Minutes after the Chief Mate falls, Pepple drags off his body. And then body of the Chief of Police. He takes the Chief's handgun and his badge, his wedding ring and the money in his front pocket. He takes a gold pendant tied on a leather cord around the Chief Mate's neck. Then he buries the two duelists. The Chimney Sweep watches.
Soon after, it begins to rain. It rains hard for a long time. Then softens, and continues raining softly all night.
The Chiropodist arrives beneath a yellow umbrella. She's a tiny woman. Very petite. Simply dressed, but spackled with cosmetics. She walks up to the Chimney Sweep and hands him a telegram. She does not speak English well.
Yes, says the Chimney Sweep.
She points to the telegram. Yes, he says. He points to the ground, then to the pistols, then to the dueling field. She looks confused. She looks at her telegram, then at the pistols, then at the dueling field.
The Chimney Sweep pantomimes a duel. (No help.)
Eventually, he leads her out to the field. She stands holding her yellow umbrella and a revolver. He stands ten paces away. He raises his gun. She lowers the umbrella over her face in fright. He walks over, lifts her umbrella, and raises her hand that holds the revolver. He points the revolver at his chest.
Her gun goes off.
Showing posts with label chimney sweep. Show all posts
Showing posts with label chimney sweep. Show all posts
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Chief Mate v. Chimney Sweep
The Chief of Police lays sprawled in the grass, lifeless eyes open to the morning sun.
The Chimney Sweep paces. The Chief Mate sits with his back to the trunk of the oak.
The Farmer sows his field, up and down the field in the diesel tractor. The murder of crows, once fat on the bodies of the dead, alight in the freshly turned soil, pecking for seeds and worms.
The Chimney Sweep brushes his long, shaggy hair. He's in his mid-30s, medium build, fit. He wears a green shirt-sleeved polo, beige slacks, white sneakers.
A professional friend of mind had a dream, he says abruptly. He stops pacing. He looks over nervously, and speaks.
He dreamt that a riot of men were chained into service, all working together as a road gang. And a fat man in a suit came and set them free - all of them - by unlocking one lock in the middle. They leapt up and threw down their hammers and ran home to their families. Then the fat man went up to my friend and said, put all trust in the Unspoken Union. He said, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
The Chimney Sweep paces. The Chief Mate sits with his back to the trunk of the oak.
The Farmer sows his field, up and down the field in the diesel tractor. The murder of crows, once fat on the bodies of the dead, alight in the freshly turned soil, pecking for seeds and worms.
The Chimney Sweep brushes his long, shaggy hair. He's in his mid-30s, medium build, fit. He wears a green shirt-sleeved polo, beige slacks, white sneakers.
A professional friend of mind had a dream, he says abruptly. He stops pacing. He looks over nervously, and speaks.
He dreamt that a riot of men were chained into service, all working together as a road gang. And a fat man in a suit came and set them free - all of them - by unlocking one lock in the middle. They leapt up and threw down their hammers and ran home to their families. Then the fat man went up to my friend and said, put all trust in the Unspoken Union. He said, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
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