Sprawled across the floor a man lies lifeless-like. Between him and myself is a small table cluttered with empty bottles, shot glasses, and most sinister of all a dueling pistol. My mind is heavy like a damp fog has saturated my thoughts weighing them down. Daring not to stand I crawl up beside the man on the floor and press two fingers against his neck. There’s a pulse.
“What took place here?” I ask myself.
A stain is near him on the hardwood floor, tracking the splashes across the floor I find a shot glass rolled against the flagstone hearth. I crawl to it, take the glass in hand, it’s sticky to the touch. It smells strongly of alcohol and—I quelch a need to throw up. There’s a searing burn in the back of my throat like I’ve been choking on a lemon peel. Getting my feet under me I stand, swoon again, head throbbing. Holding my hands against my temples and bowing my head I notice my own uniform—known for its impeccable brushing, is now spoiled with vomit. Another wave hits me. The stir I cause while heaving causes the man to rouse. He’s up and for the pistol. It’s clear now, as though a thunder bolt strikes my memory, the flash expelling the fog, and just like that I know where I am, but is it too late? He levels the pistol at me.
Earlier that evening:
The spinning, swirling, dipping and sweating of the dance had taken its toll on the patrons. The man from the unknown country far-far away had flexed his prowess on ladies from one side of the ballroom floor to the other throughout the fevered night. Men who had courted a woman with solid prospects suddenly had felt a tear in the perfect seams of their liaison. The weaker hoped the man would move on from his to another man’s. The bold and courageous began peacocking. Strutting their fortitude in one manner or another: a snide remark, a reference to previous glories or fights they’d won, and so forth. So that when the man began to prey on the woman of Carlyle Smith, Mr. Smith was poised to defend against this predator.
“Make a pass at my woman? The move of a daft man,” Carlyle declared puffing his chest. His beautiful blue uniform glittered with medals, pendants, and such stately fanfare amidst the ballroom glow. A hush settled on the dancers.
“A careless man you have been to prey on our women this evening. I will not stand by and be cuckold by the likes of you, you foreigner! I challenge you to a duel!”
A wry smile tilted the mystery man’s lip, and with an accent of unknown origin he politely responded, “I will accept your challenge, but in the form of my culture.”
“And what is that?”
“One pistol, many drinks, last man conscious is the man with the gun.”
Interesting rules. No wonder the main character had vomited several times. An original twist on a tale about dueling.
Sounds like a game I’d like to play