For the third day in a row, the reaping of the previous duel proves less than customary. Not even a wedding band is found. Instead of offsetting the balance, Pepple sends the Grave Digger off empty handed.
When the Demolitionist arrives looking for food, Pepple - looking slightly gaunt himself - breaks a small piece of black bread and hands it over, along with water. The two men eat in silence.
The Demolitionist asks why Pepple doesn't take his rifle and hunt in the forest.
There's game up here, he says, there must be. I'll help you hunt - if you need help.
Pepple takes up his notepad. Three lines are written. He'd drawn them that morning.
...reverently, they place some of the plants...
...the truth is that it longed to yield...
...I didn't know it had got as far as that...
It rains a hard summer rain that night. It breaks the heat.
The Detective arrives in a cheap suit, mopping his face with a yellowed handkerchief.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
Demolitionist v. Designer
The Dermatologist's corpse, too, turns up light. An electronic watch, a few dollars, a slim wedding band. The Grave Digger appeals to Pepple. Again, Pepple takes the band and subsidizes the haul with cash. The Grave Digger walks off silently. Pepple sits, thinking, for several minutes.The Demolitionist, having not eaten for several days, joins Pepple. Pepple considers the man. He returns from his cabin with black bread and a chipped mug of stale water. The Demolitionist eagerly consumes both. They talk, and Pepple reveals that he expects a windfall shortly. He looks to the forest. The Demolitionist notes his pad: filled with notes, charts, analysis; phrases written and circled, modified and put in a variety of associations, crossed-out and redacted. In the middle he sees a chess board, pieces arranged in bizarre fashion, with two pawns at the center.
The Designer arrives in flowing fabrics. She's an average-looking woman with unique hair.
The Demolitionist asks about her clothes.
Bedouin, Poppy, Bedouin! she cries with arms outstretched, explaining: Historical analysis proves an exemplary means by which to arrive at fashionable variety.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Demolitionist v. Dermatologist
The haul from the Dentist is slim. The Grave Digger checks her pockets, her purse. Apart from a few dollars, a small gold wedding band and simple costume jewelry, nothing of great value is found. He buries the body and speaks with Pepple. Pepple considers.
The weather's oppressively hot. Sweat drips from Pepple's beard like rain from straw.
After some deliberation, he takes the small wedding band from the Grave Digger, reaches in his pocket and - presumably to make up for the meager looting - gives the man several folded bills. Pepple then points to the aerial, then to the forest. He talks with the Grave Digger a bit longer. The Grave Digger leaves.
The Demolitionist watches from the oak.
He thinks of walking over to Pepple and telling him of the pipe, but can't think of any reason why Pepple wouldn't either know of its existence already or care. It's a minor discovery that, for him, sheds no light on anything... apart from whence the light from within the cabin is manifest.
The Dermatologist arrives late.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
The weather's oppressively hot. Sweat drips from Pepple's beard like rain from straw.
After some deliberation, he takes the small wedding band from the Grave Digger, reaches in his pocket and - presumably to make up for the meager looting - gives the man several folded bills. Pepple then points to the aerial, then to the forest. He talks with the Grave Digger a bit longer. The Grave Digger leaves.
The Demolitionist watches from the oak.
He thinks of walking over to Pepple and telling him of the pipe, but can't think of any reason why Pepple wouldn't either know of its existence already or care. It's a minor discovery that, for him, sheds no light on anything... apart from whence the light from within the cabin is manifest.
The Dermatologist arrives late.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Demolitionist v. Dentist
After the duel the Demolitionist quietly begins pacing the length of the grounds. At last, along the creek that marks the southern border, just north of where the Astrophysicist drove his motorized wheelchair off the two foot-high bank, he sees a clay pipe half buried beneath pebbles and grit. The pipe's old and worn, with algae clinging to the downstream fringe, waving gently in the current.
