The Cheerleader, a bit traumatized by the killing, takes pains to wipe away the blood near the hole on the chest of the Chaplain’s black uniform. She crosses his arms over his chest and stands watch as Pepple arrives.
Don’t rifle through his pockets like that, she says sternly.
Pepple frowns. He makes to take off the Chaplain’s boot.
Don’t take his boots!
Pepple sighs. He looks at her, then looks at the body of the Chaplain. Finally, after a few seconds, he drags him off and buries him—clothes, boots and all.
When the Cheesemaker arrives the next day, the Cheerleader sits reading the instructions the Bellmaker wrote on the deck of playing cards. Next to her, on the table, sits the Bhikkuni’s alms bowl—now filled with hardened clay. She explains everything to the Cheesemaker and they decide (on the Cheerleader’s urging, really) to repeat the first few steps of bell making.
After a brief search—instructions on the 2 of clubs maps where the best blue clay is found—they come across the fork near the road and the stripe of blue. The Cheesemaker begins digging with a stick he found by the oak. Eventually he digs enough to fill the alms bowl as high as it was before with fresh clay.
They return to the oak and turn the 4 of hearts. This instructs them on how to shape the interior mold. The Cheerleader, who considers herself somewhat craft-oriented, shapes the interior mold per the specifications on the card.
The 5 of diamonds explains the proper way to build a kiln.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Chaplain v. Cheerleader
Pepple pockets the remainder of the cash found in the Chandler’s purse, the carton of cigarettes, the gin, and the chocolates. All her fillings, he discovers, are cheap stainless steel.
The Chaplain, an Anabaptist, meekly chimes in as Pepple drags her off:
Sir, I think—that’s to say I hope you don’t mind if… well, one of those candy bars from that woman just before the, well—you know.
Pepple hands him a chocolate bar.
Oh, thank you very much! bows the Chaplain.
Pepple rolls his eyes and drags away the Chandler.
The Cheerleader arrives as the Chaplain finishes the bar, his mouth ringed with chocolate.
The Chaplain offers his chocolate-smeared hand, which she takes. Then noticing the slipperiness between their palms, they both recoil. The Chaplain offers his handkerchief, but in passing it, it becomes as filthy as his hands and mouth. She declines, deciding instead to run to the creek to wash up. The Chaplain agrees with the plan, and follows.
At the edge of the creek, the Chaplain stumbles and lands face down in a small bed of damp silt.
Face now dirt- and chocolate-smeared, the Chaplain climbs from the creek, sits on the grass, and sighs. And this is pretty mild compared what I’ve done in the past, he says sadly.
She asks him to explain.
When I was first with the army I was with a company of soldiers in the mountains. They were supposed to intercept an informer from a tribe that controlled that territory. They told us to keep radio silence, but on one break I accidentally sat on a walkie-talkie. Only me and another guy escaped the ambush alive.
Then they shipped me to the other war. When I was being through the city to our base, I sneezed so hard I hit my helmet hard against the dashboard. It made such a loud whack that the gunner thought we’d come under mortar fire, and he shot into a nearby crowd of women. That ended pretty badly, too.
Next they sent me to the third war. Basically, I was the one that exposed that war for a fraud. Remember the guy who tripped over the wire and fell into the stage scenery while they were filming the General's live, on-air death scene? That was me.
After that they sent me back to the first war, blindfolded me, and shipped me to our enemies as a hostage. I got along pretty well with the enemy, and so pretty soon they let me walk back to our base. Back, a team of officers beat me with sticks, then had me sent to tend an outpost up here near the Canadian border. Even though no one's an Anabaptist. And now here I am.
The Cheerleader can't believe that she's in the presence of a celebrity.
You're that guy? she screams.
The Chaplain wipes mud from his face, and nods.
