By Joshua Vise – January 15, 2024

Published in Flash of the Dead: Requiem by Wicked Shadow Press. Lulu: Paperback or EPUB

“Got the clips?”

“Yeah.  Want to inspect them?”

“Put them in the box.”

The old man reached into a small leather satchel and withdrew the two items.  On the table in front of them, a small wooden box lay next to a bucket of ice.  The contents of the box remained hidden under a thick bath towel.  He lifted the towel and gingerly placed the clips inside with a barely audible clink.

“And the guns?”

“Already inside,” said the old man.  “What kind of party would this be without them?”

“Which ones did you pick?”

“Colt 1911.  I was thinking Beretta, but there is so much history behind the Colt.  It just seemed to fit the occasion better.”

“Agreed.”

“And what did you select?”

The old man produced a large whiskey bottle and two tumbler glasses. 

“Woodford Reserve.  The absinthe ritual would have just clouded things, and taken the focus away from the moment.”

“Good choice.  Make mine on the rocks.”

The dull clink of ice on glass was the only sound, save for a small breeze gusting through the trees.  He unscrewed the cap and poured the glasses nearly full.  The second man walked to the back porch awning and gingerly eased himself into a rocking chair.  He slowly glided back and forth, stopping only to take his drink from the first man. 

“How come you get the rocking chair?”

He laughed.  “Because it’s my house.”

“Fair enough,” said the first man, as he nestled himself into a folding chair, holding his drink close to his chest. 

“Cheers.”

“Skoal.”

They lifted glasses, not bothering to reach across and clink them together.  Each took a long sip.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve had the chance to just sit and drink, taking in the day.  I can’t remember the last time.”

“It has,” he said, taking another long drink.  “I’ve been reading a lot of Dostoyevsky lately.  It seemed appropriate.”

“Have you?  What in particular?”

“The Devils.”

“I’m not familiar with that one.”

They both drank.

“It seemed to fit the mood I’ve been in.”

“I’ve actually been in a great mood.  The past few weeks I’ve been watching a lot of movies, though.  I get around to some columnists on occasion, but it seemed kind of pointless to start another big novel.”

“I already know how it ends anyway.”

They both laughed, the whiskey already heavy on their breath.

“Shall we?”

“Let’s wait until the booze really kicks in.  Another one?”

“Please.”

He stood from the rocking chair.  Collecting the glasses, he returned to the bottle and bucket of ice. 

“If I were smarter, I would have just brought the stuff back to the chair with me the first time,” called the first man from his seat.

“Easily remedied, my friend.”

Again, the clink of ice and glass, the rustling leaves in wind.  Placing the bottle into the container of ice, he headed back to the rocking chair, clutching the tumblers full of booze precariously in his right hand while balancing the bucket in his left. 

“Intelligence is overrated,” he said, carefully plucking his glass from the man’s outstretched hand.  “Which glass was mine, anyway?  I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“Kampai.”

“Prost.”

“How many different ways can we toast each other?”

They sat, rattling off a half dozen toasts in as many languages, each time clinking glasses and sipping.  The conversation gradually drew to a close.

“I guess it’s time,” said the first man, shaking the ice around in his now empty glass.

“As good as any.”

They stood slowly.  Leaving their drinks behind, they returned to the table and to the box.  They stared in silence at the towel. 

“So how this works,” began the second man, “Is that you reach in, grab a magazine…”

“Clip,” interrupted the first.

“What?”

“It’s a clip.  A magazine is different.”

“Be that as it may,” continued the second man.  “You grab your clip, slap it into the pistol, and shuck one into the chamber all while your hands are under the towel.  Do it without thinking.  As fast as you can.”

The first man slipped his hands under the towel.

“Don’t bother trying to feel anything.  The first round is a live one, too.  Both clips should feel the same.”

“How dare you suggest that I would try and fix this,” cried the first in mock indignation, a small smile creeping across his face.

“Just thought I would say it, if only to put it out there.”

The first man’s hands fumbled under the towel, the sounds betraying his actions.  The scrape of steel as the clip glided into place.  The dual ‘click-click’ of the upper as it slid a round into the chamber. 

He withdrew his hands, revealing a polished, nickel-plated Colt 1911.  It gleamed in the daylight.

“And now my turn,” said the second man.  He reached into the box, assembled his weapon in the same manner as the first man, and withdrew a second Colt, identical in every aspect to the first.

“Did you bring the letter?” asked the second man.

“I did.”

“Read it please.  For posterity.  Then place it in the box.”

The first man reached into his leather satchel, this time extracting a crisp piece of paper and a felt tipped black pen.  Placing the pen on the table, he began to read.

“We the undersigned, being of sound mind and judgment, and having recognized the irreversible failings of our bodies, hereby declare formally our intention to exercise our right to terminate our lives.  By doing so, we are acknowledging that it is not only THAT we are living, but IN WHAT STATE we are living that determines the sanctity of life.  In this act, we assert that our lives are ours alone, to be done with as we wish, and hope that our respective choices are met with understanding and empathy.  Sincerely, the undersigned.”

“You always were a better writer than me,” said the second man.  Setting his pistol on the table, he scrawled his name on the paper.  He handed the pen to the first man, who duplicated his actions. 

“Remember, the first round is live.  Fire it into the ground.”

“Why?”

“Only one gun has blanks.  The first round was just to make the magazines look identical.  The blanks start at the second round.”

“So I shouldn’t bother aiming away when the time comes.”

“Precisely.  Even if you did aim away, there is no way to determine if I have the live ammunition or not.  I don’t think we could bear the shame of both coming away from this alive on the first go.”

The first man took aim and squeezed the trigger.  His tumbler erupted into glass splinters next to his chair.  “Ten paces then?”

“It seems a shame to leave such a nice bottle to your average flatfoot,” said the second man.  He aimed and fired, the bottle of whiskey exploding and spraying its contents against the porch wall.  He breathed deeply.  “Ready when you are.”

The men started in the middle of the lawn, their backs to each other.  Counting out loud, they each stepped forward.  “One, two, three, four, five…”

The first man turned and leveled his pistol.

“Six, seven…”

“Six?!” cried the first man.  “I thought it was ten paces?!”

The second man turned.

“It’s ten paces each, not ten paces total!”

Each man sniggered.  “Should we start over?” said the first.

“Fuck it.  Just count out five more.  It’s not a race to see who fires first.”

“At least for one of us.”

They both broke into loud guffaws.  The first man counted five paces more and turned to face his opponent.

“Aim,” cried the second.

“Fire on my count,” said the first.  “Three, two, one.  Fire!”

Both guns erupted nearly simultaneously.  The deafening blast resounded through the trees, startling a group of birds that quickly took to their wings.

Lowering his gun, the second man walked resolutely to the first, who was lying on his back, panting heavily.  A slowly spreading spatter of blood revealed the injury, a single shot center mass.  He stood over his opponent, who gasped and dropped his gun.  Slowly raising his shaking palm, he hissed.

“It’s been an honor, sir.”

The second man took his hand, squeezing it tightly in a firm handshake.  Relaxing his grip, the second man stepped back and leveled his gun again.  The first man nodded.

The blast hit him in the center of the forehead, sending his body into a spasm that quickly shuddered and relaxed in the grass.  With a sigh, the man returned to the table, set down his pistol, and uncapped the pen.  Underneath his signature, he scrawled a single sentence.  Setting the pen down again, he placed the letter into the box and marched back out into the lawn, pistol in hand.  Standing at the site of his first shot, he pressed the barrel hard under his jaw and fired.