The Aviator looks around. He drags the bodies of the Autopsy Surgeon, the Author, the Audiologist, the Athlete, the Attorney, the Astrophysicist, the Astronomer, the Assessor and the Astrologer to the growing row of dead by the north fence. The murder of crows, fat and happy, seems to have multiplied - a few times over. About twenty sit on the fence, or between corpses. The Aviator frowns.
Shoo! he says. The crows don't budge. He looks at them, they look at him. He throws a rock. One crow gently hops out of the rock's path. Caw! say the crows.
In the north field, far away, the Aviator spots two figures shuffling furtively in the bramble around an old wind-powered well. (Exceptional eyesight.) They seem fixated on the biplane. Then they see him and freeze.
Hey! he shouts.
The dark figures retreat back into the bramble.
The Aviator throws another rock at the crows for good measure, then returns to the oak.
The Background Artist tramps in from the road. She's dressed in black from head to foot. Short black hair, black nail polish. Thick and boyish, unpainted, so pale she's nearly luminescent. (The sort of girl who'd make a yipping pack of jackals seem like decent company.)
What's all this crap doing around the base of the tree? she asks, pointing to the Astronaut's space food tubes.
Don't know, says the Aviator. It was here when I got here.
And what's with that smell? she asks. It smells like shit and death.
That's probably the bodies over the fence, he says.
Why are you wearing that jacket and those goggles? she asks.
I fly planes, he says curtly, eyeing the pistols.
She looks over at the crashed Sopwith Camel. Then back at the Aviator. She narrows her eyes. The Aviator sighs.
They don't speak for several hours. During that time the Aviator reads the Assessor's trade paperback, a self-help title book titled Consider Phlebas: Lowering Your Expectations with T.S. Eliot's 'The Waste Land'. The Background Artist spends her time kicking around the tubes of space food - eventually into a pile of trash and slush - including the Archivist's smudged and ripped and wet but still intact List of the Dead - by the table.
She picks up the List of the Dead and reads it through. What's this? she asks.
Hello? he says from behind the book.
She drops it on the Aviator's lap. He frowns, dog-ears the book and picks up the list with as much enthusiasm as one would a moistened sock.
I don't know, he says. Unless you're read to shoot, I'd like to finish the chapter I'm on.
I'm ready, she says.
The Aviator gets up, places the book and the list on the table, picks a gun and walks to the field. She takes a gun and walks up to him. They stand ten paces apart.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Autopsy Surgeon v. Aviator
The moment the bullet tears my flesh and I expire, falling, crumbling to a mass of flesh and bone on the field, the setting reverts from lush, flowering spring to cold, muddy winter. Instantly. In the clap of the pistols. The Autopsy Surgeon stands, mouth open. He rushes back to the oak, terrified.
From afar he hears a light drone. Not quite a drone - a din. Then the din grows into a drone. At which point the Autopsy Surgeon fears the worst: loss of sanity, apocalypse, terrorist attack. All three, brought on by toxic gas from a crop duster? What else could explain the meeting he just had? The instant scenery?
He peeks from above his lapel (he's crouching now, his bald narrow head tucked into his jacket, tortoise-like) and sees, sure enough, flying in from the south, a crop duster. His head retracts. He shakes. His bowels loosen.
But it's not a crop duster, just an old biplane - a Sopwith Camel - that dips and swerves in the crosswind as it makes its landing approach. It sinks precariously, nearly clipping the dead pines in the marsh, hefts up, crosses the creek, touches down harsh on the field once, twice - then twists and rises again. Heaves up, slowing, then falls - then rises - jumping the northern fence. Engine sputtering, its wheels hit the plowed field, kicking thick wet soil. A diagonal skid, left wing clips the ground, rotor catches the earth - and the plane flips, overturns. A massive thud. Engine wheezes, coughs, sighs to a stop.