The Cheerleader wiggles her hands excitedly.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
The Chaplain, an Anabaptist, meekly chimes in as Pepple drags her off:
Sir, I think—that’s to say I hope you don’t mind if… well, one of those candy bars from that woman just before the, well—you know.
Pepple hands him a chocolate bar.
Oh, thank you very much! bows the Chaplain.
Pepple rolls his eyes and drags away the Chandler.
The Cheerleader arrives as the Chaplain finishes the bar, his mouth ringed with chocolate.
The Chaplain offers his chocolate-smeared hand, which she takes. Then noticing the slipperiness between their palms, they both recoil. The Chaplain offers his handkerchief, but in passing it, it becomes as filthy as his hands and mouth. She declines, deciding instead to run to the creek to wash up. The Chaplain agrees with the plan, and follows.
At the edge of the creek, the Chaplain stumbles and lands face down in a small bed of damp silt.
Face now dirt- and chocolate-smeared, the Chaplain climbs from the creek, sits on the grass, and sighs. And this is pretty mild compared what I’ve done in the past, he says sadly.
She asks him to explain.
When I was first with the army I was with a company of soldiers in the mountains. They were supposed to intercept an informer from a tribe that controlled that territory. They told us to keep radio silence, but on one break I accidentally sat on a walkie-talkie. Only me and another guy escaped the ambush alive.
Then they shipped me to the other war. When I was being through the city to our base, I sneezed so hard I hit my helmet hard against the dashboard. It made such a loud whack that the gunner thought we’d come under mortar fire, and he shot into a nearby crowd of women. That ended pretty badly, too.
Next they sent me to the third war. Basically, I was the one that exposed that war for a fraud. Remember the guy who tripped over the wire and fell into the stage scenery while they were filming the General's live, on-air death scene? That was me.
After that they sent me back to the first war, blindfolded me, and shipped me to our enemies as a hostage. I got along pretty well with the enemy, and so pretty soon they let me walk back to our base. Back, a team of officers beat me with sticks, then had me sent to tend an outpost up here near the Canadian border. Even though no one's an Anabaptist. And now here I am.
The Cheerleader can't believe that she's in the presence of a celebrity.
You're that guy? she screams.
The Chaplain wipes mud from his face, and nods.
The Cheerleader wiggles her hands excitedly.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Chandler v. Chaplain
The Chandler presents Pepple with proposition:
See this check? It’s for $2,500. If you can find a way to get me to town by noon, I’ll give you $500 of it, cash.
Pepple, never one to turn down a good opportunity, haggles her up to $1,000, then throws down his spade and lopes across the field. An hour later the Chandler hears honking from the road. Behind the line of poplars Pepple waves from within an old farm pickup. The Chandler strides over to the truck, gets in, and the two drive to town.
They find the bank. Unfortunately, its closed. The sign on the door reads:
TEMPORARILY CLOSED DUE TO BANK RUNS —MANAGEMENT
The Chandler tells Pepple to stay in the truck. She walks into town.
First the Chandler enters a pathetically under-stocked grocery store. Cans of sausages, condiments, powered soup stock, and processed, vitamin-enriched bread make up most of what lies scattered on the plywood shelves. She approaches the Grocer, who sits reading a paperback novelization of popular movie made from a Broadway musical adapted from a famous poem.
I’d like to congratulate you on keeping what might be the last independently owned in the state. Rustic—that’s what this is. Rustic and true, like the best of America.
The Grocer nods. The Chandler pulls the crumbled check from between her sagging dugs. Let me introduce myself, she says, I’m an independent chandler specializing in organic—
Sorry, interrupts the Grocer, we don’t cash no checks.
The Chandler leaves. She walks across the street to a fast food restaurant.
I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to see a fast food restaurant with nice full, clean grease traps, the Chandler opens. She pulls out the wrinkled check.
We don’t cash checks, hon, croaks the Fry Cook.
The Chandler leaves. She walks back across the street to a dry cleaner.
