Anthropologist v. Archbishop

The Anthropologist places the Analyst's scalp atop the Arborist's in a very well-crafted basket. He places the basket on the rosewood table next to the pistols. He cleans the blade of the Ambassador's silver pen knife and closes it carefully.

The Archbishop shuffles from the road. He's an ancient man, his face dominated by ponderous mouse-white eyebrows - brows that seem to meet and even extend, branching and wild, well past his large predatory nose. His mitre white and purple; his cossack white and purple hanging tent-like over his thin shoulders, a long gold-embroidered cross down the center. He places weight on his crosier as he walks. His thick gold crucifix swings gently, to time. (A metronomic gate.)

Hello! What's the problem here? says the Anthropologist.

The Archbishop halts. He raises his head. His brow bobs slightly. With the spin of his crosier he taps the well-crafted basket sitting on the rosewood table.

What's in there? asks the Archbishop.

Scalps, totems, says the Anthropologist casually. Nothing scandalous.

The Archbishop mutters something under his breath.

Excuse me? asks the Anthropologist, leaning in.

Fetch some water, the Archbishop says.

The Anthropologist stands back. He takes up the shallow dish. The Archbishop hits the dish out of his hands with his crosier. It falls and breaks.

The Archbishop mutters something. The Anthropologist leans in.

Use the bottle, says the Archbishop.

The Anthropologist stoops over, picks up the bottle, and walks briskly down by the creek. He empties the bottle of stale beer and fills it with water. He returns to the oak. He hands the bottle to the Archbishop. The Archbishop takes it, knocks the basket to the ground with his crozier, and places the bottle in its place. The basket's top flies off, letting fall Analyst's scalp and the Aborist's scalp from the basket to the dirt. The Archbishop regards the two scalps without concern.

The Archbishop makes the sign of the cross over the bottle, intoning.

I find interesting, says the Anthropologist, the sublimation of primordial impulses, how these impulses have been subsumed and delicately transfigured countless times over, rarified, ritualized by cultures of greater and greater complexity.

The Archbishop bows deeply over the bottle, crossing himself once, twice, three times: head, heart, lips.

Cannibalism for example, he says.

The Archbishop grabs the bottle and shuffles toward the field, blood red and stinking. The Anthropologist follows a short distance behind, hands clasped before him, head bowed reverently.

How could we deny the true provenance of the Eucharist? he says. The sanctified consumption of human flesh? Don't you find it strange that - above the nebulous 'spirit' that's claimed lacking, or even opposition to the mutilation of genitalia - the chief ritual that sets the traditions apart is consumption?

The Archbishop stops in the center of the field. He whispers a prayer, then shakes water from the bottle to the ground. He moves on toward the northern fence.

That one should forbid, continues the Anthropologist, the eating of any beast without cloven hoof - it's been said, parenthetically, that in terms of texture and taste, man is closest to the pig - and the other should set it as the holiest rite?

The crows scatter as the Archbishop approaches. Again he stops and shakes water on the bodies of the dead. He shakes water on the Accountant, on the Acrobat, on the Actor, on the Actuary, on the Administrator, on the Advocate, on the Aerospace Engineer, on the Agent, on the Agronomist, on the Air Traffic Controller, on the Airman, on the Alchemist, on the Ambassador, on the Anesthesiologist, on the Analyst, on the Animal Trainer, and on the Animator.

By some miracle there's water left in the bottle. The Archbishop turns to the Anthropologist.

I'd like to hear your opinion on this, says the Anthropologist, as a man whose life has obviously been consumed by the doctrine.

The Archbishop mutters something. The Anthropologist leans in. The Archbishop empties the bottle over the Anthropologist's head. The Anthropologist pulls back, sputtering slightly. He wipes his face.

Fetch the pistols, he says. And be quick about it.

The Anthropologist walks briskly to the rosewood table, collects the pistols and meets the Archbishop on the field. They select their weapons. They take their places, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Anthropologist v. Arborist

The Anthropologist, taken by his recent discussion with the Animator, decides to wile away the time by attempting a very amateur archeological field study. Verily, he clasps his arms behind his back, stoops down - glasses drooping - and advances, waddling forward, eyes to the ground. He waddles bit by bit, occasionally kicking at the turf. Like a large corduroy turkey.

Under the oak he kicks at the dirt and sees a sparkle. He kicks again. Something shines. He finds a small stick and digs up the Ambassador's silver pen knife, recently ground into the earth by the Anesthesiologist.

My my, says the Anthropologist, rubbing the knife clean with his sleeve. What a find.

The Arborist walks from the west. He's a small wiry man with pellucid green eyes and full ruddy beard. Hi-ho, says the Arborist.

Hello. What's the problem here? says the Anthropologist.

This oak, sadly. I noticed it from the road. Very serious, says the Arborist. If you don't mind I'd like to determine the root issue.

Take your time, says the Anthropologist. I have a little project of my own.

The Arborist climbs the tree with ease. Soon he's out of view.

You see, says the Anthropologist loudly, I was just talking recently about the Ch'mekalek.

I know them, says the Arborist from high above. Beautiful basketry. Wonderful craftsmanship.