A young man falls from the open cockpit, flight goggles crooked, fur-lined leather jacket askew, white silk oil-stained scarf dangling from his neck. He staggers from the field, climbs over the fence, and weaves his way to the oak.
Hello, says the Aviator.
The Autopsy Surgeon, who'd watched the crash - yet still wasn't convinced he hadn't gone mad due to toxic gas - nods.
The Aviator falls over.
The Autopsy Surgeon, after some time, gets up and - after cleaning himself with the Aviator's silk scarf, which he then burns by the creek using one of the Artist's matches - examines the Aviator. He doesn't see any broken bones.
After a long while the Aviator wakes. Hi, he says. How long was I out for?
The Autopsy Surgeon doesn't know. He checks his watch. The Aviator explains that he's been flying without sleep for three days.
I'm practicing for a new world record. First fully organic flight across the Atlantic. Because I built my plane entirely of wood, hemp, and recycled newspaper, and it runs on a mixture of canola oil and potato vodka. I even won sponsorship from Ginkgo Corp.
He shows the patch on the sleeve of his jacket: there, the unmistakable green leaf logo. In the distance, the logo shows prominantly on the plane's rudder.
What are you going to do now? the Autopsy Surgeon asks, motioning toward the wreck.
Oh, it's nothing - I've crashed that plane I don't know how many times, says the Aviator. It's a stinker to land.
The Autopsy Surgeon thinks of telling the Aviator about everything that's happened to him over the past day, but decides (as a way to demur making the decision on whether to tell anyone of his encounter) that they should get on with the duel.
They choose pistols, take the field. They stand ten paces apart.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Author v. Autopsy Surgeon
Only a truly degenerate author writes himself in as a character in his own work. Don't you think?
The Auditor sighs. She sits at a large desk I've provided her with, papers strewn across the top. She looks up. I guess, she says.
What do you mean? It's a yes or no question.
I don't know, she says. If you say so.
Listen, I didn't invent you to be my yes-woman. Yes or no?
She puts down her pen. With all respect, you created me to audit your work. And that's what I'm trying to do. But it's hard to do when you ask me questions all the time. That aren't audit-related.
Then take a break.
We're on a deadline, she says.
She's right. It's getting late and we are on a deadline.
Just tell me. Do you think I'm a degenerate?
You're my creator! I don't know. Some might argue that it's a novel concept that you're doing.
But not you.
You made me honest above all else. Honest and polite. Why are you asking me a question you know I can't answer without going against my nature?
I made you too contentious.
Well maybe you did, she says. She returns to her work.
I manifest a squash court and play squash for an hour or so against the Athlete, who I reanimate, now technically a Zombie Athlete. Then I think I'm starting to go too over-the-top and make the squash court disappear and the Athlete fall in a lifeless heap.
Done? I ask.
Almost, she says.
Which did you think was the worst entry?
They're all very nice in their own way.
Jesus. It's like pulling teeth with you.
She shushes me. I sit in my wicker chair.
A few minutes pass.
Okay, she says, I'm done. It's the best I can do with just under a day's notice. She hands me a smartly assembled report. I read it over.
This is good, I say.
Thanks.
I didn't realize I mentioned the Assassin's gold tie clip until Assessor v. Astronaut. Do you think I gave away his cover? Should that be redacted?
I could give my advice, but I'd have to consult my attorney first.
Well played, I say. She smiles slightly.
I'll make corrections based on this report, I tell her. You've done a good job.
She smiles and nods and says it was nothing.
Now to your reward.
I place the report on the rosewood table and turn day to night. Our focus above, with one hand I brush a space between the constellations. I take her hand and guide her up to the heavens, transforming her as we climb. At the edge of the sphere I set her, finally, in the stars, in the gap between Orion and Taurus, as a new constellation: Doreen, the Auditor: the vague aspect of a woman, seated, carefully surveying text.
I fall back to earth, pull back the veil of night, and usher in the Autopsy Surgeon, a timid, balding man in middle age, the bottoms of his trousers rolled.