The Dry Cleaner sits on a small white stool with a shotgun slung across his knee. What you want? he demands. She unfolds the creased check.
Do you cash checks? she asks.
No, he shouts.
Then can you at least iron it?
The Dry Cleaner irons the check. While ironing, he offers her $40 for it. They eventually settle on $250. With the money she buys a carton of cigarettes, a bottle of gin, and six chocolate bars.
Back in the truck, the Chandler explains what happened, then hands Pepple $50. Pepple takes the money and drive back to the grounds. He drops her off and drives back down the road.
She meets the Chaplain by the oak. He’s collected a miniature bouquet of daisies.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
See this check? It’s for $2,500. If you can find a way to get me to town by noon, I’ll give you $500 of it, cash.
Pepple, never one to turn down a good opportunity, haggles her up to $1,000, then throws down his spade and lopes across the field. An hour later the Chandler hears honking from the road. Behind the line of poplars Pepple waves from within an old farm pickup. The Chandler strides over to the truck, gets in, and the two drive to town.
They find the bank. Unfortunately, its closed. The sign on the door reads:
TEMPORARILY CLOSED DUE TO BANK RUNS —MANAGEMENT
The Chandler tells Pepple to stay in the truck. She walks into town.
First the Chandler enters a pathetically under-stocked grocery store. Cans of sausages, condiments, powered soup stock, and processed, vitamin-enriched bread make up most of what lies scattered on the plywood shelves. She approaches the Grocer, who sits reading a paperback novelization of popular movie made from a Broadway musical adapted from a famous poem.
I’d like to congratulate you on keeping what might be the last independently owned in the state. Rustic—that’s what this is. Rustic and true, like the best of America.
The Grocer nods. The Chandler pulls the crumbled check from between her sagging dugs. Let me introduce myself, she says, I’m an independent chandler specializing in organic—
Sorry, interrupts the Grocer, we don’t cash no checks.
The Chandler leaves. She walks across the street to a fast food restaurant.
I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to see a fast food restaurant with nice full, clean grease traps, the Chandler opens. She pulls out the wrinkled check.
We don’t cash checks, hon, croaks the Fry Cook.
The Chandler leaves. She walks back across the street to a dry cleaner.
The Dry Cleaner sits on a small white stool with a shotgun slung across his knee. What you want? he demands. She unfolds the creased check.
Do you cash checks? she asks.
No, he shouts.
Then can you at least iron it?
The Dry Cleaner irons the check. While ironing, he offers her $40 for it. They eventually settle on $250. With the money she buys a carton of cigarettes, a bottle of gin, and six chocolate bars.
Back in the truck, the Chandler explains what happened, then hands Pepple $50. Pepple takes the money and drive back to the grounds. He drops her off and drives back down the road.
She meets the Chaplain by the oak. He’s collected a miniature bouquet of daisies.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Chancellor v. Chandler
The Chancellor and Chandler find they have something in common: they both appreciate quality craftsmanship.
Buildings! cries the Chandler, arms jetting up. They make 'em tall now, sure - but they've got no spirit! All twisting mirrored glass and metal. What's so good about the world that we need it reflected back at us from a two billion dollar looking glass that rises eighty seven stories high? Nothing, that's what!
The Chandler's a wiry, thin frizzy-haired woman in a flowing hemp dress and denim headband, makes quick gestures to press important points during conversation.
What I attribute this to, confides the Chancellor while idly fingering his monogramed cufflinks, is simple lack of love. Love of that station to which one was born. Let bankers be bankers, peasants peasants, and craftsman craftsman. I find lack of love, or lack of pride to be the one great vice of the New World. Of my kind - and here I make no lie of baring to you that I am one born to serve, as they say in the better clubs of Beacon Hill - I believe I am a shining example. My work, of course, is to leave these hands of mine unsullied by work. Absolutely, I could have squandered my life on crass moneymaking. Yet instead I turned my efforts solely to matters of social importance: I dine and drink with the best sort of people, and in dining and through witty conversation, I provide a crucial model for them: of a man whose life is lived in hope of benefiting all others! Specifically, as chancellor now of my alma mater, that tower you see off in the distance... of grand ivory.
