Drayman v. Drill Sargeant

Wake up you sniveling nancy!

The Drayman snaps awake. He'd been dozing in Stetson's chair. He looks up a thick-necked bull of a man, face red with sun and anger. The man tells him to get up. The Drayman stands.

You think you're man enough to stand across from me on the dueling ground? Disgrace. Look at yourself! Go ahead!

The Drayman looks down. What he sees isn't much different than what he's seen before: he's an unfit man in his early 30s, belly hanging like a sack of wet clothes, brown collared shirt untucked, third button missing, jam stain on his left lapel. He reeks of sweat, horse stables and gin. His shorts are unfashionably long, unattractively beige, irrevocably grease-spattered. Wiry black hair sheathes two pale, porcine calves, both devolving to plump feet, unclipped toes straining against the plastic thongs of Hawaiian patterned flip flops. He's neither a prime exhibit of communal success, nor one of independent free will. He's a shlub.

You know who would be a better opponent? That dog right there!

The Drill Sargeant points to the German schnauzer. It stands at perfect attention, legs slightly back, docked tail stiff and upright, ears alert, head in squared and straight, coat glossy.

The Drayman feels a pang of jealousy.

I bet you don't even have a goddamn job!

I do, he swallows. I'm Drayman for a licensed gin concern.

The Drill Sargeant narrows his eyes knowingly. Bullshit! You're a nativist bootlegger!

The Drayman makes to protest, but realizes that he's still wearing the red ribbon around his arm. He looks down.

Pathetic, hisses the Drill Instructor. How do you wake up in the morning?

Usually hung over.

Shut up!

The Drayman folds his hands sheepishly.

Tell me who's in charge around here!

The Drayman mentions the Grave Digger, but says he doubts whether he's in charge of much. He mentions the wounds, and the story of a kidnapping.

Bet they did it hopped up on blood and gin.

I don't know. Studies say it's a mistake to assume that all tribal communities'll fall unconditionally violent when exposed to gin.

The Drill Sargeant, with a fist curled up at his waist, lands a short blow to middle of the Drayman's gut.

Oof!

Now march your dimpled ass over to the oak, pick out your weapon. and try not to rub your idiocy onto this goddamn prince of a dog in passing!

The Drayman stumbles off. The dog watches him from the corner of his eye. After the Drayman's a few yards off, the Drill Sargeant leans over and inspects the schnauzer, from head to anus. He gives the animal two firm pats on the head in appreciation.

Drayman v. Dressmaker

With the Grave Digger convalescing in Stetson's cabin, the Drayman drinks: he pours himself a liberal glass of gin and cold creek water, sits in the chair outisde Stetson's cabin, and falls asleep to the sound of bats whirling unseen above his head. The schnauzer falls asleep beside him.

He wakes, startled, to the sound of toppling furniture, thrown books, the crash of electronics. The dog bolts upright and barks.

Inside the cabin, the Grave Digger searches madly. The Drayman stands and watches from outside. He yawns.

What are you doing?

Looking for something.

Oh.

The Grave Digger continues his rampage.

Mind if I ask what you're looking for?

Yes.

Oh.

The Drayman considers the choices before him. Charactaristically, he takes the path of least resistence: he sits back down in the chair. He leans back, pulls his long billed cap over his eyes, and tries his best to fall back into gin-soaked sleep.

In this he is successful. Such is the genius of the Drayman.

When he wakes the next morning the Grave Digger's gone. The mess he made of the cabin is still there. It's terrible. Whether he found what he was looking for or not is a mystery.

When the Dressmaker arrives the Drayman's on his second glass of creek water and gin of the morning.

The schnauzer yawns.

Dramaturge v. Drayman

Barking's heard late that night. The next morning the Dramaturge finds the dog sniffing at something to the east. He walks over and spots the Grave Digger sprawled unconscious on the grass by the edge of the forest, his shirt ripped, his body bruised and lightly scarred, but otherwise intact. After having a mug of creek water dumped over his head, the Grave Digger wakes with an annoyed start.

This world doesn't need more hobos, says the Dramaturge severely.

The Grave Digger, too sore of mind and body to snarl, smacks his dry lips. He musters enough energy to sit up, pulling his legs into a crossed position, head slung low.

The schnauzer watches expressionless from a few feet away.

Get more water, mouths the Grave Digger.

The Dramaturge thinks of balking, but gets the distressed man his water from the creek. He drinks quickly, then leans back.

I'm no drunk, says the Grave Digger.

The Dramaturge asks what happened. The Grave Digger shakes his head in a disappointed way, as if trying to shaming a student out of recalcitrance.

I don't know what they did with him....

With who?

The Grave Digger pulls on the Dramaturge's sleeve. He looks up, eyes bloodshot. It's all a game of chess! he seethes.

The Dramaturge eventually helps the Grave Digger to his feet. He carries him to the cabin, where he's bedded.

The Drayman arrives the next monrning, greeted by the schnauzer and the Dramaturge, while the Grave Digger sleeps. The Drayman wears a band of red ribbon around his left arm, and smells of gin.