Correct, says the Archeologist. In any event, I realized recently that I've never scalped a man. As they would have. 'Win up near, take an ear; win from away, a mane you shall flay' is the old mnemonic we used as students. To remember the Ch'mekelek warrior code.

Uh-huh, says the Arborist.

The Anthropologist opens the silver pen knife. Well then. I'll be over by the corpses alongside the fence.

The answer the Arborist gives is distant, unclear.

The Anthropologist nods, turns and wanders up to the Animator. Beautiful scalp but such a nice woman, such an unworthy opponent. He wanders up to the Anesthesiologist. Balding, little grip. He wanders up to the Analyst. Perfect! he says.

The Anthropologist takes some time to recall the precise method described in the classic texts. Eventually, girded, he squats behind the Analyst's head. He makes the lateral cuts, the arcing cuts. Planting both feet firmly on the Analyst's shoulders, he pulls with all his might. He hears a ripping.

So consumed with his work, the Anthropologist fails to notice the crows pecking clean the face of the Acrobat. Or the advance of the Arborist, both pistols tucked under his belt.

Two years, sighs the Arborist. That's all I'll give it. Such a sad thing. Such a beautiful tree.

The Anthropologist stands. He holds up the Analyst's dripping scalp.

They select their weapons, take their places on the field, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Animator v. Anthropologist

The Anthropologist walks up to find the Animator sitting with her back to the oak, crying softly.

Hello. What's the problem here? he asks.

She explains.

There there, he says consolingly, without touching, careful not to intrude into her personal space.

I'm awful, she laughs, drying her eyes. I'm too sensitive. Do you know I nearly gave up drawing as a child? And all because an aunt told me my fingers were too short. They're not long and thin, not 'artistic fingers' like hers.

The Animator holds up her hands. They're stubby, gnarled. The left has a sixth digit. The Anthropologist fights back the urge to vomit.

But you persevered, says the Anthropologist. And here you are.

Here I am, she says. The Anthropologist sits on the grass nearby.

The Ch'mekalek - the natives that inhabited this region - called it ikkipu'ulikek, or the overcoming of hideous defects in hope of pursuing a rewarding life.

How far-seeing, the Animator says.

He nods. Yes. Though in their culture, ikkipu'ulikek was a crime punishable by death.

Facinating, says the Animator. She places her hands into the pockets of her pea coat.

No question about it, says the Anthropologist, they were a terrible people. That said, we shouldn't disregard their basketry. Wove the most beautiful little things, mostly to store the ears and noses and scalps and genetalia of their enemies. Also, maize.

He adjusts his glasses.

But this focus on their crafts? A testiment to the work of my predecessors. It's amazing to think that today the Ch'mekalek are recognized for their artisanry, and almost never for their hideously violent cultural mores.

It's because violence is relative, she says.

Correct. Everything is relative, says the Athropologist.

Fascinating, says the Animator. The Anthropologist smiles modestly.

Shall we duel? he asks. The Animator accepts. They rise. They choose their pistols and take their places on the field, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Animal Trainer v. Animator

Here Norman! calls the Animal Trainer. Norman!

The Animal Trainer walks along the edge of the creek, calling for her marmot. After an hour of searching she returns to the oak. The Animator stands under the oak by a bottle of expensive imported beer, a shallow dish.

I think we've met, says the Animator. We both worked on SWINGO!

They shake hands. The Animator is pale, willowy, faintly attractive. She wears a slim black pea coat, a mute orange scarf.

The Animator asks about Norman Mailer. The Animal Trainer explains.

Do you expect to recapture him? asks the Animator.

He's frightened and stubborn, says the Animal Trainer. He's my best pupil. I can only hope he gets thirsty for beer.

It is by far his favorite beverage, says the Animator.

The Animal Trainer uncorks the bottle of beer and pours a healthy portion into the shallow dish. Here Norman! she calls. Beer Norman!

I would have never worked on SWINGO! if I'd known it would have had such a devastating effect on people, the Animator says. This puts me in the minority. I don't care how beautiful or brilliant that film was. I just feel I should say that to you.

It brought more exposure to Norman than I would have wanted, the Animal Trainer says, for all the wrong reasons. Still, she says, it realigned my consciousness in, I think, a beneficial way.

I disagree, though this puts me in the minority, says the Animator.

They spend time choosing their pistols. Eventually, they step out to the field, fifteen paces apart.

In the far distance an almost imperceptible sound, a whistle. The Animal Trainer's eyes widen.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Airman v. Airman

Smoke still issues from the Animal Trainer's pistol when the Airman runs up, sweating. Stop the duel! he says. Norman, frightened, scurries off.

Norman! the Animal Trainer calls out, Norman!

I just got the telegram! he says, his uniform in shambles, tie loosened and out place, jacket unbuttoned, hair mussed. I just got it a day ago!

Norman! calls the Animal Trainer. Norman runs to the bulrushes by the creek. She turns to Airman, eyeing him coldly.

Sorry, ma'am, says the Airman. He reaches to take off his hat but, patting his head, realizes its missing. He looks at the ground around him frantically. He runs fifteen paces back, picks up his hat, puts it on his head, runs up to the Animal Trainer, then takes it off, bowing slightly.

