Dispatcher v. Distiller

It threatens to rain before it rains. When it rains, it rains hard.

Beneath the tree, huddled under the black umbrella left beneath the Shaker table, the Dispatcher stares at the aerial attached to the cabin to the north. She wonders, having left without a named replacement, who's taken her position at the station.

The next morning, waking before dawn, stiff-necked from sleeping in an unnatural upright position, though mostly dry, she sees Stetson called Pepple talking with a man in overalls and a long-billed cap, holding a weathered hoe. Not the Grave Digger, but another - the Farmer - who stands beside a half-full burlap sack. Stetson hands the Farmer cash and takes the sack, and the hoe.

The Farmer leaves through the field. Stetson, in a stained white shirt tucked into dark slacks, uses the hoe to pull up the light green, rust-flecked, waist-high corn in a square patch to the south of the cabin, bordering between the cabin and grounds.

The Dispatcher walks north. She approaches Stetson. Through the course of time she channels the conversation - up until then concerning only his labor, the cleaning of corn for a patch of beans (Beans so late!) - to the aerial. She learns that he does indeed have a radio. What's more, he knows of her station.

I listen to it, he admits, without understanding half of what's being said.

She explains that a good portion of each blotter clip is in code - shorthand, she says - that's used to speed the transfer of vital information to those citizens and semi-official officials (Deputies, etc.) who subscribe to the National Rioting Forum (a semi-official publication) in hope of acting quickly to join local militias organized to quell spontaneous or semi-spontaneous public uprisings.

They get rewarded for their involvement, she says. Some travel all around the country.

They talk further. The Dispatcher's real desire is aired: a quick check to see who (if anyone) is reading the blotter in her place. Stetson consider the request. He lowers the hoe and takes the Dispatcher to his cabin.

Inside, to the side of a long broad-cut wood table acting as a desk, sits a radio of antique and makeshift build. Stetson sits, puts on headphones, flicks a switch, and begins turning dials before him. It only takes a few seconds to get the signal. Once caught, he unplugs the headphones and plugs in the flowering amplifier.

Transcription of signal heard:

... substantially over. We see no reason, however, to alter the message expressed in our last bulletin. The outbreak was the natural consequence of pernicious teachings widely scattered among the ignorant and excitable populace; and the only possible mode of dealing with it was stern and bloody repression. EOD Statistics: RKIA number 14; RIIA number 291; Fires confined to slumslands, minor encroachment Wards 4, 6, 14, 98; Looting moderate, low-end: petty electronics, bicycle shops, saloons, speakeasies; Bounties by witness 12 / 3 / 1 / confiscations; Notables, official: Militia Leader No. 11231A13; Notables, semi-official: Beverly Fontaine, Steamfitter; R.E. Ogts, Riverman; Casualties, official: none; Casualties, semi-official: nil KIA, minor abrasions; Forecasts: Recurrence 24h: AP 19%, NYRB 12%, FBHD 7%; Recurrence 1w: AP 4%, NYRB 1%, FBHD .05%; Recurrence 1m: all nil; EEAI Estimates: Bracket 13: 5.66; Bracket 11a: 3.11; Bracket 23c: 9.12; REE Benchmarks: 102-012 / 109-41 / 119-125. The weather is hot today for sections across --

The Dispatcher nods, and Stetson flips off the power. He can tell she's confused. Even through the poor reception, it's clear that the voice dispatching the blotter matches hers exactly: in tone, accent, style of diction, pace of diction. I'd swear that was a recording, she says softly, if I didn't report the same riot yesterday, when the brackets were lower and the benchmarks higher.

She thanks him, leaves the cabin, and returns to the oak. He returns to his plot, again taking up the hoe.

The Distiller's meets the Dispatcher at the oak. He's a round man with deep lines under his eyes, creases down the sides of his mouth. Gout-ridden, or recovering from gout, he walks with help from a cane, wincing with each step.

Disc Jockey v. Dispatcher

A blue bird alights on the table next to the Disc Jockey, who is just waking from a long day of drinking. The bird ruffles its feathers before darting off. The Disc Jockey stands, hand bracing the table for support, when it strikes him that he has no idea where he is or how he got to this place. If it wasn't for the overwhelming urge to vomit, he would have stood in bafflement at the peculiar scene around him - the pistols, the oak, the cabin, the forest, the mounds of fresh earth. Instead he staggers out to the grass and lets fall a mouthful of bright orange bile, then another.

With nothing to drink, but feeling a great urge to drink, he walks to the cabin to the north. Which may or may not be deserted, he's not entirely sure.

Stetson called Pepple answers, forehead beaded with sweat. Though the windows to the cabin are open, the Disc Jockey feels the stagnant heat of the cabin from the threshold.

Stetson provides the man with water. To answer the next question that arises, Stetson takes the telegraph tucked brusquely in the Disc Jockey's shirt pocket, opens it, and presents it. The Disc Jockey stares. It's a few seconds before he's able to piece together the memory of receiving the order.

When he learns that he won yesterday's duel - won while blacked out - he's overcome by another wave of nausea.

By luck, the Disc Jockey and the Dispatcher know each other.

They both host shows broadcast at the bottom of the AM dial: the Disc Jockey plays contemporary folk and country; the Dispatcher relays the national police dispatch, with a focus on urban riots, and weather at the 7-s.