Following the direction of the pipe, he notes that it aims to a spot just east of the great mound to the northwest of the grounds - not directly to the well. In the other direction, the pipe leads out past the marshland. He strains to see vines and foliage covering a sloped embankment far, far to the south, perpendicular to the direction of the valley.
When he makes to jump across the river to get a better view, an arrow cuts silently into the soft ground before him. He snaps his head to the direction from where it was shot: the forest, not forty paces away. The trees shake. He pulls the arrow from the ground and examines it: it's fletched from scratch, with crow feathers for stabilizers, and a polished, sharpened scrap metal spike for a tip.
When the Dentist arrives the following morning he takes her to where the pipe runs across the creek. He identifies it as an old insulation pipe, its interior coated with lead. Then he points south to the southern embankment.
And that's a private dam, he says. Concrete covered in creeper.
The Dentist strains to see.
Out of view a beaver hits its tail against the calm water.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Following the direction of the pipe, he notes that it aims to a spot just east of the great mound to the northwest of the grounds - not directly to the well. In the other direction, the pipe leads out past the marshland. He strains to see vines and foliage covering a sloped embankment far, far to the south, perpendicular to the direction of the valley.
When he makes to jump across the river to get a better view, an arrow cuts silently into the soft ground before him. He snaps his head to the direction from where it was shot: the forest, not forty paces away. The trees shake. He pulls the arrow from the ground and examines it: it's fletched from scratch, with crow feathers for stabilizers, and a polished, sharpened scrap metal spike for a tip.
When the Dentist arrives the following morning he takes her to where the pipe runs across the creek. He identifies it as an old insulation pipe, its interior coated with lead. Then he points south to the southern embankment.
And that's a private dam, he says. Concrete covered in creeper.
The Dentist strains to see.
Out of view a beaver hits its tail against the calm water.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Demolitionist v. Dental Assistant
Lacking much direction after the duel - and being the type of man in constant need for direction, or an outlet for his thoughts; being an extrovert, in other words - the Demolitionist saunters north to chat with Pepple, who sits in the shade of his shack, reading.
The only thing different about Pepple since the Curator's visit is the addition of a panama hat (previously the Curator's) that sits at a jaunty angle over his agreeably trimmed scalp. That and the number of books - now four - that lie in a neat stack beside his Adirondack chair. The books are hard-bound, aged, and worn. Their titles are difficult to read from the angle of the Demolitionist's view. The top seems clearly a volume on esoteric interpretation, the Tree of Life pressed in gilt on the leather cover.
Pepple interrupts his reading to chat for a few minutes. He reveals the nature of the aerial.
Just for curiosity's sake, asks the Demolitionist, where do you get the power for the radio?
He's right to be curious. No power lines run from the road. The roof's without solar panels. No generator fires.
Pepple dog-ears his book, stands, and leads the Demolitionist to the side of his cabin, from which a black cable runs. The cable's of an old make, easily decades old, from the dawn of the electrical age: a thick layer vulcanized rubber melted into coarse hemp insulates twined copper wire. The Demolitionists tugs the cable lightly. It lifts from the grass, leading in the direction of the nearby well.
It's from down there? he asks Pepple, turning.
Pepple nods and returns to his seat, finished with conversation. The Demolitionist looks back and forth between the cable and the well, then at Pepple. Puzzled, he leaves for the oak.
That evening, as the sky darkens, he sees the flicker of light from Pepple's cabin - then a dim luminescence from the south window. Inside, Pepple tilts his head, listening closely to the signal on the AM band. He scribbles phrases on a pad.
The next day the Dental Assistant arrives. She's a pretty young woman not yet in her thirties. A few seconds of conversation reveals her to be phlegmatic to the extreme. Her actions are marked, her reactions gauged. Her preparations are extensive, clinical. She's the first to question whether the heads of their bullet should be sanitized prior to the duel.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
The only thing different about Pepple since the Curator's visit is the addition of a panama hat (previously the Curator's) that sits at a jaunty angle over his agreeably trimmed scalp. That and the number of books - now four - that lie in a neat stack beside his Adirondack chair. The books are hard-bound, aged, and worn. Their titles are difficult to read from the angle of the Demolitionist's view. The top seems clearly a volume on esoteric interpretation, the Tree of Life pressed in gilt on the leather cover.