Grab your gun, I tell him. Let's make this quick.
And I don't get time to talk? he asks quietly.
Indeed there will be time, I say, to wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
I give him a gun and take the other. We walk out to the field, standing ten paces apart.
We raise our guns. Our guns go off.
The Auditor sighs. She sits at a large desk I've provided her with, papers strewn across the top. She looks up. I guess, she says.
What do you mean? It's a yes or no question.
I don't know, she says. If you say so.
Listen, I didn't invent you to be my yes-woman. Yes or no?
She puts down her pen. With all respect, you created me to audit your work. And that's what I'm trying to do. But it's hard to do when you ask me questions all the time. That aren't audit-related.
Then take a break.
We're on a deadline, she says.
She's right. It's getting late and we are on a deadline.
Just tell me. Do you think I'm a degenerate?
You're my creator! I don't know. Some might argue that it's a novel concept that you're doing.
But not you.
You made me honest above all else. Honest and polite. Why are you asking me a question you know I can't answer without going against my nature?
I made you too contentious.
Well maybe you did, she says. She returns to her work.
I manifest a squash court and play squash for an hour or so against the Athlete, who I reanimate, now technically a Zombie Athlete. Then I think I'm starting to go too over-the-top and make the squash court disappear and the Athlete fall in a lifeless heap.
Done? I ask.
Almost, she says.
Which did you think was the worst entry?
They're all very nice in their own way.
Jesus. It's like pulling teeth with you.
She shushes me. I sit in my wicker chair.
A few minutes pass.
Okay, she says, I'm done. It's the best I can do with just under a day's notice. She hands me a smartly assembled report. I read it over.
This is good, I say.
Thanks.
I didn't realize I mentioned the Assassin's gold tie clip until Assessor v. Astronaut. Do you think I gave away his cover? Should that be redacted?
I could give my advice, but I'd have to consult my attorney first.
Well played, I say. She smiles slightly.
I'll make corrections based on this report, I tell her. You've done a good job.
She smiles and nods and says it was nothing.
Now to your reward.
I place the report on the rosewood table and turn day to night. Our focus above, with one hand I brush a space between the constellations. I take her hand and guide her up to the heavens, transforming her as we climb. At the edge of the sphere I set her, finally, in the stars, in the gap between Orion and Taurus, as a new constellation: Doreen, the Auditor: the vague aspect of a woman, seated, carefully surveying text.
I fall back to earth, pull back the veil of night, and usher in the Autopsy Surgeon, a timid, balding man in middle age, the bottoms of his trousers rolled.
Grab your gun, I tell him. Let's make this quick.
And I don't get time to talk? he asks quietly.
Indeed there will be time, I say, to wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
I give him a gun and take the other. We walk out to the field, standing ten paces apart.
We raise our guns. Our guns go off.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Auditor v. Author
The Auditor returns to the oak. From her purse she pulls a trade paperback. She opens it and reads, huddled against the wind.
Suddenly the weather changes. The breeze warms. The snow melts in unreal fashion, the water absorbed. The grass brightens and the oak buds gloss and tender leaves. The overcast dissipates. The warm sun shines. The forest teams with activity. The birds trill and chirp. A fox races along the fence to the north. The corpses take the smell of perfume. And flowers - every variety of tulip, crocus, narcissus, daffodil, hyacinth - burst forth and blossom around the base of the oak, around her, the Auditor, in supernatural splendor.
Startled from her reading, she drops the book. She watches as I walk from the road.
Dressed in collared shirt and jacket, sweater, jeans, I walk with my hands in my pockets, head down.
Hey, I say.
Hello, she says.
I evoke two wicker chairs, cushioned, sitting side by side, on either side of the rosewood table. Then I change the Auditor clothing to befit the weather. A light patterned blouse, pressed jeans, hair pulled back.
Have a seat, I say. I sit. She sits, nervous, astonished.
Who are you? she asks.