The Chancellor, impassioned, gestures with outstretched hand to the northeast. The Chandler turns and looks. She doesn't see an ivory tower, but she does see Pepple. He's burying the body of Chamberlain. She wrinkles her nose.
The Chancellor apologizes and explains.
Your university doesn't need organic soap, does it? she asks. Because if your students aren't showering with organic, hand-made soap, she points out, they might as well be slaughtering thousands of fish and birds in Micronesia. A sinful industry: bug-eyed chemists and profiteers the whole bunch of them.
The Chancellor's shocked.
Let me put you down for an order of 2,000 bars of my personal brand, Ginny's Ol' Fashioned Spit-Shine. You know, just a test order. Here's a complimentary sample.
The Chancellor takes the same, puts it to his nose. It smells a bit like musty basement, he says.
Well of course it does! How else would you know it's organic?
He nods, convinced, and writes out the check. The Chandler stuffs it down her blouse.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Buildings! cries the Chandler, arms jetting up. They make 'em tall now, sure - but they've got no spirit! All twisting mirrored glass and metal. What's so good about the world that we need it reflected back at us from a two billion dollar looking glass that rises eighty seven stories high? Nothing, that's what!
The Chandler's a wiry, thin frizzy-haired woman in a flowing hemp dress and denim headband, makes quick gestures to press important points during conversation.
What I attribute this to, confides the Chancellor while idly fingering his monogramed cufflinks, is simple lack of love. Love of that station to which one was born. Let bankers be bankers, peasants peasants, and craftsman craftsman. I find lack of love, or lack of pride to be the one great vice of the New World. Of my kind - and here I make no lie of baring to you that I am one born to serve, as they say in the better clubs of Beacon Hill - I believe I am a shining example. My work, of course, is to leave these hands of mine unsullied by work. Absolutely, I could have squandered my life on crass moneymaking. Yet instead I turned my efforts solely to matters of social importance: I dine and drink with the best sort of people, and in dining and through witty conversation, I provide a crucial model for them: of a man whose life is lived in hope of benefiting all others! Specifically, as chancellor now of my alma mater, that tower you see off in the distance... of grand ivory.
The Chancellor, impassioned, gestures with outstretched hand to the northeast. The Chandler turns and looks. She doesn't see an ivory tower, but she does see Pepple. He's burying the body of Chamberlain. She wrinkles her nose.
The Chancellor apologizes and explains.
Your university doesn't need organic soap, does it? she asks. Because if your students aren't showering with organic, hand-made soap, she points out, they might as well be slaughtering thousands of fish and birds in Micronesia. A sinful industry: bug-eyed chemists and profiteers the whole bunch of them.
The Chancellor's shocked.
Let me put you down for an order of 2,000 bars of my personal brand, Ginny's Ol' Fashioned Spit-Shine. You know, just a test order. Here's a complimentary sample.
The Chancellor takes the same, puts it to his nose. It smells a bit like musty basement, he says.
Well of course it does! How else would you know it's organic?
He nods, convinced, and writes out the check. The Chandler stuffs it down her blouse.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Chamberlain v. Chancellor
Though shaken by the quick report of fire, the speed of the CFO's death, and Pepple's impersonal looting and burial of the man's body, the Chamberlain's grateful to have survived. Even as the skies grow overcast. Even, as night falls, it starts to rain.
Collar up, huddled in wet clothes, the Chamberlain knocks on the door of the hideous shack.
The shack, made of junk timber and held together by bent nails and chicken wire, is surrounded by rusted tools, lengths of broken pipe, rain-weathered planks, ripped garbage bags, empty sardine tins, and every other bit of garbage - including a good portion of the possessions looted from the corpses of the dead (the Bhikkhuni's staff, ripped pages from the Bookseller's ruined copy of Denial of Death, and so on).