Pepple interrupts his reading to chat for a few minutes. He reveals the nature of the aerial.
Just for curiosity's sake, asks the Demolitionist, where do you get the power for the radio?
He's right to be curious. No power lines run from the road. The roof's without solar panels. No generator fires.
Pepple dog-ears his book, stands, and leads the Demolitionist to the side of his cabin, from which a black cable runs. The cable's of an old make, easily decades old, from the dawn of the electrical age: a thick layer vulcanized rubber melted into coarse hemp insulates twined copper wire. The Demolitionists tugs the cable lightly. It lifts from the grass, leading in the direction of the nearby well.
It's from down there? he asks Pepple, turning.
Pepple nods and returns to his seat, finished with conversation. The Demolitionist looks back and forth between the cable and the well, then at Pepple. Puzzled, he leaves for the oak.
That evening, as the sky darkens, he sees the flicker of light from Pepple's cabin - then a dim luminescence from the south window. Inside, Pepple tilts his head, listening closely to the signal on the AM band. He scribbles phrases on a pad.
The next day the Dental Assistant arrives. She's a pretty young woman not yet in her thirties. A few seconds of conversation reveals her to be phlegmatic to the extreme. Her actions are marked, her reactions gauged. Her preparations are extensive, clinical. She's the first to question whether the heads of their bullet should be sanitized prior to the duel.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Demographer v. Demolitionist
While Pepple studies several open books laid about him in the shade of his cabin, the Demographer and the Demolitionist agree on the importance of keeping the correct person-to-building ratio.
Business is really booming, says the Demolitionist. That's an old Demolitionist joke - but it's true, especially given today's circumstances. Hell if I didn't demolish six destitute tenements earlier this week, and twice that many single-family homes. All on the fringes of the city. Sure I feel bad for the squatters --
But they're the responsibility of the Civil Servant, finishes the Demographer.
Exactly.
The Demographer asks the biggest thing the Demolitionist destroyed. Answer: a dam.
They're spotted all over this area on maps. Small private dams, beaver dams, larger public dams. I read an old map that indicated the presence of one near here. Very small, built ages ago. But you know they built those early dynamos to last. Could still be pumping power... to God knows what, but power nevertheless.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Business is really booming, says the Demolitionist. That's an old Demolitionist joke - but it's true, especially given today's circumstances. Hell if I didn't demolish six destitute tenements earlier this week, and twice that many single-family homes. All on the fringes of the city. Sure I feel bad for the squatters --
But they're the responsibility of the Civil Servant, finishes the Demographer.
Exactly.
The Demographer asks the biggest thing the Demolitionist destroyed. Answer: a dam.
They're spotted all over this area on maps. Small private dams, beaver dams, larger public dams. I read an old map that indicated the presence of one near here. Very small, built ages ago. But you know they built those early dynamos to last. Could still be pumping power... to God knows what, but power nevertheless.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Deputy v. Demographer
Did you know, says the Demographer, that we haven't been able to get a solid census of this area for over six decades? the Demographer asks the Deputy. The towns are difficult, he continues, but the outland regions - locations like this, for example, are nearly impossible. All we can go by is rumor and speculation. That leads to poor data.
The Deputy, who skipped out of the last census taking, grunts.
We think there are about a thousand in the woodland areas to the east. Again, it's impossible to tell for sure. Between the hunters and trappers, hermits and recluses, let alone the primitives? It's anyone's guess.
But, he claps his hands, its the way it goes, huh?
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
The Deputy, who skipped out of the last census taking, grunts.
We think there are about a thousand in the woodland areas to the east. Again, it's impossible to tell for sure. Between the hunters and trappers, hermits and recluses, let alone the primitives? It's anyone's guess.
But, he claps his hands, its the way it goes, huh?
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
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