02: The Duel

Lord Bartholomew Slattery stood before me on the field where we had chosen to do battle. “I trust the location is to your liking, Baron?”

“They are,” I answered. “Is my choice of weapons agreeable to you?”

“Most certainly,” he said, “although you are a greater fool than I had previously supposed. You give me the option of using my own favored rifle? And what, pray tell, will you be using?”

I held up a stick, then opened my hand to reveal a marshmallow.

Bartholomew grinned. “A card to the end, Baron. I would laugh, if I didn't despise you so much. Shall we?”

I nodded, and we took our places on the field. As I skewered the confection onto the end of the stick, my opponent called out. “Don't think the distance shall save you, Clive! I'll have you know that I am perfectly accurate with this firearm from twice this distance, and more!”

I made no reply, except to hold my right arm at a 100-degree angle, pointing the stick directly at Lord Slattery. When I was ready, I called out, “Shall I do the honors?”

“Please do!” he shouted, the amusement clear in his voice. He was so intent on me that he never noticed the blue ball of light forming in the sky, directly over his head.

“Fire,” I shouted. Before Lord Slattery could even shoulder his rifle, he was disintegrated by the laser beam from my orbital satellite. His second stood a mere fifty feet away, and was cooked from the inside. By the time the heat from the blast reached me, all it did was lightly toast the marshmallow.

As I consumed the victory snack, my own second approached. “Hardly sporting, sir,” he chided.

I replied, “I don't hear Bartholomew complaining.”