The Chamberlain hears a bar slide up, and the door opens. Pepple, shirtless, stands smoking a cigarette. He looks worse than he ever has - dark rings under his eyes, hair in disarray, crumbs and jam in his spotty beard, pimples across his face and lips and neck, spots across his chest - from disease or ticks, the Chamberlain can't tell.
Through the dim light inside the shack - everything illuminated by the red coals from the tiny mouth of a rusting, antique Franklin stove, and candles placed in peculiar fashion around a squalid little shrine around which were laid more looted trinkets (most notably the Cardinal's gold signet ring) and a bloodless painted finger - the Chamberlain spies the small face of a sick child wrapped tightly in moldering blankets and discarded clothes, and beside the boy the figure of a woman, face hidden, and nearby her, splayed out on a chair, Grubb's massive corpse. Around Grubb a great mass of books rise like mushrooms: tattered, used, of all colors and sizes, piled in free stacks.
The Chamberlain's decides against his original plan to ask for shelter for the night. He stands awkwardly.
What? Pepple asks sourly.
The Chamberlain stammers, never quite getting around finishing a sentence, never quite making any sense - only cold, and wet, and eager to leave.
Pepple backs up and shuts the door.
Thankfully, the Chamberlain turns. As he steps away, the door opens again. Pepple reaches out, handing the Chamberlain an umbrella. His face, though expressionless, hints sympathy. And so the Chamberlain takes the umbrella, thanks Pepple, opens it, and returns to the oak.
The next morning he relates the events of the previous night to Chancellor, a man dressed head to foot in specially tailored clothes from his tailor in the city.
A small shrine? asks the Chancellor.
With a woman's finger on it, yes.
The Chamberlain blows his nose with a damp handkerchief.
Hm. What a choice little morsel of regional anthropology. I should pass this along to the dean of social sciences. Of course in no way do we support desecration of the dead - far from! - but still... my gosh, just think of the press that would come from the study of this. A backwoods cult? Oh! Glossy magazine covers, a spread in the Times. Appeal to alumni for donations to fund a new department - an institute... the Institute of Alternative Mythology and Atypic Folklore. Tremendous opportunity.
Thinking from that perspective, the Chamberlain admits that what resides in that hideous shack might have been a bit interesting. In fact, the more he considers the entirety of what he saw from an objective standpoint, the more interesting it seems. Until, finally, the horror he felt is in part subsumed by excitement over his bizarre discovery.
In short, he feels conflicted.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Collar up, huddled in wet clothes, the Chamberlain knocks on the door of the hideous shack.
The shack, made of junk timber and held together by bent nails and chicken wire, is surrounded by rusted tools, lengths of broken pipe, rain-weathered planks, ripped garbage bags, empty sardine tins, and every other bit of garbage - including a good portion of the possessions looted from the corpses of the dead (the Bhikkhuni's staff, ripped pages from the Bookseller's ruined copy of Denial of Death, and so on).
The Chamberlain hears a bar slide up, and the door opens. Pepple, shirtless, stands smoking a cigarette. He looks worse than he ever has - dark rings under his eyes, hair in disarray, crumbs and jam in his spotty beard, pimples across his face and lips and neck, spots across his chest - from disease or ticks, the Chamberlain can't tell.
Through the dim light inside the shack - everything illuminated by the red coals from the tiny mouth of a rusting, antique Franklin stove, and candles placed in peculiar fashion around a squalid little shrine around which were laid more looted trinkets (most notably the Cardinal's gold signet ring) and a bloodless painted finger - the Chamberlain spies the small face of a sick child wrapped tightly in moldering blankets and discarded clothes, and beside the boy the figure of a woman, face hidden, and nearby her, splayed out on a chair, Grubb's massive corpse. Around Grubb a great mass of books rise like mushrooms: tattered, used, of all colors and sizes, piled in free stacks.