My pa says, he says, that if you're no good with your hands and not that swift, why - hell, you're better to learn the rules and live by the rules, and make that your go-to. If you get his meaning. And well so I read and re-read and damn if I didn't re-re-read this here NCO manual they give you on the first days of training. The Airman reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, well-thumbed dark blue book - a book matching his uniform - with a yellow insignia on the cover. He holds it up, offering it to the impassioned eyes of the Animal Trainer. And damn if I've been good about it, too, he says. They rib me for it, yes, but it's for sure worked.

The Airman swallows hard.

Anyway, I'm just saying this all to say how sure double sorry I am. That I missed it - the duel that is. But hell I think it's either a prank or something what got mixed up in the mailroom on account of nobody seeing a telegram and not knowing how in the Sam Hill to read it right, you know?

The Animal Trainer blinks, then turns her gaze toward the bulrushes. If you missed it, she says, you're in default.

The Airman looks off, a mix of incomprehension and regret on his face. He turns back.

Would have if I'd gotten it, ma'am, he says.

I'm sure you would have, Airman, she says. Check your rule book to see if that counts for much.

The Airman does. He thumbs through the book. He gets to the page. He reads. He closes the book.

Well, he says distantly, I suppose you could say that suicide is a kind of duel for introverts.

You could, she says absently.

Well then, he says. Nice meeting you, he says. The Animal Trainer hands him her gun. Then turns and stands on tip-toe to get a better view across the field, hand over her brow.

Can you tell my pa I died by the rules, ma'am? he asks.

Of course not, she says. That'd be against the rules.

The Airman nods slowly. He walks off to the north. He sees the crows lined along the wire of the fence in the distance, over the decomposing bodies. He looks at them, they look at him.

He raises the gun. His gun goes off.

Analyst v. Animal Trainer

The Analyst sleeps off his hangover. He wakes, surveys his setting, then drags the body of the Anesthesiologist to the line of bodies along the northern border. Crows alight in the plowed field beyond the wire fence. He looks at them, they look at him. He turns and walks back to the oak.

The Animal Trainer reaches the oak.

She has tight thin lips, calm brown eyes. Dressed in boots, jeans, a red checkered blouse, buckskin jacket. Her long straight gray hair is parted perfectly down the center of her scalp. The Analyst hears a noise, then sees a marmot arrive, not far back, shambling through the grass. The marmot stops beside the Animal Trainer and sits, hands crossed, regarding the Analyst philosophically.

This is my marmot, says the Animal Trainer.

What's its name? asks the Analyst.

Norman Mailer, says the Animal Trainer. He's the world's most talented marmot.

The Animal Trainer explains that, apart from performing in movies like Everett Everyman, Hot Copper II: Cop It Like It's Hot, and SWINGO!.

Now I recognize him, says the Analyst. I love SWINGO!.

I also, she says, spent years training him to whistle at the first sign of evil.

Does he whistle often? asks the Analyst.

No, says the Animal Trainer. But you'd have to expect a marmot's understanding of good and evil to be tenuous at best. Or he's just being difficult. I don't know.

The two take to the field, fifteen paces apart. The marmot sits patiently, hands crossed, watching them from beneath the oak.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Anesthesiologist v. Analyst

The Anesthesiologist grows bored waiting.

He uses the wet newspaper to cover his hands while dragging the bodies of the Accountant, the Acrobat, the Actor, the Actuary, the Administrator, the Advocate, the Aerospace Engineer, the Agent, the Agronomist, the Air Traffic Controller, the Alchemist and the Ambassador across the field to the north, where the the field met weeds and old wire fencing. He positions the bodies side by side, tucks a twenty dollar bill from the Ambassador's bill fold in the pocket of each corpse, and keeps the remainder ($73). He takes all the clothes, the affects and drops them all in a pile at the end of the row of dead. Brushing off the haze of suspended fruit flies, he relocates the pears to an anonymous spot before the timber fence. Here he also deposits the timber, the packing material, the Accountant's bloodied newspaper. He walks to the creek and cleans his hands in the frigid water then returns to the oak.

He waits, bored, for a long while. He looks down at his watch. He sighs impatiently.

The Analyst walks from the road to the west. Where have you been, asks the Anesthesiologist. Who are you to ask me, asks the Analyst. The Analyst is young, irritable, terribly hung over.

You're late to the duel, says the Anesthesiologist. That should benefit me in some way. It's only fair.

Can I just lie down for a second? asks the Analyst. Just for an hour or so. The Analyst lies down on the field. The Anesthesiologist nudges him in the ribs. The Anesthesiologist tells him to get up. The Analyst gets up.

I shoot first, says the Anesthesiologist. Who are you to change the rules, asks the Analyst. You have no authority here.

Well then get on the field, says the Anesthesiologist. The Analyst walks to the field. The Anesthesiologist races to get the guns, gives a gun to the Analyst and stands fifteen paces away.

My God, it's just a duel, says the Analyst.

You know, I like to keep active, okay? says the Anesthesiologist.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.