I lean back and sigh. I cross my legs.
Listen, I apologize for the ostentation. I probably shouldn't have done it this way. The entrance. Honestly, I'm not sure it's the right tack. It seems like it might be a nice change of pace. Not particularly funny. A bit? Grandiose. Maybe. Hopefully a bit entertaining. Plus I'm a big fan of spring. I don't know.
Which is to say, I say, I'm the Author.
Of what?
I explain. Then I suddenly wonder whether my inclusion was a mistake.
Maybe my inclusion was a mistake, I say.
What?
Huh.
My God, she says.
What, you expected a god who knows what he's doing?
She holds her head in her hands.
I bolster her confidence and acceptance.
She takes a deep breath and looks up, at me, in the eye. Okay, she says.
So listen, I need your help, I tell her.
What do you need me for?
I'm impatient.
Can't you do anything I can do on your own?
I could, sure, and will - but using you lets me veil my intentions.
She looks down.
Anyway, I need you to audit this world I've created. It's a little sloppy. It could use some tidying up, some regulation.
All right, she says looking around. I think I can do that.
Fantastic, I say. In exchange, I'll exempt you from dueling all together. To sort through this mess.
That sounds fair. Though I don't think I have a choice, she says.
No you don't. But I can make it seem like you do.
She shakes her head. She's a tough girl, a capital creation.
I imbue her with full knowledge of everything that's been written in this series up till this word that I'm typing now - and more, till the end of this particular passage. Anything she needs to get her job accomplished is provided.
I'll get started, she says.
Good, I say. We'll leave off any dueling until tomorrow.
She smiles and begins her task.
I sit back in my wicker chair and begin to think up her work.
Suddenly the weather changes. The breeze warms. The snow melts in unreal fashion, the water absorbed. The grass brightens and the oak buds gloss and tender leaves. The overcast dissipates. The warm sun shines. The forest teams with activity. The birds trill and chirp. A fox races along the fence to the north. The corpses take the smell of perfume. And flowers - every variety of tulip, crocus, narcissus, daffodil, hyacinth - burst forth and blossom around the base of the oak, around her, the Auditor, in supernatural splendor.
Startled from her reading, she drops the book. She watches as I walk from the road.
Dressed in collared shirt and jacket, sweater, jeans, I walk with my hands in my pockets, head down.
Hey, I say.
Hello, she says.
I evoke two wicker chairs, cushioned, sitting side by side, on either side of the rosewood table. Then I change the Auditor clothing to befit the weather. A light patterned blouse, pressed jeans, hair pulled back.
Have a seat, I say. I sit. She sits, nervous, astonished.
Who are you? she asks.
I lean back and sigh. I cross my legs.
Listen, I apologize for the ostentation. I probably shouldn't have done it this way. The entrance. Honestly, I'm not sure it's the right tack. It seems like it might be a nice change of pace. Not particularly funny. A bit? Grandiose. Maybe. Hopefully a bit entertaining. Plus I'm a big fan of spring. I don't know.
Which is to say, I say, I'm the Author.
Of what?
I explain. Then I suddenly wonder whether my inclusion was a mistake.
Maybe my inclusion was a mistake, I say.
What?
Huh.
My God, she says.
What, you expected a god who knows what he's doing?
She holds her head in her hands.
I bolster her confidence and acceptance.
She takes a deep breath and looks up, at me, in the eye. Okay, she says.
So listen, I need your help, I tell her.
What do you need me for?
I'm impatient.
Can't you do anything I can do on your own?
I could, sure, and will - but using you lets me veil my intentions.
She looks down.
Anyway, I need you to audit this world I've created. It's a little sloppy. It could use some tidying up, some regulation.
All right, she says looking around. I think I can do that.
Fantastic, I say. In exchange, I'll exempt you from dueling all together. To sort through this mess.
That sounds fair. Though I don't think I have a choice, she says.
No you don't. But I can make it seem like you do.