The Chamberlain's decides against his original plan to ask for shelter for the night. He stands awkwardly.
What? Pepple asks sourly.
The Chamberlain stammers, never quite getting around finishing a sentence, never quite making any sense - only cold, and wet, and eager to leave.
Pepple backs up and shuts the door.
Thankfully, the Chamberlain turns. As he steps away, the door opens again. Pepple reaches out, handing the Chamberlain an umbrella. His face, though expressionless, hints sympathy. And so the Chamberlain takes the umbrella, thanks Pepple, opens it, and returns to the oak.
The next morning he relates the events of the previous night to Chancellor, a man dressed head to foot in specially tailored clothes from his tailor in the city.
A small shrine? asks the Chancellor.
With a woman's finger on it, yes.
The Chamberlain blows his nose with a damp handkerchief.
Hm. What a choice little morsel of regional anthropology. I should pass this along to the dean of social sciences. Of course in no way do we support desecration of the dead - far from! - but still... my gosh, just think of the press that would come from the study of this. A backwoods cult? Oh! Glossy magazine covers, a spread in the Times. Appeal to alumni for donations to fund a new department - an institute... the Institute of Alternative Mythology and Atypic Folklore. Tremendous opportunity.
Thinking from that perspective, the Chamberlain admits that what resides in that hideous shack might have been a bit interesting. In fact, the more he considers the entirety of what he saw from an objective standpoint, the more interesting it seems. Until, finally, the horror he felt is in part subsumed by excitement over his bizarre discovery.
In short, he feels conflicted.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Friday, April 25, 2008
CFO v. Chamberlain
The CFO stands over the mass grave, watching Pepple bury the naked body of the Cellist.
It's been a difficult few days for my family, says Pepple.
That doesn't explain why you stripped the poor woman! cries the outraged CFO.
Pepple heaves a shovelful of dirt down in anger. Her dress is for my sister, he says. She's lost her common-law husband and I'm trying to make it up to her is all.
And her hand? You had to cut off her hand?
You know--it's all laid out in the contract, mister.
The CFO squints, disgusted, and walks back to the oak. The Chamberlain arrives. He wears a dark suit with a small sprig of cherry blossoms pinned to his lapel. Being a cheerful, receptive sort of person, the Chamberlain patiently hears out the CFO's ramblings.
One arm of company manufactures pharmaceuticals, base chemicals and industrial lubricants, the other offers "green solutions". And on the side we've got a few paper mills, and a failing automotive division, a new aeronautics department, and six or seven offshore textile plants. The universities, they love us for our funding. Lobbyists attached to both parties. Bottom line, we're doing okay. Not great, but okay.
The Chamberlain nods.
But no one knows who the hell is doing what because the goddamn CEO up and leaves two days ago! I can only imagine what they're doing without me. I swear if my Blackberry got any sort of signal up here - well, I'm grateful it doesn't. It gives me time to think about work without work in front of me.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
It's been a difficult few days for my family, says Pepple.
That doesn't explain why you stripped the poor woman! cries the outraged CFO.
Pepple heaves a shovelful of dirt down in anger. Her dress is for my sister, he says. She's lost her common-law husband and I'm trying to make it up to her is all.
And her hand? You had to cut off her hand?
You know--it's all laid out in the contract, mister.
The CFO squints, disgusted, and walks back to the oak. The Chamberlain arrives. He wears a dark suit with a small sprig of cherry blossoms pinned to his lapel. Being a cheerful, receptive sort of person, the Chamberlain patiently hears out the CFO's ramblings.
One arm of company manufactures pharmaceuticals, base chemicals and industrial lubricants, the other offers "green solutions". And on the side we've got a few paper mills, and a failing automotive division, a new aeronautics department, and six or seven offshore textile plants. The universities, they love us for our funding. Lobbyists attached to both parties. Bottom line, we're doing okay. Not great, but okay.
