Congressman v. Constable

The Congressman stands by the side of the pit, head hung in a show of mourning, as Pepple shovels dirt and dry bone over the body of the Con Artist. After the burial, the Congressman shakes Pepple's hand.

I hope you don't think less of me for killing this man, says the Congressman.

Pepple shakes his head. He wipes the sweat from his forehead. It's a warm, humid day. Storm clouds form in the west. To the north, the workmen throw a weathered plank roof atop a layer of corrugated tin. As Pepple turns to face the clouds, his face in profile, the strangest notion dawns on the Congressman: that he's seen this man before. The circumstance of Pepple's existence bars him from believing this, however. His constituency may be nearby, but at no rally or public meeting has he met a man as paradoxical: a man of ravaged attire, largely unwashed, stinking of sweat and work, hair and beard matted; yet with eyes dark and silent and keen, back upright, stance assured.

Pepple returns to supervise the building of the new cabin, which is coming along at fast and steady pace.

If only I could place him, thinks the Congressman.

As the Congressmen stands pondering by the freshly covered grave, a marmot shuffles through the grass up the oak. At the base of the oak he stops, stands, and looks. When the Congressman turns, he sees the marmot pointing his paw toward the South Pointing Marmot, who points its paw south. The marmot and the Congressman lock eyes. The marmot lowers his paw, blinks, and shuffles back to the bulrushes along the creek to the southeast.

It rains and thunders. The Congressman opens an umbrella left leaning against the oak, and stands beneath it. The bottoms of his khakis wet.

Then it stops raining.

Then the Constable arrives and the Congressman welcomes the Constable. The Constable voted against the Congressman, and he tells him this within minutes of their meeting.

Soft on evil-doers, says the Constable. That's the reason you lost my vote.

The Congressman asks him to explain. The Constable regurgitates the defense of death by drowning which he'd heard from a Pundit, a guest on a television program, whose book Death By Water was widely cited though never read, or very seldom read, and very certainly not read by the Constable, who restates the argument poorly.

That book was satirical, says the Congressman. I don't think anyone would advocate death by drowning for all criminals, petty or otherwise, or the rioters in the cities, or the strikers. Of course the Pundit doesn't mean that.

Of course he means it, and I mean it, too, the Constable says stiffly. Why write a book on it if you don't mean it?

Someone thought the starving Irish should eat their own babies. Do you think he meant that?

Now that's just crazy, says the Constable. (Though secretly he thinks it might not be a bad idea, given the circumstances.)

Suddenly it hits the Congressman. Stetson! he shouts.

Pepple turns.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

Con Artist v. Congressman

Having felt the wake of a live bullet against his cheek, having heard the dull whine of the bullet pass his ear, the Con Artist begins to grow concerned over the matter of his mortality. He asks himself whether he's led a good life.

It was as good as life as my character would allow, he concludes. To live off the means of a job one loves is noble and fortunate. If I can lure a man as smart as I into believing something he wouldn't otherwise believe, and benefit off his mistaken belief? Well, who wouldn't call that a talent? True, my talent runs against common morality. But think of the virtue shown in the face of this morality! I live well, I'm of pleasant demeanor - even to those that can't help me advance myself. Should I have cast my prowess aside just because, in the eyes of most, it fosters injustice? Does it foster injustice - or isn't there justice in the wittier man's gain? Not taken by force, mind you, but by guile! Is this wrong? Am I evil?

Am I evil? he asks Pepple.

Pepple drags the body of the Conductor (Symphony) to the crumbling pit of dry bone and skull, and throws him in, and piles the soil atop, until covered.

Am I evil? he asks the oak.

The oak waves its tall branches in the late spring breeze.

Am I evil? he asks the creek.

The creek burbles, water lapping in rhythmic pattern over the shore, the rocks, swirling in eddies, joining and rejoining.

Am I evil? he asks the road.

The road stretches forward and backward, connecting and reconnecting with a network of roads universal.

Am I evil? he asks the South Pointing Marmot.

The South Pointing Marmot points south.

Am I evil? he asks the shadowy marmot poking its head from tall rushes along the creek by the forest.

The marmot let's high-pitched whistle, then dashes away through the brush.

Am I evil? he asks the Congressman.

The Congressman uses his tie to wipe dust from the locking mechanism of the pistol he's chosen.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.