She shakes her head. She's a tough girl, a capital creation.
I imbue her with full knowledge of everything that's been written in this series up till this word that I'm typing now - and more, till the end of this particular passage. Anything she needs to get her job accomplished is provided.
I'll get started, she says.
Good, I say. We'll leave off any dueling until tomorrow.
She smiles and begins her task.
I sit back in my wicker chair and begin to think up her work.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Audiologist v. Auditor
The Audiologist, remembering the retainer she gave the Attorney, now finds herself in need of another attorney to seek a claim on the sum remaining on the retainer left with her first attorney. She can see her retainer, the $2,500, stuffed clumsily in the Attorney's jacket pocket, open to the air, bills flipping softly in the breeze. The thought that she may need to find the same sum to give a new attorney to reclaim the sum she left her old attorney - the Attorney - frustrates her. (Gnashing of the teeth.) Yet when she sees a petite form walking slowly yet purposefully from the road she waves and smiles.
The petite form belongs to the Auditor, a woman of professional, youthful, just-less-than-exceptional beauty.
When they meet, they shake politely. The Auditor presents her business card. The Audiologist takes it gladly, then - on looking on the card - asks the Auditor if she might recommend an attorney.
What's the issue, if you don't me asking? asks the Auditor.
The Audiologist explains.
At about this time the snow stops falling. The breeze picks up slightly.
Well, the Auditor says after some thought, I think I have a solution that might benefit everybody.
Wonderful, says the Audiologist.
But I should run it by my attorney first, she says. To avoid possible litigation, if my advice turns out wrong. Which it's certainly not. But you never know.
(The Auditor is a model of prudence.)
The Audiologist thanks her for all her help. Then she moves to the guns on the table.
They select their guns, they walk to the field, fifteen paces apart.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
The petite form belongs to the Auditor, a woman of professional, youthful, just-less-than-exceptional beauty.
When they meet, they shake politely. The Auditor presents her business card. The Audiologist takes it gladly, then - on looking on the card - asks the Auditor if she might recommend an attorney.
What's the issue, if you don't me asking? asks the Auditor.
The Audiologist explains.
At about this time the snow stops falling. The breeze picks up slightly.
Well, the Auditor says after some thought, I think I have a solution that might benefit everybody.
Wonderful, says the Audiologist.
But I should run it by my attorney first, she says. To avoid possible litigation, if my advice turns out wrong. Which it's certainly not. But you never know.
(The Auditor is a model of prudence.)
The Audiologist thanks her for all her help. Then she moves to the guns on the table.
They select their guns, they walk to the field, fifteen paces apart.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Attorney v. Audiologist
The Attorney returns the legal documents to his tan briefcase. He takes out a large, heavy, heavily marked, dog-eared, highly annotated book of law and places it on the table. He closes his briefcase and sets it upright just beneath the table.
The Attorney begins thumbing through the book of law.
The Audiologist hollers from the poplars by the road. The Attorney looks up. He frowns slightly and turns back, continuing his study.
The Audiologist is a stout, sanguine, large-breasted, blond haired woman. She walks with a cane, with a limp, as if gout-ridden (which she is).
Hullo! she hollers again, half-way between her previous position and the oak. This time the Attorney turns and smiles, greeting her with tempered yet courteous welcome. She waddles up. They shake hands. She sees the book of law.
Studying during such picturesque weather, surrounded by such a picturesque scene? she asks teasingly.
The Attorney explains that although he's found one loophole in the unspoken rules, he might have a lead on a loophole that would allow them circumvent the duel all together.
Do we really want that? asks the Audiologist.
The Attorney asks if she'd rather die.
Well I might not die, says the Audiologist. And in any event we all die at some point.
Yes, says the Attorney, but we might escape death-by-duel.
How? she asks.