The Chamberlain nods.
But no one knows who the hell is doing what because the goddamn CEO up and leaves two days ago! I can only imagine what they're doing without me. I swear if my Blackberry got any sort of signal up here - well, I'm grateful it doesn't. It gives me time to think about work without work in front of me.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Cellist v. CFO
When Pepple arrives to carry off and bury the liquidated CEO, the Cellist stands wary.
She doesn't sleep that night. She keeps herself awake by force of will, her back to the oak, starring at the dim light shining through the cracks in the wall of the shack. Listening for the door to open. But it never does.
The next morning, when the CFO arrives, the Cellist asks for time to sleep. The CFO objects. He lists the myriad of problems he's faced since receiving notice of the duel:
First off, my wife tells me she won't sign the divorce papers. My daughter refuses to live with me. My son got sent home from school for attempted arson. Heard about that last bit of news during an emergency conference call over the disappearance of a kid we sponsored to fly across the Atlantic, and then of our CEO. This was all yesterday, mind you. I get home and my son's drunk off the bottle of a 36 year-old Talisker single-malt I was keeping to celebrate the one year aniversary of my father's fatal aneurism. Also, the cable's blown. And there's a note from the maid telling me she quit - and took the cook.
The Cellist rubs her eyes.
This morning I woke up with a crick in my neck. I was strip-searched at airport security. I sat squeezed next to an obese lamp wholesaler who wouldn't stop showing me pictures of his fat kids, and naked pictures of his two Filipino mistresses. After we landed I ran across the tarmac to board some paint-flecked prop that probably hasn't been serviced since the Truman administration, landed in this ho-dunk town, and got carted up here by a stuttering maniac who just inherited his uncle's taxi business and got us lost four times before fishing a map from under a pile of fast food wrappers.
The Cellist's eyes droop shut, then open. She blinks.
So I'll be damned, he concludes, if I come all this way to wait because some young woman - the same woman with whom I will fight to the death - wants to take a mid-morning siesta. No ma'am. We came to duel, we're dueling.
The Cellist sighs.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
She doesn't sleep that night. She keeps herself awake by force of will, her back to the oak, starring at the dim light shining through the cracks in the wall of the shack. Listening for the door to open. But it never does.
The next morning, when the CFO arrives, the Cellist asks for time to sleep. The CFO objects. He lists the myriad of problems he's faced since receiving notice of the duel:
First off, my wife tells me she won't sign the divorce papers. My daughter refuses to live with me. My son got sent home from school for attempted arson. Heard about that last bit of news during an emergency conference call over the disappearance of a kid we sponsored to fly across the Atlantic, and then of our CEO. This was all yesterday, mind you. I get home and my son's drunk off the bottle of a 36 year-old Talisker single-malt I was keeping to celebrate the one year aniversary of my father's fatal aneurism. Also, the cable's blown. And there's a note from the maid telling me she quit - and took the cook.
The Cellist rubs her eyes.
This morning I woke up with a crick in my neck. I was strip-searched at airport security. I sat squeezed next to an obese lamp wholesaler who wouldn't stop showing me pictures of his fat kids, and naked pictures of his two Filipino mistresses. After we landed I ran across the tarmac to board some paint-flecked prop that probably hasn't been serviced since the Truman administration, landed in this ho-dunk town, and got carted up here by a stuttering maniac who just inherited his uncle's taxi business and got us lost four times before fishing a map from under a pile of fast food wrappers.
The Cellist's eyes droop shut, then open. She blinks.
So I'll be damned, he concludes, if I come all this way to wait because some young woman - the same woman with whom I will fight to the death - wants to take a mid-morning siesta. No ma'am. We came to duel, we're dueling.
The Cellist sighs.
They raise their guns. Their guns go off.
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