Distiller v. Ditch Digger

After dispatching the Dispatcher, the Distiller hobbles over to the base of the oak. He sits. He doesn't move, but massages his calves for several hours, then reflects, then falls to sleep. Night falls. The Ditch Digger arrives early the next morning.

I spent my life in abeyance to the laws of supply and demand, he tells the Ditch Digger, a short, hale man with gray whisps of hair around his temples. Not, he adds whimsically, to those of the courts. And for that? A large house, a healthy business, a family - and crippling gout.

The Ditch Digger knows the man not by sight, but by way of the Distiller's name: its also the brand name of a widely sold, largely unlicensed gin.

The Ditch Digger, himself a man of uncertain moral standing, asks how the Distiller got started.

Small, that's how, he answers. Selling to the people around this area, the tribes in the forests. In exchange they gave me beautiful hand-woven baskets, some of them - one tribe in particular - while others supplied me with hand-thrown pottery, corn husk door mats, silk thread, leather key chains, steel squirrel traps, petty electronics, Tupperware, knives, fine silverware.

Of course, nods the Ditch Digger.

In turn I sold those to the wholesalers, used that money to buy more grain, and continued the cycle for years.

The Ditch Digger shoes away a fly.

The biggest mistake for newcommers is this: don't interfere with the tribes; for God's sake, don't take sides. It's a never ending fight with them. Just supply the gin and step clear.

The two men sit quietly and regard Stetson called Pepple, who hoes with steady hand under the hot summer sun.