Chapter 4
1242 Words
The light entering the snow globe mine was dimming as dusk darkened the amber sky. The mine’s owner peered out with growing apprehension. He was dressed in plain brown work clothes and heavy boots. His unevenly trimmed beard had just a few touches of gray. “This is what I was worried about. Jean-Claude Slipovitz has found us and we’re trapped in here. There’s only one way out. What are we going to do?”
The pale-skinned woman in the mine with him, seemingly in her late twenties, was stick-thin and in constant motion as she paced the confines of the tunnel like a hyperactive leopard on speed. Her clothes were brilliant hues of orange and blue, and even in the mine’s dim light they glowed with a phosphorescence of their own. Her bright red topknot resembled a fountain of hair shooting out the top of her head.
“I was in a similar situation once in Vermilion,” she said. “Trapped by myself in a butter mine with an army of fifty bad guys outside, screaming for blood.”
“What did you do?” the man asked her.
“Called in my posse of a hundred good guys to wipe them out.”
The miner sounded exasperated. “But we don’t have a posse.”
The woman brushed that objection aside with a broad wave of her hand. “Scarcely relevant. I don’t have a phone, either.”
“Look, I hired you to protect me and the mine from that claimjumper.”
“You and the mine are both still here,” the woman pointed out.
“Not for long, unless you do something.”
The woman considered. “We should take stock. The Handbook says that’s always a good thing to do.”
“What handbook?”
“The Scout’s Handbook. All the Quasiverse scouts use it.”
“It give good advice?”
The woman only shrugged. “Not always. I wrote it.”
“What’s to take stock of, anyway? There’s you and me and some drilling equipment.”
“Maybe we could drill him.”
“We’d have to get him right at the drill point. He ain’t that stupid.”
“Well, how stupid is he, then?”
The miner sounded even more exasperated. “They told me you were the best, but all you’ve done so far is eat my food and drink my liquor. Now, when Jean-Claude shows up, you’re useless.”
“Speaking of liquor, have you got any stashed in here?” the woman asked.
“You drank the last of it three days ago.”
“What about drugs?” the woman with the erupting red topknot persisted. “I could really use some outers about now.”
“Useless,” the miner said, throwing up his hands. “Absolutely useless.”
“Which ‘they’ were you talking to about me? I know lots of ‘theys,’ and some of them aren’t as informed as others.”
“Come on out of there,” Jean-Claude Slipovitz called from outside. “No need for anyone to get hurt. I promise not to kill you if you surrender peaceably.”
“That’s one solution,” the woman said. “This isn’t a very good mine, anyway.”
The miner bristled. “Whaddaya mean?”
The woman stopped pacing and leaned against one wall of the mine tunnel. Her elbow rested on a snow globe of Santa’s Workshop. She pointed to a snow globe beside it showing the Hollywood sign. “Low quality product. Look at this spelling.”
“What’s wrong with it? It’s spelled right.”
“But the real sign doesn’t have a lower-case ‘d.’ And this elf in the workshop here has three legs.”
“Elves are mythical,” the miner snorted. “They can have as many legs as they want!”
“Plus, the globes lack verisimilitude.”
“Very what?”
“I don’t think it snows inside Santa’s Workshop. Bad for the toys. And I don’t think it snows much on the Hollywood sign, either.”
“I spent four years diggin’ this mine. I ain’t givin’ it up to no claimjumper,” the miner told her. “Besides, Slipovitz’ll kill us the instant we set foot outside.”
“He will?”
“Slipovitz never kept a promise in his life.”
The woman pondered. “Oh. Not an optimal solution, then.”
“That’s the first smart thing you’ve said.”
“Do you have any suggestions?” the woman asked.
“Yeah. Shoot ’im.”
“Well I would, if you could get him to hold still.”
“He’s standing perfectly still.”
“He is?” The woman peered outside the cave mouth into the evening gloom. “Oh. Maybe he is. Then I guess that proves the other hypothesis: It’s the Earth that’s moving.”
“You did bring a g*n, didn’t you?”
“Of course.” The woman reached into a pocket and pulled out an object just three inches long.
“What kind of a g*n is that?”
The woman stared analytically, turning the weapon over in her hand. “Looks like a popgun to me.”
The miner practically spat. “What the hell good is a popgun?”
“I’ll assume you’re not just asking rhetorically,” the woman said. “If you want something to pop, it’s perfect. Watch.”
She braced her right arm against the cave wall and held the arm steady with her left hand. She bent her head down and squinted along the three-inch barrel, taking aim at the figure of Jean-Claude Slipovitz. Her index finger moved only slightly as she squeezed the trigger.
“What happened?” the miner asked.
“I shot him.”
“No you didn’t. He’s still standing there.”
“Is he?” The woman peered out at the figure of the still-standing claimjumper.
“Your little popgun didn’t even make a sound.”
“Oh,” said the woman. Then, “Pop.”
“I expect a lot more for my money than you saying a little ‘pop.’”
“Okay,” said the woman. “BANG!”
“Look, that crook’s not going to fall over just because you say ‘pop’ or ‘bang.’”
“Of course not,” the woman agreed. “That would be silly. It’s a certifiable fact that the sound a weapon makes has no bearing on its efficaciousness. Or is that ‘efficacity’?” She began pacing around in the mine shaft some more, bouncing randomly from one direction to another. “You sure you don’t have any drugs in here?”
“I’d ask for my money back,” the miner grumbled, “but we’ll both be dead in a few minutes anyway, so what’s the point?”
Outside, a small red hole appeared on Jean-Claude Slipovitz’s shirt. He jerked backward and fell over, dead.
“Cosmic!” the woman exclaimed happily.
The miner’s jaw fell open. “I don’t believe it! What happened?”
“I told you. I shot him.”
The miner looked incredulously at the tiny weapon in his companion’s hand. “What kind of ammo does that thing shoot, anyway?”
The thin woman with the red topknot and colorful clothes looked at him triumphantly and said, “Slow bullets.”
- Writer
