A Heart of Brass

The first time I met David Scott through the lens of my tight brown leather gasmask, he was clutching a heart-shaped locket made from the brass that he had stolen off the tops of garden taps. Carefully placing it in my grasp he claimed that he melted them down, by rubbing them on his denim jeans, causing such friction that they could be moulded into the locket. “Probably should’ve taken them off first. The bugger damn near burnt my dick off” He casually joked. In reality, it was probably the constantly exacerbating heatwaves that made this possible, but I didn’t want to argue with this unhinged individual as he started loading his Antique French Flintlock Pistol. “Fucked if I know, if this shit-cunt thing still fires” he glumly moaned staring off into the blood-red sky numb to the sweltering heat of the beating sun. “What’s in the locket?” I asked him as he continued to examine his Pistol. “My bloody heart and soul of course. Means more to me than you will ever know” he exclaimed winking through his grey leather gasmask. “I’ll be careful with it then”, I replied carefully plunging the locket into the pocket of my pants. I was a tall lanky man with red hair and a beard sweating through a black pinstripe shirt with brown pants and suspenders that I was seriously regretting while he was a short bald man sweating through his rose-patterned white shirt with grey pants. We were in the middle of what was usually a busy highway, but today dividing the concrete monoliths of financiers and clergymen was a long asphalt track. Crowds of masked and unmasked people surrounded the edges creating makeshift barriers between the real world and the sideshow about to unfold before their very eyes. The heat apocalypse slowly but surely, killing us all seemed not to worry them as they eagerly stared at the other side of the road where Michael Brent, stood tall and broad-shouldered, in his cream-coloured shirt with a blue paisley vest and blue leather gasmask. He too was fumbling with his Antique French Flintlock Pistol. This may seem like a peculiar sight to you, but such events are commonplace at the Wernham-Miffler Institute of Hydration and Air Filtration Insurance, where workplace disputes are solved by the only efficient means possible. Pistols at dawn. My name is Keith Malone, I chronicle apocalyptic events affecting the workplace, this is my personal account of the duel that transpired.

You may wonder how the staff at Wernham-Miffler find themselves in these drastic situations and assume a great battle of ideologies like that of Alexander Hamilton or Aaron Burr, but in such a volatile workplace environment, such conflicts often arise over the simplest of things. A mistake in the number crunching, the jamming of the only photocopier with working toner, or even the slightest hint of passive aggression from the HR department, but today David Scott, faced Michael Brent’s wrath, for drinking his homemade probiotic kombucha. “I HAVE SEVERE IBS YOU PRICK!” He shouted in the kitchen when he saw David polishing it off. Later that day David found Michael’s Duel Correspondence in an email titled “Workplace Dispute #237” David considered not responding to the email and pretending it was in his junk mail the whole time, but that gambit never worked long term and if he were suspected of deserting the duel, he would not only lose his job, but his Hydration and Air Filtration Insurance, terminating his access to water and air filtration indefinitely. With free water sources next to none and the air only getting less and less breathable, a bullet to the chest was better than dehydrating. The most recent person to die of dehydration was Dawn Halpert, a social media influencer, who believed that chaining herself to a telegraph pole would suddenly change the government legislation on water and air filtration. She even streamed herself online doing it. “DON’T BELIEVE THE HEAT HOAX…JUST WAIT FOR THE MIRACLE” she would shout on the busy streets as onlookers passed by. Some of her loyal fans even led by her example chaining themselves to stop signs in solidarity. It took just half a day for them all to die.

Impartiality was crucial in the event of a duel and that’s why the recently hired HR rep Pam Canterbury would be adjudicating today’s duel. She wore her naturally red hair in a bun and sported a brown tweed pantsuit with a red leather gasmask. She briskly paced to David holding a bullwhip and a wooden clipboard. “In the United States of Eurasia’s new duelling laws, any attempt to apologize or rationalize your views to your opponent…Michael Brent, will be met as an act of contempt and desertion. You are to enter the white circle when told and with your back to Michael's you are to take ten paces before firing. Do you understand?” Pam spoke bluntly as she handed David a pen. “Yes, I understand,” David replied as he signed an illegible squiggly line that supposedly resembled his name on the dotted line at the bottom of the page. Satisfied I had captured somewhat of a character of David Scott, I jogged my way over to Michael Brent. Immediately he glared at me, and I knew I should probably leave, but the eager inner journalist in me nevertheless persisted. “Mr. Brent, any remarks for the accurate documentation of this day” I steadily asked attempting to keep calm. “If you don’t leave me the fuck alone, the next email I’m sending to you is a duel correspondence” Michael barked. “Very well, Mr Brent. As you wish” I nervously chattered, rushing away to be with the crowd on the left side of the duelling arena.

It may sound absurd to use Antique French Flintlock Pistols in the modern-day, but the guns of today are too accurate, and most fights end in both parties accurately shooting each other dead. This stopped being entertaining for the crowds to watch and so authentic relics of the past were restored and now both David and Michael stood opposite sides of each other ready to do battle. At that moment. A deadly calm fell across the crowds as Pam shouted: “Workplace Dispute #237 will now commence; Mr. Scott and Mr. Brent please walk to the circle in the middle of the arena”. The duel was underway. The two sweaty men finally entered a crudely painted white circle before standing with their backs to each other. Suddenly Pam cracked her bullwhip, and the men began their ten paces. Each excruciating step like walking on flaming coals. It was Michael Brent who turned around the fastest, but as he proceeded to fire his weapon, the gun barrel itself had melted and the Antique French Flintlock Pistol exploded in his hand giving David Scott time to shoot him in the stomach. Michael fell to the ground with an aggressive thud. After an arduous struggle. He was dead.

Satisfied with the result I rushed home to my cool air-conditioned apartment to write this here document that hopefully arrives in your possession. I’d like to think you are reading this on a planet not making the same mistakes as we are. That’s all I ask, as I wait for the cosmic Armageddon to cease my existence. I noticed something strange though. My pockets were bulging more often than they usually do and to my horror, I realised I forgot to return David Scott’s brass heart-shaped locket. Rushing to check my emails I saw at the very top of my inbox from Mr. Scott “Workplace Dispute #238”. Curious to see what was inside the locket causing such a threat to my life I opened the loose clasp to find engraved letters DDDR inside the locket with some mix of random numbers. Confused I looked DDDR on the internet and lo and behold sites referring to pacemakers. DDDR stood for Dual Chamber Paced, Dual Chamber Sensed, Dual Response After Sensing, and Rate Adaptive. I guess it was his heart and soul after all. I laughed for a while, before making sure my Antique French Flintlock Pistol was loaded. The end of the world would have to wait. I absentmindedly opened the email and replied:

Hi David,

In response to your duel correspondence, I accept.

See you tomorrow!

Kind Regards, Keith

THE END