Well, the Attorney says, let me say this first:
The provision of this theoretical loophole - as it stands now - would benefit both parties. If we're to assume that each party represents him or herself, I'm the representative of my party, which I'll henceforth refer to as the party of the first party. You, in this case, would be the party of the second part. Now the party of the first part, as both a party and a representative of that party, has no duty to act as representative to the party of the second part. Are you following me so far?
No, she says.
The party of the second part must act as representative to her own party. Unless the party of the first part offers his services on behalf of the party of the second part, which I, the party of the first part, would be willing to do for a fee. In securing this fee, I, as the representative of both of the party of the first part and the party of the second part, could bring forth said loophole which would benefit both parties of both parts.
This I understand, she says.
Good. So, to begin, I'll need a retainer.
How much?
The Attorney names his price.
The Audiologist balks and counteroffers. Negotiations go on for several minutes. Finally they come to an accord, and the Audiologist sets down a retainer of $2,500 (which is a lot of money to an Audiologist, and a lot of cash for a Audiologist to be carrying on her person, but in truth she was always rather foolhardy).
Excellent. Now for this to work, he says, consulting his book of law, according to Milkman v. Miller, 21 U.S. 540 (1897) all we need to do is apologize to one another. Verbally.
Well, says the Audiologist, just imagine that.
You can begin, says the Attorney.
I'd rather you, she says. Because I'm skeptical. Especially after all those things you did.
What did I do that you haven't, in other ways? says the Attorney.
Oh you know quite well.
As your attorney, I advise you to apologize first.
I'll take that under counsel. Anyway, I just realized that having you as my attorney would more than likely lead to a conflict of interest.
Well, it seems we've come to an impasse. Let's take our guns. I'll take my place behind the tree, and you in the field.
That doesn't seem fair, she says. As my attorney, tell me if your actions seem on the level - with regard to our duel.
As your attorney I'd have to say that no party can take a position away from the field unless its agreed upon in writing, he says reluctantly.
Thank God I hired you after all, she says.
They take their guns and walk out to the field, fifteen paces apart.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
The Attorney begins thumbing through the book of law.
The Audiologist hollers from the poplars by the road. The Attorney looks up. He frowns slightly and turns back, continuing his study.
The Audiologist is a stout, sanguine, large-breasted, blond haired woman. She walks with a cane, with a limp, as if gout-ridden (which she is).
Hullo! she hollers again, half-way between her previous position and the oak. This time the Attorney turns and smiles, greeting her with tempered yet courteous welcome. She waddles up. They shake hands. She sees the book of law.
Studying during such picturesque weather, surrounded by such a picturesque scene? she asks teasingly.
The Attorney explains that although he's found one loophole in the unspoken rules, he might have a lead on a loophole that would allow them circumvent the duel all together.
Do we really want that? asks the Audiologist.
The Attorney asks if she'd rather die.
Well I might not die, says the Audiologist. And in any event we all die at some point.
Yes, says the Attorney, but we might escape death-by-duel.
How? she asks.
Well, the Attorney says, let me say this first:
The provision of this theoretical loophole - as it stands now - would benefit both parties. If we're to assume that each party represents him or herself, I'm the representative of my party, which I'll henceforth refer to as the party of the first party. You, in this case, would be the party of the second part. Now the party of the first part, as both a party and a representative of that party, has no duty to act as representative to the party of the second part. Are you following me so far?
No, she says.
The party of the second part must act as representative to her own party. Unless the party of the first part offers his services on behalf of the party of the second part, which I, the party of the first part, would be willing to do for a fee. In securing this fee, I, as the representative of both of the party of the first part and the party of the second part, could bring forth said loophole which would benefit both parties of both parts.
This I understand, she says.
Good. So, to begin, I'll need a retainer.
How much?
The Attorney names his price.
The Audiologist balks and counteroffers. Negotiations go on for several minutes. Finally they come to an accord, and the Audiologist sets down a retainer of $2,500 (which is a lot of money to an Audiologist, and a lot of cash for a Audiologist to be carrying on her person, but in truth she was always rather foolhardy).
