their work.
Nothing.
After a long pause, she cracks the top break and loads the pistol. Carefully, slowly. Six bullets in six chambers.
The men wait. Then, without expression, turn and walk back to the dead. The fat man takes up the shovel. The thin man back to the corpse of Businessman.
Finished, they leave the ground.
The Calligrapher tucks the other pistol in her pocket. When the Call Girl arrives, she sees the the Calligrapher sitting back to the oak, eyes never off the shack in the distance. They speak at length. The Calligrapher hands her the second pistol.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
The men take the corpse to a place not seen well from the oak, behind the pyre, and process it.
Finished - the fat man now wearing the Businessman's grey suit jacket, the thin man in the Bookseller's plaid jacket - they walk to the imagined border that marks the line before the space between the dead and the oak, and watch her. They watch, and speak softly. Glancing and speaking, softly.
The Calligrapher pretends to ignore them. She pretends to read the contract.
They advance. They advance at first tentatively, watching her. Then boldly. She takes a half-step back, trodding on a gnarled root from the base of the oak. They advance, and the thin man smiles.
Twenty paces from the oak, the Calligrapher lays the contract on the table, and takes up one of the pistols. The two men stop. They stop, watching.
Is there anything I can help you with? she asks.
The two men watch her.
She swallows. She musters all the command her voice will carry, then speaks. She tells them to finish their work.
Nothing.
After a long pause, she cracks the top break and loads the pistol. Carefully, slowly. Six bullets in six chambers.
The men wait. Then, without expression, turn and walk back to the dead. The fat man takes up the shovel. The thin man back to the corpse of Businessman.
Finished, they leave the ground.
The Calligrapher tucks the other pistol in her pocket. When the Call Girl arrives, she sees the the Calligrapher sitting back to the oak, eyes never off the shack in the distance. They speak at length. The Calligrapher hands her the second pistol.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
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