Detective v. Dictator

The Detective tucks one of the dueling pistols under his belt at the small of his back. He walks north, to where Pepple sits reading.

What's going on here? he says.

Pepple looks up. Excuse me? he blinks.

In a flash, the Detective leans down, grabs Pepple by the collar, and hoists him roughly to his feet.

Listen you sad excuse for an upstate Quatermain, I'm not in the practice of killing, you understand? I like to have a reason before I shoot a man who seconds before was telling me about a private dam to the south feeding power to this cabin of yours. So talk. Start spilling.

Pepple, caught, tries pulling away. The Detective hits him with a snap punch to the nose. Pepple lets out an involuntary cry.

Spill, shouts the Detective, if you know what's good for you!

What do you want to know? shouts Pepple.

Who are your? What are you doing?

My name's Stetson van Popple.

The Detective lets him go.

I'm caretaker of the grounds.

The Detective pulls the pistol from behind his back. He doesn't aim it at Stetson, but holds it conspicuously by his side, finger on the trigger.

Knew a caretaker once. Went by Jonesy. Used to work at the school my daughter went to. He read, too. Guess what?

Stetson raises a finger to wipe the blood issuing from his nose.

Dime comics. The kind you pick up at the supermarket check-out. Archie and Veronica.

He points the pistol down at the small red cloth-bound book beside Stetson's chair. Give me what you were reading, the Detective commands. Stetson slowly hands him the book. The Detective takes it with his left hand. He takes a step back and opens it to its ancient cover page.

Annals of Tacitus, reads the Detective. He throws the book harshly into Stetson's lap.

Stetson catches the book, barely.

Now why not tell me what you're really doing here?

The Dictator parachutes in from plane overhead.