Excellent. Now for this to work, he says, consulting his book of law, according to Milkman v. Miller, 21 U.S. 540 (1897) all we need to do is apologize to one another. Verbally.
Well, says the Audiologist, just imagine that.
You can begin, says the Attorney.
I'd rather you, she says. Because I'm skeptical. Especially after all those things you did.
What did I do that you haven't, in other ways? says the Attorney.
Oh you know quite well.
As your attorney, I advise you to apologize first.
I'll take that under counsel. Anyway, I just realized that having you as my attorney would more than likely lead to a conflict of interest.
Well, it seems we've come to an impasse. Let's take our guns. I'll take my place behind the tree, and you in the field.
That doesn't seem fair, she says. As my attorney, tell me if your actions seem on the level - with regard to our duel.
As your attorney I'd have to say that no party can take a position away from the field unless its agreed upon in writing, he says reluctantly.
Thank God I hired you after all, she says.
They take their guns and walk out to the field, fifteen paces apart.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Athlete v. Attorney
At some point the rain stops. There's a period of high winds from the north. Then snow. Then more snow. Then a bit less snow. Then heavy snow. Then a snow that's neither heavy nor light. Then snow and rain. And then snow again, sans wind. (Which is, nine out of ten landscape painters agree, the most picturesque kind of snow.)
The Athlete runs in place during this entire meteorological drama. A testament to her stamina. Also, her Down syndrome.
At some she wearies, stops, and falls into deep contemplation.
When combining the picturesque falling snow sans wind, the blanketed corpses in the middle distance, and the overwhelming serenity on the face of the Athlete, this scene constitutes the penultimate wet-dream of the hypothetical love-child of Winslow Homer and Francis Bacon and Diane Arbus, who appears later in this series as the Switchboard Operator.
The Attorney arrives. He carries a tan leather briefcase.
I think I've found a loophole in the unspoken rules, he says, sweeping aside the guns, laying his briefcase on the rosewood table.
This breaks the Athlete's meditation.
Great job, she says.
The Attorney explains.
Great, she says.
So that's basically all we need to do.
I think that should do the trick, she says.
The Attorney is bearded and serious, in suit and tie. He opens his suitcase and pulls out some legal documents.
I'd like you to sign here and here and initial here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here. And the date here. And we're done. Thank you.
You're welcome, she says.
Now you can take the field. I'll stand here behind the tree, with my pistol aimed at your face.
I have to warn you, she says, I'm a very good shot with this!
I take that warning under advisement, thank you, he says.
She takes the field and he hides 5/6th of his body behind the trunk of the oak, fifteen paces apart.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
The Athlete runs in place during this entire meteorological drama. A testament to her stamina. Also, her Down syndrome.
At some she wearies, stops, and falls into deep contemplation.
When combining the picturesque falling snow sans wind, the blanketed corpses in the middle distance, and the overwhelming serenity on the face of the Athlete, this scene constitutes the penultimate wet-dream of the hypothetical love-child of Winslow Homer and Francis Bacon and Diane Arbus, who appears later in this series as the Switchboard Operator.
The Attorney arrives. He carries a tan leather briefcase.
I think I've found a loophole in the unspoken rules, he says, sweeping aside the guns, laying his briefcase on the rosewood table.
This breaks the Athlete's meditation.
Great job, she says.
The Attorney explains.
Great, she says.
So that's basically all we need to do.
I think that should do the trick, she says.
The Attorney is bearded and serious, in suit and tie. He opens his suitcase and pulls out some legal documents.
I'd like you to sign here and here and initial here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here. And the date here. And we're done. Thank you.
You're welcome, she says.
Now you can take the field. I'll stand here behind the tree, with my pistol aimed at your face.
I have to warn you, she says, I'm a very good shot with this!
I take that warning under advisement, thank you, he says.
She takes the field and he hides 5/6th of his body behind the trunk of the oak, fifteen paces apart.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
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