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.